The Blood of a Warrior

Chapter Three

I dreaded the upcoming days to my fight.

Why did it have to be only two days? Why not a week? Or never?

Sadly, I soon found myself in the cell that fighters are kept in while waiting for the fight to begin. Much too soon.

I watched with little interest as the two fighters before me wrestled. Both had dropped their knives, and apparently neither thought to pick them up again.

Whoever won this round would fight me. I hope they both die.

One, with brown hair, seemed to be losing leverage. The other, a blond, was perched on top of his opponent, knees digging into his chest.

I shifted my position leaning against the bars, causing them to squeak, and Blondie glanced for just a second towards me.

Not a great idea.

Brown-hair shoved him off his chest, and Blondie slammed into the eight-foot wall separating us from the bleachers where the audience sat, roaring their approval of the throw. I heard a faint crunch, and as he fell to the dirt floor, there was a smear of blood left behind where his head hit.

He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

He didn't move.

Brown-hair moved forwards, breath rasping. Sounded like he punctured a lung. I'd done it before.

He picked up one of the knives from where it lay on the ground, stumbling towards his fallen opponent.

He has to make sure he's dead. He could just be unconscious, and the fight would not be over.

Reaching the limp form, he stares down at it. His hand draws back, and he drives the blade through his skull. Again and again. Soon the ground is soaked with blood, and bits of brain matter, shards of bone and hair are scattered among the mess.

He steps back, glaring upwards at The Ringmaster where he sits at the balcony.

"Are you happy? Happy that I have been forced to take another life in this God-forsaken hellhole?!" He roars his challenge, and the once-cheering audience falls silent.

The Ringmaster merely smirks, eyes gloating. "We weren't forcing you. If you didn't want to fight, you could've let him win," he practically croons, gesturing to the lifeless, mutilated form at the victor's feet.

As he speaks, a helper slips into my cell. I glance at him, confused.

He hands me a blade, and lifts one finger to his lips, silencing me. He points to The Ringmaster, and mouths one message.

Watch and wait.

I have no idea what I'm watching for, or waiting for, for that matter. Something to do with The Ringmaster.

Whatever it is, I mustn't say anything. Whom to, or not to, I'm clueless.

I turn back to The Ringmaster, not wanting to miss whatever it is I'm waiting for.

"And, no, I'm not happy. Not yet," he continues. As these words left his mouth, his eyes locked with mine. His hand twitched, making a faint, beckoning gesture.

The rusted metal door to my cell opened, silently on suddenly oiled hinges.

I understood now.

I whisper-footed forwards, my combat boots not making a sound on the dirt floor.

My opponent still has his back turned, shouting at The Ringmaster, surprisingly well for what I thought was a punctured lung. He had no idea what was happening.