Page 50 of Gladiators of the Vagabond Boxset

Ziame

The moment I was out of sight, I dropped the limp and headed for the bench where Luka was waiting with the other gladiators.

They handed me water, which I quickly guzzled down, and the Doc hurriedly ran his scanner over me, checking both the shoulder and the hip and making sure to apply some healing gel that sealed the minor cut.

“No deep bruising. You are fine,” Luka murmured. Then he shot a glance at the guards at the end of the long corridor. There were some other owners of fighting stock as well, but most had already left with their winning or losing fighters.

The red Xurtal twins had been revived after they’d been stretchered off the battlefield, and they studiously ignored me as their trainer tore into them about all they’d done wrong.

A harried-looking medic was treating their bruises and the broken nose I’d given one of them.

They would be fine and probably up for another fight the very next day should their owner want them to—no serious harm.

Didn’t sound like they were in too much hot water with the owner, either, so that was good.

They brought in my third opponent then. He was on a stretcher too because I’d cracked several of his ribs when I headbutted him.

I had been shocked to find him on his feet after that, even capable of lifting the claymore.

I fingered the slight notch in my horn where the blade had hit as I eyed the Kertinal on the stretcher being carried by.

His purple eyes focused on the movement, pain-filled from the burns covering his hands, from the tips of his fingers all the way to his elbows.

I’d held back on that breath of fire, but that was probably a cold comfort to him.

Still, he tipped his chin to me in respect, and I found myself even more sorry that I’d hurt him so badly—even if it was a life-or-death kind of situation.

“Are you ready for the next round?” Jakar asked, interrupting my thoughts.

I eyed him but focused on the Kertinal’s progress down the hall until they dropped the stretcher unceremoniously near a wall, where his handler was waiting.

There was no medic, and the handler barely glanced at the male.

I had a bad feeling about that, but I couldn’t afford to lose my focus now; I had another fight to win.

“Some muscle fatigue,” I said honestly as I shook out my limbs to stay limber and warm. “No issues from the hits I’ve taken so far. Hip good, Doc?” I asked. I kept my voice pitched low so that only the males I trusted would hear me speak. It wouldn’t do to give away the trick this late in the game.

“All patched up. Should be fine. Do you want a stimulant?” the Doc asked me solicitously, and I shook my head.

Giving stimulants was not uncommon, but I’d never liked what they did to the males I faced.

Powerful as I was—undefeated—Drameil had never decided to give any to me. I wanted it to remain that way.

“No, this win needs to be undisputed.” As I shared looks with the other gladiators, we all knew that such honesty would likely not be followed by the next three fighters I was up against. Their owners could decide to dose them up for better performance.

These fights were, more often than not, rigged so the organizers and owners made big bucks on the betting.

I eyed the Kertinal with the burned hands again, well aware he’d been slated to fight Sunder—and win.

Before the fight, they’d have shot Sunder up with a drug to throw off his coordination—not enough for the crowd to notice, but enough to guarantee a win for the other male.

The Kertinal’s owner would have lost big money due to the change in the fighting schedule.

Then the announcer was calling out my name again—my cue to walk back out onto the sands.

I shook out my limbs, accepted claps on the shoulders from my brothers, and then set all thoughts of the Kertinal’s fate from my mind.

I couldn’t afford distractions now; my mind needed to be on the fight and the fight alone.

Still, as I accepted the adulation of the crowd, raising my arms high and roaring, all my thoughts went to my Abigail.

I hoped she hadn’t been watching the fight on the viewscreen—I didn’t want her to see this.

If she had been watching, was she now worried because I’d leaned into that limp when I left the arena?

I’d played it up to make the next fighters underestimate me, but it could well have frightened her.

They announced my opponents, each one receiving even more cheering from the audience than the last, and I appraised them as they stepped onto the sands.

The Tarkan was the most worrisome; he had flight capabilities and stone skin, which made him hard to hurt.

The other two were the Asrai twins Pu’il and Kitan, were supposed to fight.

As newcomers to the circuit, no one aboard the ship knew what kind of psychic gift the two might have.

