Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  "Where you from, Dirtwater?" the gladiator asked, his baritone voice a low rumble in his chest. It was hypnotic to hear, with clipped vowels and a precise staccato on his t's. He treated his words with a care that few slaves or ignorant country folk could manage. It reminded Thrim of the Academy. In spite of himself, he turned to stare at the man.

  "I'm Gillespie," he answered. The man raised one bushy brow.

  "You sure you're not part elf? Or sidhe?" he challenged. "You have their look. Gillespie are supposed to be darker."

  "My mother was part sidhe," Thrim explained, and he could have kicked himself for it. It wasn't something he was supposed to admit, particularly among those he didn't know. The woodland spirits known as the sidhe were a mischievous folk. Admitting any sort of relation to them, however involuntary, was a good way to make enemies. The only place Thrim hadn't encountered disdain for it was at the Academy, among others like himself.

  If the man was perturbed by the realization, it did not show on his face. In fact, Thrim hadn't much of a chance to determine what the stranger thought, for in that moment a new face appeared in his doorway. This new one had a bright smile, curly red hair and, to Thrim's great relief, a similar slender build. If someone else built like him could survive in this pit there was hope for Thrim after all.

  "Did you say you were a Gillespie?" The newcomer asked. "At last, my kind of people!"

  From behind him, Thrim caught sight of the stout, dark-haired gladiator just as he slipped out of his cell. Thrim watched him go, wishing he'd had a chance to ask what exactly the man had meant when he called him 'Dirtwater'. It hadn't sounded complimentary.

  Without waiting for a response, the red-haired man pushed into Thrim's cell and sat down beside him, grinning like some sort of loon.

  "My troupe used to go up to those mountains, you know," he went on as though he had invitation to do so. "Great audiences. Only people who hadn't seen 'The Gentleman Beggar' a thousand times, and right civil to us performers. Can't say that about a lot of folk."

  Thrim stiffened, almost reeling back from the force of the red-haired man's personality. He was like a storm, rolling in all noise and motion, completely inescapable.

  "How did you end up here?" Thrim asked politely. Storm or not, at least he was friendly. The red-haired man shrugged and, for a flicker of a moment, his humor faded.

  "Not important. Point is I ended up in this hell hole, same as you." He held out a calloused hand. "Rikkin's the name. You got one of your own, Gillespie?"

  Thrim took Rikkin's hand and gave it a weak shake.

  "It's Thrim, but your friend over there called me Dirtwater. I hope that's not what everyone's going to call me."

  "Ah." Rikkin nodded sagely. "That would be Arn. It's cause of your skin. Too pale to be mud, too dark to be much else. It's not a very nice nickname, but I think Arn has to say three surly things a day or else he'll disappear in a puff of smoke. Poof!" Rikkin spread his fingers wide in imitation of this potential thing, then his face softened. "Go easy on him. We've all had to fall to end up here, but Arn fell twice as far as any of the rest of us, and it hurt him harder to land."

  "I was a student at the Academy," Thrim retorted, feeling a little insulted now that he knew exactly what had been said to him. "I have trouble believing it."

  "Ah, a magician in training." Rikkin's eyes glittered with interest. "Well, you may have been a magician, but Arn was a king. So you watch your step around him."

  A king. Thrim glanced back sharply at the now empty cell, trying to visualize the wild, dark-haired man from earlier, but Thrim had seen him so briefly it was hard to form a clear image in his head. Had he unwittingly earned the contempt of a king?

  It had to be some sort of joke. Royalty didn't end up in slave pits, and kings weren't cheapened to battling for the sake of petty entertainment. Then again, neither did traveling actors or students of magic.

  Rikkin clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Cheer up, little magician. You'll do fine. Just keep your head down and remember your spells. You'll do fine. Training starts tomorrow. Better rest up."

  A pit formed in Thrim's stomach. He didn't dare admit aloud that he couldn't perform any of his spells without his book. In fact, offensive spells weren't his area of expertise at all. He specialized in healing spells and herbology: magic that required materials he would never have access to in here. Maybe if he kept quiet, though, let everyone think he had that sort of power, they would leave him on his own.

