Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  The footsteps grew louder as their owner grew bigger and bigger. Thrim stumbled, trying to catalog his approximate size. Two feet … he could still fight if it came to it. One foot, he would need some sort of weapon to defend himself. As he sank down to less than a foot, he scrambled to hide behind a column, gasping desperately. The shrinking only slowed when he was about the size of a rat. Completely helpless.

  Perhaps he was so small that Jorin would overlook him. Then he could find someone to help him. Rikkin had been friendly so far, and this was at least partially his fault. Thrim just had to hide and wait until … until what? Until Rikkin happened by? How was he supposed to catch Rikkin's attention?

  The footsteps grew closer. Thrim crouched down, willing himself to blend in with the dusty ground. He didn't dare make a run for it. That would only make it easier for Jorin to find him. He didn't even want to think of what would happen to him if—or at this point, when—that brute lay hands on him.

  Thrim braced himself for the worst when the footsteps stopped and the figure knelt down before him. When he saw who it was, he might have wept with relief.

  "Well, little magician," Rikkin said, his expression tight with concern. "It seems you've landed yourself in a bit of trouble."

  *~*~*

  "Lucky it took his clothes down with him," Lodin remarked around a mouthful of bread. "Could have been worse. Could have had a naked little shrew running around."

  "Really, if you wanted to get out of training, there are better ways," Tarre added, reaching out to poke Thrim solidly on his side. Thrim scrambled away from his hands, but he didn't exactly have an abundance of space to run in on the small, wooden table.

  Rikkin snorted and snatched Thrim up in his hand. The table fell away with an odd little lurch, and Thrim immediately stiffened as Rikkin tightened his grip just a little harder than was comfortable.

  "You two ought to be ashamed," he said. "Poor little Gillespie's had a hard couple of days. Been zapped as small as a sparrow, and you think to jest?"

  Thrim grunted and wriggled in Rikkin's grasp, trying to free himself, but it was no good. He was just too small now, and well intentioned or not, Rikkin was far too powerful.

  "Oh, please, it's just fun. It's funny! Look at the wee thing," Lodin laughed. Rikkin glared openly at them before Val spoke up.

  "You should watch your back, Rik," he murmured. "You know who he's going to come after next."

  That sobered the entire group. Rikkin lowered his hand and loosened his grip, enough for Thrim to scramble free without fear of hurting himself.

  "I'm not worried about him," he said, eliciting a snort from Tarre.

  "Sure. Because you're an idiot."

  Rikkin threw a glance over his shoulder before he leaned forward.

  "I have a plan," he insisted before taking a large bite of his own bread, signaling that he would say no more. Tarre rolled his eyes.

  "Oh, yes. Do feel free to keep it from us. I just hope you act soon, before Jorin does to you what he did to Thrim here." Tarre leaned over the table, grinning widely. "Though it was worth it for the look on Master Trainer's face! Here we all thought you were skipping out. He looked ready to faint!"

  "Perhaps he'll set him to fighting against mice!" Lodin laughed, picking up his used stew spoon and jabbing it sharply in Thrim's direction. Thrim started and staggered back, trying to dodge it. Tarre began to chuckle and joined in, earning a startled yelp when he stuck the handle of his own spoon too hard in Thrim's side.

  "Enough!"

  The voice was like a roar of thunder amidst a storm. Everyone at the table went still. Thrim glanced up to see Arn of all people towering over them, his eyes shining in the dim light. He surveyed their group in silent disdain for a moment, and all but Rikkin averted their eyes. Though even unflappable, Rikkin looked a little chastened by the unwanted attention.

  With a soft grunt, Arn put his hand down on the table, palm up. It took Thrim a second to realize that it was an invitation for him to climb into it. Well, he was polite enough not to grab, which Thrim appreciated, but he took an uncertain step backwards all the same. Rikkin nudged him sharply in the small of his back, sending him stumbling forward, right into Arn's open palm. His skin was warm and calloused, and to his surprise, Thrim felt strangely secure. Whatever he had in mind, Arn wasn't going to drop him.

  Thrim's stomach lurched as he was hefted up into the air and carried over to Arn's dark little corner. Then, as gently as though he was handling an egg, Arn lowered his hand and tipped it, silently urging Thrim to crawl back onto the ground.