With their death-mask markings, they looked terrifying and angry, but the serene look in their eyes told me they had mind-linked and would work as a cohesive unit.

I needed to watch out for them, and with their nictitating membranes, the sun wouldn’t bother them nearly as much as it had my previous set of opponents.

I circled anyway, putting my back against the sinking sun.

It didn’t bother me much either, but maybe it would surprise them at some point.

At that, Drameil—my previous owner—had at least worked hard, as I was one of his greatest sources of whitewashed money.

Many of my less noticeable advantages had been kept hidden, such as my third eye or the membrane.

The Asrai twins were kitted out with a shield and a short sword, and they worked to protect each other’s flanks as we exchanged blows.

I caught their swords’ swings on my arm blades or with my tail, ducked others, and had to avoid spear jabs from the Tarkan male, who either jumped in at my back or tried to swoop in from above with well-timed dives as he spread his big, leathery wings for some airlift.

We were at a stalemate, none of us giving ground, and I struggled to find an opening to take one out.

They worked well as a single unit. Even the Tarkan had found a way to integrate into the duo’s fighting style—a testament to his skill, as I knew he’d never worked with these two before.

They weren’t even owned by the same person.

I couldn’t sustain combat like this for much longer; muscle fatigue was a serious risk, and while I could fight through that kind of pain for some time, it wasn’t conducive to a good outcome. I needed to take out one of the twins—that would destabilize the entire grouping.

My opening came when I ducked to avoid a spear descending toward me from one of the Tarkan’s aerial attacks.

Likely, the male thought I was more vulnerable from above, but my parietal eye gave me ample warning each time.

As I ducked the attack, I happened to be sweeping my tail around to parry the blades of both twins.

The movement brought my head low, and I went into a dive, rolling my entire body underneath the Asrai twins’ shields.

There was no breath to spare for a gust of flame, so I did the next best thing: clamping my fanged mouth around the nearest ankle.

I didn’t have the best control over the amount of venom I could inject, but I tried to keep the dose low, ripping my mouth loose after only a short second.

It did the trick, though—the Asrai male gave a hoarse shout and stumbled back.

I barely avoided a blow to the head from the other one’s shield, then managed to rally to my hands and knees. This was a bad spot to be in—nearly prone on the sand and between the Tarkan and the remaining Asrai—especially since I still didn’t know what kind of psychic gift these two might have.

I caught a sideways blow from the Tarkan’s spear to my hip—the same one I’d hurt before—which was not a coincidence.

This was not a little bump, though. This hurt, and I went down again.

Knowing I needed to move, I rolled, for a moment unaware of where my opponents were.

I thought the one Asrai was down for now, but that didn’t leave the other one harmless.

Sliding my nictitating membranes over my eyes to protect them from the sand, I came up, blades bared.

It was a good choice, as the Asrai had unleashed their psychic gift, whipping the sand into a dust devil around us.

The forces were not enough to bother me, and with my thick scales and the membranes covering my eyes, I was protected from the sting.

I caught movement up above—just a flash of dark and heat from my third eye—and I ducked a swipe from the spear, lashing out with my tail.

I yanked hard and raised the blades along my spine and tail, cutting the shaft until it splintered.

Flicking my ears back at the sound of approaching footsteps from behind, I twisted to the side just in time to avoid the stab of a short sword; it glanced across my ribs, managing a thin slice.

Slamming my arm down hard on the blade arm, I heard the Asrai male’s wrist snap, and the blade clattered to the ground.

There was a rage-filled howl, and then the sand devil died down again.

I managed a quick glance around, noting the location of each of them.

One Asrai backed away, cradling his broken wrist; the other was on his knees on the ground several feet away, eyes clenched in pain as he fought the advance of my venom through his veins.

The Tarkan was swooping above me on his massive, leathery wings, broken spear still in hand as he circled to try to decide the best approach.

I didn’t wait, I picked up the broken spear tip with my tail and transferred it to my dominant hand.

Taking aim, I launched it at the massive target his wing presented, hoping to clip him so he’d have to fight from the ground.