  Rikkin left with a wide grin and a wink, and Thrim was alone again. He curled up on his cot, staring at the blank wall of the cell.

  An hour later, the gladiators shuffled back to their cells for the night. Thrim caught only a brief glimpse of Arn before a guard shut their doors. There was only a small metal grill, maybe the size of Thrim's head, situated just above the handle to let in the light of the lanterns hanging from the walls between the cells. All too soon, those were blown out, and Thrim was cast into darkness.

  The next morning, they rose at dawn. The guards unlocked their doors with enough clanking and yelling to wake the dead, then ushered them all into another area of the pit where they would receive their meager breakfast. Thrim expected the meal to be a somber affair but, to his surprise, many of the gladiators huddled at worn, wooden tables, smiling and joking with a select few in their own small niche. Anyone outside of one of these niches was regarded with suspicion or even open hostility, but each table was like its own small bubble, a safe haven from the rest of the pit.

  He accepted a shallow bowl of some sort of thick gruel, not unlike the porridge he'd had at home though far less appetizing. Somehow, he doubted he would have access to ground cinnamon or wildberries to sweeten it. It looked filling, though, so at least they didn't starve the fighters before sending them out here. Several sat or stood by themselves and, from the way they hunched their shoulders and diverted their eyes, it was clear they had no desire to share their meal time with anyone else. Arn, he noticed, was hunched in the corner, still managing to somehow look nobler than everyone around him even though he was covered in the same thin layer of dirt. Or perhaps it was just Thrim's imagination.

  Thrim was prepared to find a spot by the wall to sit and eat alone when Rikkin glanced up and waved him over. Rikkin sat at a smallish table with three other men, all slender like him. They stuck out in the dingy mess hall like river reeds amidst a forest of thick, sturdy oaks.

  "Mm, another lightweight," one of the men hummed, scratching at a scruffy blond beard. "I thought our class wasn't popular enough for Master Tibbus to buy another."

  "Must have been a bargain," another remarked, elbowing the first man before nodding at Thrim. "How much did you cost, boy?"

  "I … I don't know," Thrim admitted, startled by the question.

  "I'll bet it was a couple of copper pennies at best," the man snorted. "He doesn't look like a fighter."

  "He isn't, Lodin," Rikkin said airily, then he glanced back and forth between Lodin and the blond man. "Tarre, Lodin, this is Thrim. He's Gillespie and he's new. Surely you all remembered what it was like to be new."

  "I don't need to be babied," Thrim insisted automatically. The last thing he needed was to look weak. Rikkin gave him a pitying look for a second before he forced a smile on his face and ruffled Thrim's hair in what was probably supposed to be an affectionate gesture.

  "Oh, Thrim. Don't you know? Lightweight class is the babied one. We're for warm ups and ladies who swoon at the sight of blood."

  "So we don't usually bleed?" Thrim asked hopefully. Lodin laughed loudly.

  "Oh, we bleed all right. We just don't walk around missing chunks of our faces. I, for one, am grateful."

  At that moment, the remaining member of the group, a silent, dark-haired man, straightened, his eyes focused just over Rikkin's shoulder.

  "Rik," he murmured. "He's looking again."

  Thrim glanced over to see a gladiator leaning against one of the pit's columns, his dark eyes fixed o
n Rikkin. He looked like he had lived a lifetime in the pit. His skin was pocked and scarred, burned by the sun until it had the consistency of tough leather. Dark tattoos snaked up his arms, across his chest, and smeared onto his face, making him look twice as fierce as anyone else. Rikkin stiffened but carefully took a bite of his thick gruel.

  "Let him look," he said airily. The quiet man furrowed his brows.

  "Rik."

  "Val. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life worried about the likes of Jorin."

  Thrim resisted the urge to glance back again. He strongly suspected Jorin was still staring at their table with murderous glee in his eyes. He was the very picture of the bloodthirsty gladiator Thrim had always envisioned as a child. How Rikkin could just ignore it was beyond his reckoning.

  "Should you?" he asked.