  He returned to his own stew and bread, pausing only to rip off a small piece and lower it to Thrim's level. Thrim stared dumbly for a moment at it before Arn grunted again. "I expect you don't need to eat as much, little Dirtwater," he remarked. "This should be enough for you."

  It was more than enough. At his current size, that small scrap of bread was as big as a whole loaf. He stared up in awe at Arn, who deliberately did not look at him.

  "Um … thank you," he said, uncertain if the huge man could even hear him. Arn took a bite of stew, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

  "I wouldn't trust Rikkin and his crew with a puppy, much less a person," he rumbled softly. "I'll see to it you don't come to any harm."

  "Thank you. Really, that's very kind, but … may I ask why?"

  Arn took another bite and chewed painfully slowly. He stared down at the floor with such intensity Thrim was tempted to ask if it had insulted his mother. At long last, Arn murmured, "You remind me of the mountains."

  "Are you from the foothills?" Thrim asked. He knew many of the towns and villages at the base of the mountains were filled with a fair skinned folk. That was the magical thing about the Gillespie Mountains. Everyone was descended from settlers, either from the north or the south, and all manner of cultures were forced to clash and blend. But Rikkin had called Arn a king. Surely Thrim would have known of any fallen king near the mountains.

  Arn began to sop up some of his stew with his bread, not looking down as he spoke. "I would prefer that you sleep in my cell tonight."

  "W-what?" Thrim sputtered, nearly dropping his bit of bread in shock. Arn arched one eyebrow and glanced down.

  "The guards might not think to tend to you. Worse, they might make a point of keeping you locked in if it gives a certain someone pleasure." He nodded toward Rikkin's table. It wasn't hard to spot Jorin nearby, watching over the mess hall and, most notably, Rikkin. He resembled a hungry wolf that had decided which sheep he wanted to pick off from the herd.

  "He's going to try to go after Rikkin next," Thrim pointed out. To his surprise, Arn chuckled at that.

  "That trouper can take care of himself. You, on the other hand, have been very unfortunate."

  "The man who owns us … Tibbus. He's not really going to let this stand, is he? If he finds out a gladiator's got hold of a magic book—"

  "I imagine it's already been confiscated. Our real fear ought to be what Jorin memorized before he had to hand it over."

  Thrim shook his head. "He can't have. The offensive spells are too complex."

  "Then you have nothing to worry about." Arn made a vague gesture. "Go on. Eat your bread."

  In spite of his low situation, Thrim couldn't help feeling comforted. He had food and protection. It could be worse. He settled down on the floor and started nibbling on the tough barley bread. Arn didn't speak to him again, aside from soft instructions: "Crawl in my hand, little Dirtwater," "stand there, little Dirtwater," "here, I've stolen your blanket. Try not to drown in it."

  Thrim did as he was told. The guards didn't protest if they noticed the bundle of a blanket in the corner of Arn's cell, and Arn said nothing. The door was shut, the lamps extinguished, and there was nothing left to do but sleep.

  *~*~*

  So Thrim slept in Arn's bunk. At mealtime, he sat beside him in his dark corner, nibbled on the dregs of his food, and tried to stay out of sight. Nobody, not even the guards or the reclusi
ve Master Tibbus, seemed particularly inclined to try and reverse his state. At the same time, nobody seemed particularly inclined to give him trouble, and for that Thrim was grateful. People had forgotten he was even there, aside from the initial fun they'd poked when word spread of what Jorin had done. He was as good as gone, and while it bruised his ego to know he was so forgettable, it meant he would not have to fight.

  The same could not be said of his companions.

  Day after day, they still trained. Thrim sat in the shade with the lightest weight class, where he was likely to find the least amount of trouble, and he watched sullenly as each and every one of them took turns sparring. For their weight class, it was more of a performance. If they were artful enough, they need not even land a blow. For the heavier classes, however, blood was expected. They never mixed save in sparring, and that was always a sight to behold.

