Fleas - Songs of the Gnolls I

A SLAVE, AN OLD MAN AND A MOUNTAIN GOAT 2.6

The royal soldier surrounded the gladiator with a cocky smile on his human face.

"Here is the Scourge of the Fighters, the Bloody Horn of the West, the Iron Arms. That's what the rabble calls you. But don't deceive yourself, for the king you are just another, nothing more than a simple slave...."

The taurid, a mixture of bull and man, showed no emotion. He looked like a statue. In the darkness of the chamber, a faint glimmer of light reflected off the armor of the eight guards standing nearby. While the soldier, whip in hand, continued his stupid speech.

"Today will be your last fight. You must be excited. If you win, the king will grant you your freedom. But not just any freedom, the freedom to fight in his name in the coming war. Oh, if the Empress of the Iurian Empire thinks she can keep those lands under her rule, she is sorely mistaken..." he looked at the huge taurid with a raised eyebrow, "Why do I bother? You have a cow's head, politics and governments are foreign to your little brain."

Trumpets sounded.

"It is time. Put on a good show."

He stepped out of the way. The arena doors opened slowly. The sun's rays illuminated his brown, hard coat. He wore a loincloth, a leather shoulder pad on his left shoulder, and his split horn, which he wore as a necklace. The other was still on his head. His weapon of choice was a huge oak club. He could hear the clamor of the crowd as he entered the arena. Flowers began to fall like snowflakes. Flakes he had not seen since he had been captured as a calf and taken from his homeland. Gray banners with a yellow sun indicated that they were in the Sun Kingdom. A kingdom ruled by the tyrannical hand of a distant relative of the Empress. He was in the box, from where he would watch the carnage with his cohort of loyal bloodsuckers.

The other door opened. Out stepped three orcs, clad in heavy armor and wielding a spear, a sword, and an axe. The taurid looked at them, gravely. They stepped back for a moment. He was twice as tall as the orcs and at least two heads taller than the tallest of the guards. His muscles were thick, his back wide, and his skin tough. He was the undefeated champion for a reason, and for a reason they wanted him free. There was nothing more dangerous than a slave on a battlefield, armed and close to his masters.

The king rose. The trumpets sounded and the crowd fell silent.

"We present to thee the bloodiest battle ever fought in this arena! Will the Fighter's Scourge win his freedom, or will the Three Dragonheads have that honor?! Gladiators, bow!"

The three orcs bowed. The taurid did not. A sigh of surprise arose from the crowd. Ignoring the insult, the king gave the signal for the fight to begin. The four looked at each other too long. The taurid lowered his club and let out a thunderous bellow that echoed off every stone, beam, and column in the coliseum. A cry of pain and rage born not in the lungs but in the heart. It was the call of death. The birds flew away in fear. The three orcs looked at each other and lowered their weapons. The taurid picked up his club. An aura surrounded them, giving them strength. Some races were able to summon magic by shouting, to increase their physical abilities, their recovery or their endurance. But this was something else. There was an understanding between the four that the king soon realized had been planned.

The gates opened, but from where the soldiers were supposed to emerge to quell the uprising came a huge number of slaves. All of them gladiators, all of them non-human. Some of them small and weak, some of them fearsome and powerful. They carried the severed heads of the soldiers in their claws. The taurid stared at the king. He got up and rushed for the exit, as did the rest of the crowd. They soon discovered that the doors were locked. The sky blackened, and the avians, half-human, half-crow, swooped down on the humans, who began to be devoured one by one. This was no simple slave rebellion, it was a revolution.