  "Of course he should," Tarre insisted. "People who make enemies with Jorin don't do well here. Everyone knows he's friends with the guards. He has access to better weapons, anything the guards confiscate and bring in from the outside, and I swear they sometimes leave his door unlocked at night. Heard that he once had a match coming up against a gladiator who was stronger than him. He didn't want to lose. Well, funny convenience that the day before his match, his opponent ate some food with crushed glass in it. Didn't even know until it was slicing up his insides. Too ill to fight. Died a couple of days later."

  Thrim swore under his breath and gawped at Rikkin, who continued eating as though he hadn't heard the story at all.

  "What did you do to get on the bad side of a man like that?"

  "Those with a quick wit often struggle to help themselves around those who do not. Particularly when there is an audience." Rikkin shrugged. "Don't you worry your pretty little head, Gillespie. Keep your head down and he'll do you no harm."

  "Unless he thinks he can get through you to get to someone he dislikes," Lodin interjected, but a sharp look from Rikkin closed his mouth.

  "Hush, you," Rikkin scolded. "No sense in startling our little mountain boy. He starts his training today. Last thing he needs is a case of the jitters."

  *~*~*

  The arena was as big as a house, as hot as a griddle, and as dusty as a desert. It was a smallish field for gladiators, fit for nobility on holiday looking for an idle distraction but not much of a spectacle. Their owner, Master Tibbus, was a noble who owned a large vineyard and resort. The gladiators were but one of many sources of amusement. Not only were they going to be fighting one another, they would do so in the heat of the day, before a sparse audience.

  Master Trainer, who offered no other name, stalked back and forth in front of them. He held himself like many of the seasoned gladiators, and one of his eyes was milky white, a thin pink scar running through it. Thrim wondered if it was a blessing that he was a gladiator who'd escaped slavery, or a curse that he'd still not escaped the arena.

  Master Trainer put them through drills: running, jumping, rolling, dodging, how to thrust a sword, cast a net, swing a mace, jab a trident, and how to block each of those attacks. He even went over how to wound but not kill, for they were all investments at the end of the day.

  Occasionally, they were permitted to sit in the shade or duck into the pit for a few minutes to drink from a large barrel of water that tasted of dirt while different weight classes sparred. The lightweight class went first, and within minutes of his first match with Tarre, Thrim managed to drop his shield twice, committed the cardinal sin of taking his eyes off his opponent, and tripped over his own feet in the most pathetic game of cat and mouse anyone had ever seen. When Master Trainer finally called out for them to halt, Tarre doubled over, howling with laughter.

  "It's going to take more than a couple of drills to toughen this one up, Master," he laughed. "Perhaps you can put a hat on him and make him play the jester to rouse the crowd first!"

  Master Trainer made a sharp gesture and snarled. "Valdunn. Come wipe the ugly smile off his face. You there, mud face!" He pointed roughly at Thrim. "Go drink some water and come back to watch. Maybe, through enough observation, you'll finally figure out where a gladiator's feet are meant to be!"

  There was a great deal of snickering from the crowd, and Thrim ducked his head. So much for keeping a low profile. Perhaps he wouldn't be called upon again for the rest of the day. After the long morning, he certainly wouldn't mind the chance to sit, though it would be disheartening. Thrim had no interest in fighting, but if it was to be his new life, he hated to think that he was doomed to do poorly.

  Thrim dipped the brass ladle into the barrel of water and took a sip of the water, trying not to focus on how it gritted against his teeth. Briefly, he considered sneaking back to his bunk and the likelihood that Master Trainer would send someone after him. He would probably never get away with it, and really, he shouldn't. He'd already earned unwanted attention. Earning Master Trainer's anger was sure to make his life a living hell.

  He heard the scuffle of boots against the dirty floor first, then the low chuckle. Startled, Thrim glanced up to see Jorin leaning against one of the pit columns, staring at Thrim like a starving mountain lion would stare at a wounded goat. How was he down here? None were exempt from daily training … except Thrim recalled what the others had said. Jorin was friends with the guards. Short of leaving the pit altogether, he could go and do whatever he pleased. The closest any of them were to free men.