  Arn fought like a beast let off his chain. He was more ferocious than the others, wielding a sort of terrible beauty none could come close to touching, but he fought like his life, no, his very soul depended upon it. The second Master Trainer called upon him, something about Arn shifted. Gone was the terse, gruff, kind man who looked after Thrim in the pit. His blows fell like hammers upon an anvil, his sword thrusts like lightning piercing through the sky. It was all the other gladiators could do to hold their own against him. He was a man possessed, beating upon his opponent until Master Trainer had to personally step in to call each bout to a halt because Arn would not accept a yield otherwise. It was only the call of Master Trainer that brought him back to himself. A light would go out in Arn's eyes. The fight would seep out of him like water in a sieve, and he would slink back to the benches to wait for his next bout. He never tried to improve, never took his training to heart. Arn fought, then he hid.

  "It's terrifying," Thrim murmured the first time he saw this display, but Rikkin shrugged.

  "He's got a lot to be upset about," he answered. "I imagine this is his release. There is a good reason he has never had a match against Jorin. They're both too wild."

  Jorin. That man was a monster, in and out of the arena. As pleased as he'd been when he saw that the spell worked against Thrim, he was doubly furious that he was never able to catch Rikkin alone. The other lightweight gladiators saw to that. Jorin was vengeful, but he wasn't stupid enough to try and take out multiple gladiators in one go. He was just lucky Thrim had been new, untrained, and not particularly valuable. If he took out an entire weight class in his quest for revenge, even Jorin would be unable to escape punishment. So he stalked through the pit like a tiger in a cage, waiting for the chance to take down his enemy.

  Thrim fretted more than he should have. Arn reassured him that life would go on and Rikkin could look after himself just fine.

  So that was Thrim's life. He was a pet to one of the fiercest fighters in a second rate arena, barred from his books and his home, and yet every day relieved that he was alive. Being but a hand's span in height had a funny way of changing someone's perspective. Without the careful attentions of Rikkin and Arn, it was very likely that Thrim would have long ago been crushed and killed, or worse, become the unwilling plaything to Jorin, who would no doubt enjoy having someone small and weak to torment day after day.

  Thrim was grateful for the little things: Arn silently begging permission before he picked Thrim up, and Rikkin talking to him like he was a person and not a thing, as Lodin and Tarre were prone to do. Most of all, he was grateful that he could be seen by these men. It helped in its own small way.

  *~*~*

  "I don't understand why you won't wear armor," Thrim insisted, stamping his foot against the floor of the cell. Even he had to admit it wasn't a terribly impressive sight, but Arn always looked at Thrim as though he were the same size as anyone else.

  "Do you believe I need armor?" he challenged.

  "I believe everyone needs armor. At least some leather armor over your shoulders. If you're cut just right, you could bleed out in a moment."

  "I've bled before, little Dirtwater."

  Thrim clenched his hands. "Stop calling me that!" he snapped, and that really got Arn's attention. He sat up straight and stared down at Thrim in open surprise. Thrim's gut squirmed, but he refused to back down. "I know I'm not much now, but I was a healer before I was thrown into this hellhole, and I know what I'm talking about—and I think you do, too. Look me in the eye and tell me you aren't refusing to wear armor because of ego!"

  "Ego?" Arn rumbled in amusement. "Shall I take my pride from the opinions of drunken southern nobles?"

  "I think you take your pride from the fact that you can come so close to death without actually dying."

  Something flickered in Arn's eye, but it wasn't the look of a man who'd been caught. It was something else, then. Something close. Thrim's stomach dropped. He took an uncertain step forward, but Arn turned away from him, tugging on a boot.

  "If I cannot call you Dirtwater, what can I call you?"

  Of course. Dragging an honest conversation out of Arn was trickier than drawing water from a stone. Thrim considered pursuing the subject for a moment, just to see if he could earn some sort of a confession from him, but that might put Arn in a bit of an unsteady emotional state. Arn was about to have a match, after all. Thrim didn't want to see him compromised beforehand.

  "You can call me Thrim," he offered. "I call you Arn, after all."

  Arn was silent for a long moment. Then, he set his hand down on the cot in the familiar signal for Thrim to climb onto it. With a sigh, Thrim did so. Arn lifted him up to his shoulder, and with a now practiced ease, Thrim clutched at the fabric of Arn's thin shirt and scrambled onto his perch, half-hidden beneath Arn's long, coarse hair.

