defeat one of the biggest, nastiest-looking men Blackmoore had ever seen. But the human warrior was no match for the unstoppable green beast. The cheers went up, and Blackmoore smiled. He waved Tammis Foxton over, and the servant hastened to obey.
“My lord?”
“How many is that today?” Blackmoore knew his voice was slurred but he didn’t care. Tammis had seen him drunker than this. Tammis had put him to bed drunker than this.
Tammis’s prim, anxious face looked even more concerned than usual. “How many what, my lord?” His gaze flickered to the bottle, then back to Blackmoore.
Sudden rage welled up in Blackmoore. He grabbed Tammis by the shirtfront and yanked him down to within an inch of his face.
“Counting the bottles, you pathetic excuse for a man?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. One of the many threats he held over Tammis was public disgrace; even drunk as Blackmoore was, he didn’t want to play that particular card quite yet. But he threatened itoften, as now. Before his slightly swimmy vision he saw Tammis pale. “You farm out your own wife to suckle monsters, and you dare imply that I have weaknesses?”
Sickened by the man’s pasty face, he shoved him away. “I wanned to know how many rounds Thrall has won.”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course. Half dozen, all in a row.” Tammis paused, looking utterly miserable. “With all due respect, sir, this last one taxed him. Are you sure you want to put him through three more matches?”
Idiots. Blackmoore was surrounded by idiots. When Sergeant had read the order of battles this morning, he, too, had confronted Blackmoore, saying the orc needed at least a few moments of rest, and couldn’t they switch the combatant list so that the poor coddled creature could relax.
“Oh, no. The odds against Thrall go higher with ever’ battle. He’s never lost, not once. Of course I want to stop and give all those nice people their money back.” Disgusted, he waved Tammis away. Thrall was incapable of being defeated. Why not make hay while the sun shone?
Thrall won the next battle, but even Blackmoore could see the creature struggling. He adjusted his chair for a better view. Langston imitated him. The battle after that, the eighth of the nine for which the orc was scheduled, saw something that Blackmoore and the crowds had never witnessed.
The mighty orc was tiring. The combatants this time were a pair of mountain cats, caught two weeksago, penned, tormented, and barely fed until this moment. Once the door to the arena slid open they exploded at the orc as if they had been fired from a cannon. Their creamy brown pelts were a blur as, moving as one, they leaped on him, and Thrall went down beneath their claws and teeth.
A horrified cry arose among the onlookers. Blackmoore sprang to his feet, and immediately had to seize his chair in order to keep from falling down. All that money. . . .
And then Thrall was up! Screaming in rage, shaking the big animals off him as if they were but tree squirrels, he used the two swords that were his assigned weapon in this fight with speed and skill. Thrall was completely ambidextrous, and the blades sparkled in the bright sunlight as they whirled and slashed. One cat was already dead, its long, lithe body sliced nearly in two by a single powerful stroke. The remaining animal, goaded to further rage by the death of its mate, attacked with renewed fury. This time Thrall did not give it an opening. When the cat sprang, all yowls and claws and teeth, Thrall was ready for it. His sword sliced left, right, and left again. The cat fell in four bloody chunks.
“Will you look at that?” said Langston happily.
The crowd roared its approval. Thrall, who normally welcomed the cries with raised fists and stamped his feet almost until the earth itself shook, merely stood there with stooped shoulders. He was breathing raggedly, and Blackmoore saw that the cats had lefttheir mark with several deep, bleeding scratches and bites. As he
“My lord?”
“How many is that today?” Blackmoore knew his voice was slurred but he didn’t care. Tammis had seen him drunker than this. Tammis had put him to bed drunker than this.
Tammis’s prim, anxious face looked even more concerned than usual. “How many what, my lord?” His gaze flickered to the bottle, then back to Blackmoore.
Sudden rage welled up in Blackmoore. He grabbed Tammis by the shirtfront and yanked him down to within an inch of his face.
“Counting the bottles, you pathetic excuse for a man?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. One of the many threats he held over Tammis was public disgrace; even drunk as Blackmoore was, he didn’t want to play that particular card quite yet. But he threatened itoften, as now. Before his slightly swimmy vision he saw Tammis pale. “You farm out your own wife to suckle monsters, and you dare imply that I have weaknesses?”
Sickened by the man’s pasty face, he shoved him away. “I wanned to know how many rounds Thrall has won.”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course. Half dozen, all in a row.” Tammis paused, looking utterly miserable. “With all due respect, sir, this last one taxed him. Are you sure you want to put him through three more matches?”
Idiots. Blackmoore was surrounded by idiots. When Sergeant had read the order of battles this morning, he, too, had confronted Blackmoore, saying the orc needed at least a few moments of rest, and couldn’t they switch the combatant list so that the poor coddled creature could relax.
“Oh, no. The odds against Thrall go higher with ever’ battle. He’s never lost, not once. Of course I want to stop and give all those nice people their money back.” Disgusted, he waved Tammis away. Thrall was incapable of being defeated. Why not make hay while the sun shone?
Thrall won the next battle, but even Blackmoore could see the creature struggling. He adjusted his chair for a better view. Langston imitated him. The battle after that, the eighth of the nine for which the orc was scheduled, saw something that Blackmoore and the crowds had never witnessed.
The mighty orc was tiring. The combatants this time were a pair of mountain cats, caught two weeksago, penned, tormented, and barely fed until this moment. Once the door to the arena slid open they exploded at the orc as if they had been fired from a cannon. Their creamy brown pelts were a blur as, moving as one, they leaped on him, and Thrall went down beneath their claws and teeth.
A horrified cry arose among the onlookers. Blackmoore sprang to his feet, and immediately had to seize his chair in order to keep from falling down. All that money. . . .
And then Thrall was up! Screaming in rage, shaking the big animals off him as if they were but tree squirrels, he used the two swords that were his assigned weapon in this fight with speed and skill. Thrall was completely ambidextrous, and the blades sparkled in the bright sunlight as they whirled and slashed. One cat was already dead, its long, lithe body sliced nearly in two by a single powerful stroke. The remaining animal, goaded to further rage by the death of its mate, attacked with renewed fury. This time Thrall did not give it an opening. When the cat sprang, all yowls and claws and teeth, Thrall was ready for it. His sword sliced left, right, and left again. The cat fell in four bloody chunks.
“Will you look at that?” said Langston happily.
The crowd roared its approval. Thrall, who normally welcomed the cries with raised fists and stamped his feet almost until the earth itself shook, merely stood there with stooped shoulders. He was breathing raggedly, and Blackmoore saw that the cats had lefttheir mark with several deep, bleeding scratches and bites. As he
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