  Thrim was fully prepared to turn and scuttle back up to the arena when he saw it. Clutched in Jorin's massive hand was a familiar, worn leather book. His own book of spells. Thrim's heart lurched unexpectedly. When the guards had taken it, he had thought for sure he would never see it again. Thrim stared hungrily, wanting only to rip it from Jorin's hands and hug it close, but he wasn't stupid enough to try it.

  Jorin noticed his gaze and held the book aloft, his face twisting into a feral grin.

  "I heard this was yours," he mused before flipping it open. With a nonchalance that made Thrim want to rip his own hair out, he licked his thumb and turned one of the pages. "Do you have all these spells memorized?"

  It took Thrim a moment to realize Jorin had asked him a question. Thickly, he swallowed, unable to tear his gaze free.

  "Only a couple," he answered absently. "Just … just healing spells. That was my specialty."

  "None of these … offensive ones?" Jorin sniffed. "Nothing you'd go around teaching … people?"

  "No, of course not," Thrim said automatically, shaking his head in a firm denial. "Look, whatever grudge you hold against Rikkin—"

  "How do you know they work," Jorin interrupted. "If you have not memorized them? This one here. Turns your guts to snakes. You ever see it work?"

  Thrim took an uncertain step back. "No. That sort of spell is strictly theoretical. None of us ever learned to—"

  "Or this one." Jorin took a step forward, flipping another page. "It'll make your feet swell until you can't walk. Pool blood in your belly until your can't eat. Puff your lungs so full of air that they just pop. Doesn't that sound horrible?"

  "I … Master Trainer will wonder what's taken me so long. I'm going back to the arena," Thrim insisted, but Jorin once again ignored him. He flipped the page again.

  There was a quick mumble of words from the Old Tongue, stilted and awkward, almost unrecognizable as the same language spoken at the Academy, but it did its job all the same. Thrim felt a strange lurch and an odd tingle, first over his skin, then creeping slowly into his bones. He blinked sluggishly for a moment, then he felt it. A strange sort of compression, as though he was being forced into a mold too small for him. The walls around him shifted, the columns shot up like sprouting plants. Thrim's head swam, and he glanced around wildly at his growing world.

  Jorin stared at him with wide eyes, his face slack with shock. Then a wolfish grin overtook his savage features.

  "It worked," he rumbled. "Oh, I can't wait to take that carrot haired son of a bitch down a peg!"

  Jorin took a step forward, and even though Thrim had only
shrunk by a few inches, he felt the cold grip of terror squeezing his chest. He turned and ran deep into the pit, away from the full arena. It only occurred to him later what a bad idea that was as a second wave of the tingling, pins and needles feeling washed over him, tightening until he yelped and crashed to the ground, no longer certain of his feet.

  The scattered stones that littered the floor grew slowly, like dried sponges soaked in water. Thrim stared in horror as a stone the size of a plum swelled to the size of an apple before his very eyes, then bigger. The feeling passed and he scrambled to his feet, his heart in his throat. Suddenly, the pit had transformed into an impossible labyrinth, too big and still to new for him to find his way back to the safety of his bunk or even the safety of the arena. He was trapped down here with nobody to find him but the guards or Jorin. He took his bearings, sizing himself up against the pit columns and the dorms to the bunks. He had lost a foot of height that time. By now he could only be around four feet tall, and he still had one more shrink to go. That was how the basic attack spells went. Three rounds, each one escalating. It was the only thing someone like Jorin could master just through reading.

  If something like this happened at the Academy, there was always a professor or an advanced student one could turn to for help. At the expense of a little mocking if they went to another student, anyone could more or less rely on being put straight by the end of the day. Thrim couldn't go to the guards for help. More likely than not they'd just hand him over to Jorin. Worse, he couldn't possibly hope to reverse it himself. Not without his book.

  Footsteps crunched across the dirty floor. Thrim's gut clenched, and not quite sure where he was going, he took off into the pit again, now dodging columns as big as tree trunks. Before long, he felt the feeling again, even stronger before, like he was being pressed in from all sides. Thrim had to stop and catch his breath as all the air was forced out of his shrinking body. He trembled as the world grew before him.