  "Hold on, little Gillespie," Arn instructed as he rose from his cot. Thrim's stomach sank. He couldn't say why, exactly. Arn hadn't yet bothered to call him by his name, and yet Thrim longed for it. He had to remind himself it could be worse. 'Gillespie' and even 'Dirtwater' were a far cry from the sort of slanderous things people usually directed toward part-sidhe.

  The walk was short. Generally, Thrim enjoyed them. It was strangely exciting, riding on the shoulder of so large a man, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, thinking 'I could fall so far,' and knowing that such a thing wouldn't happen. Arn would never let him fall.

  He was handed off to Rikkin matter-of-factly with little more than an assurance that he would see him again at supper, and then Arn took off. Thrim stood in Rikkin's comparatively smoother hand, staring as Arn walked through the pit. Rikkin watched him for a moment before a wide grin stretched across his face.

  "Oh," Rikkin positively purred. "You're sweet on him, aren't you?" He began to wiggle his fingers until Thrim, quite helpless in this situation, lost his footing and fell straight on his bottom.

  "What? I … what in the name of—"

  "Oh, don't bother hiding it. I've got a half-brother who walks the same side of the road as you."

  "Y-yes, but … but Arn …" Thrim sputtered, struggling to clamber back to his feet. It was a testament to his distress that it took him a good three tries before he finally had his footing again. "It doesn't matter."

  "Doesn't it?"

  Thrim turned a glare up onto Rikkin. "Of course it doesn't."

  Rikkin eyed him thoughtfully for a moment before he shrugged and lifted Thrim up to his shoulder. "Fine, be obtuse as you like, you little lovebird. Would you care to watch the fight?"

  Even though they saw plenty of fighting each day in training, it was not uncommon for the other gladiators who did not have upcoming matches to huddle in a small enclosure beneath the stands and watch the fights. As entertainment went, gladiatorial matches were supposed to be a pinnacle of class and excitement, and aside from dice games, they had precious few alternative forms of entertainment.

  Thrim sat on Rikkin's shoulder, which was far more narrow than Arn's and, consequently, harder to stay on. He had to resort to sitting and clutching Rikkin's shirt, peering ac
ross the arena. Master Tibbus sat in his box, looking bored and thumbing through a book. Thrim felt a pang of longing at the thought that it might be his own. It would have been confiscated after the incident with Jorin, of course. It wasn't too outlandish to suppose Master Tibbus might look to spells to increase his crop or boost his popularity among the gentry. Hopefully he wouldn't think to use it on his slaves.

  Thrim's fingers itched at the memories of the smooth vellum pages, the delicate script, the familiar Old Tongue he'd spent a solid term studying exclusively. It was like a knife to the chest, knowing that it was so close and yet just out of his reach.

  Before he could give it too much more mind, the doors at either end of the arena opened, allowing the gladiators to walk in. Arn was shirtless, his wild hair hanging loose, his sun-tanned skin glistening with sweat under the burning sun. Thin white lines laced across his broad back, shining in the sunlight. Thrim's stomach flipped. He knew whip scars when he saw them.

  From the other end of the arena, another gladiator named Hynna stepped out. He was scarred and tough and regarded the whole fight with a certain degree of detached boredom. He had done this many times before and would do it many times again before he died.

  Rikkin leaned forward, prompting Thrim to scramble and squeeze onto his shirt even tighter. "They've never pitted him against Hynna before," he murmured. "Arn doesn't have the self-control. They shouldn't even be eligible for a fight together."

  "What?" Thrim squeaked.

  Before Rikkin could answer, Master Tibbus stood and addressed the crowd as a whole, wishing fair fortune upon his guests and a good match. Then, with a flourish of his hand and a burst of trumpets, the match began.

  Even from a distance, Thrim could spot the manic gleam in Arn's eyes, the mad bloodlust that made him powerful in a fight but also stupid. His gut clenched. Hynna raised a shield to catch Arn's wild blows, dodging the most haphazard of them, his face carefully passive. He didn't raise his sword once. He simply deflected, waiting for Arn to wear himself out. And Arn did, the great fool!