Slave Unbound Ch. 05

This petite scullery slave, only barely old enough to really call a woman, had just bested a trained killer of the arena and done so without really taking any significant injury. She'd killed Maslo, the ugly slug, without even seeming afraid. Maslo wasn't a master combatant, but he should have been more than enough to have torn this little slip of a girl down, coat of mail or not.

Suddenly, he thought of the Baroness. He quickly scanned the crowds looking for her, found her in one the noble boxes set up above the common seats of rabble that came to watch blood spill on the sand. Though she was too far away from him to see her face perfectly, her posture and detail was evident. Obviously, this was as much a shock to her as to him, so this had been no ruse on her part for some strange aim. True to her word, she'd even brought a number of her household slaves to watch the 'example' she'd meant to set, all of which had forgotten themselves and were roaring cheers with the crowd. The Baroness didn't even seem to notice. That meant she either had not realized that this girl was actually some sort of warrior or this girl was just the luckiest little slut the arena had ever seen.

Regardless, he realized this obviously meant that she was going to be furious at this failure. While that meant little to him in general, for all her nobility, she really had little power or influence over him, it would have serious repercussions. Not the least of which was that he'd just lost not just a gladiator, but the purse for the girl's death and the Virgin on the Shoals that he'd coveted. And that made him furious.

He turned his attention back to the girl, now standing before the opened gate to be let back into the holding area, a couple guards putting shackles back onto her wrists. The ugly attendant that manned the gate stepped out, looking at the corpse of Maslo and then moved up to the girl. Even if the crowds had not still been roaring, he doubted he could have heard what the man said to her, but her response was heard loud and clear. She brought her still untethered foot up and directly into the man's groin.

It earned her a slam to the head from one of the guards that knocked the fire, and most of her consciousness, from her. However, this triumph too was hers, the attendant slumping to the ground in pain while the guards drug the girl out of sight. The audience redoubled their cheers.

Cornelius Venge stood, straightening his tunic and arranging his cloak for the most fashionable effect, composing himself to deal with the Baroness's most certain ire and coming tirade. He'd take his lumps with her, supplication and apology the best way to at least try and stem the tide of social irritation she would most certainly bring him in the coming months. At least he no longer had to deal with the expected scandal of having put one of his gladiators up against a maid servant. No one would believe she was anything but a capable combatant, at least among the nobility.

When she came up on auction though, he would have his revenge. He would purchase her and then make her into a toy for the rest of his stable of warriors to ravish and use. Maybe that would at least help further sate the Baroness's desire to see the girl ruined, though he knew she'd wanted something public. After all, in her mind, this wasn't about the girl, it was meant as a message for her husband. Not that he'd been at the Arena today or would have even cared, most likely.

Regardless, this girl had cost him. He intended to make her pay for that.

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As the crowds finally settled, the din of them melting into a disparate prattle, Donovan Solivir, the Master of House Warforger, sat in his own box, considering just what he'd witnessed. While most of the Housemasters of the Grand Arena had an eye for combat skill and knew the difference between training and luck, Donovan understood combat better than any of them. Some of his peers had once been soldiers or underwent combat training at some point in their lives, but Donovan had once stood upon the very sand he now looked down at.

He'd begun his life as a labor slave, sold to the arena for some quick coin. He'd defeated his opponent when he'd been a lot and put up for auction. It had been House Warforger who'd bought him and he'd brought the House glory, quickly becoming its star gladiator. He'd found himself in the Arena, so much so that when the Housemaster felt he'd earned the right to take his freedom, he'd requested to stay on with the House, serving as a trainer for new gladiators and occasionally stepping out onto the sand of his own free will to keep himself sharp and test himself against death.

When the Housemaster decided he'd grown too old for the game, he'd turned House Warforger and the proud legacy that Donovan had personally brought to it, over to the ex-gladiator. That had been almost twenty years ago and now, his own hair turning silver, he was the rugged Master of the second most revered Arena House. Only House Stormgate stood above him in prestige and that only barely. Some even claimed the order was the other way around.

While his peers might have been able to see that this little slip of a girl was certainly not a properly trained combatant, only he was able to see what they likely could not. This was the first time she'd even lifted a weapon. Just as he'd lifted a spear for the first time on the first day he'd walked out into the arena. And, just like him, she'd summoned the natural strength and determination to not just survive, but kill her opponent. Kill him as cold and unhesitatingly as a trained gladiator, but without ever having fought a day before in her life.

He leaned back in his chair, considering the slavegirl, his interest taking root deep within him. There was no question to him. She was no mere girl. He knew better than anyone that real warriors were born, not made. She might not look like it, but she was as much a warrior as his monster. He'd stake his whole life on it.

Unlike his monster though, she had something even more rare in the arena. She had focus and natural intelligence. Anyone could be taught to use a sword, but only instinct really divided champions from common gladiators. She would be a champion, if she could survive long enough to fill in the gaps in her skill and technique.

Slowly, he smiled, a grim focus coming into his eyes and his mind. She was exactly what he'd been waiting a very long time for.