barbarianprincess

Chapter 14: Arena
Food was brought to Zenaria shortly after she was placed in the cell, but she never saw who brought it. It was pushed through a small opening at the bottom of the door along with a cup of wine. Surprisingly, it was quite good wine and the food was a good as anything she had been brought in the tower room. Apparently being thrust into the dungeons did not mean that she was to be denied proper meals.

She ate and drank, and then with nothing else to do she tried to relax. Sleep however, did not come easily. She had been spared rape, but was what she faced much better? She would be forced to go up against an unknown opponent. But what then? What was at stake and how many would she have to fight? The thoughts kept her awake most of the night.

Toward morning, or what she supposed was morning, there was a rattling outside her door. Once again food and drink was pushed through the opening and Zenaria ate all of it. There was no telling when she would be fed again, and as warrior she needed to keep up her strength. With nothing better to do Zenaria composed herself, sitting cross-legged on the sleeping mat and waited for events to transpire.

She was less relaxed than her pose made her appear. But after her mostly sleepless night, she found it easier to relax than she had thought it would be. However, she was not given time to fully compose herself before footsteps sounded in the hall. The door was thrown back and two guards stood in front of the door.

One stood back and watched while the other entered the cell. Producing a key he unlocked the chain from the collar around her neck, but left the collar where it was. “Out, barbarian, and don’t think about escaping; there is no way past the other guards.”

Zenaria remembered the long blindfolded walk and the sounds of numerous doors being unlocked and then locked behind her. She was almost certainly deep underground, probably in the lower levels of the Thuski’s private dungeons. There were no doubt numerous guards between her and freedom. She decided to cooperate and see where the guards took her.

“This way, barbarian.” He motioned down the corridor and pushed her in that direction. Zenaria had to restrain the impulse to slam her fist into his smirking face, keeping in mind that she was nude and weaponless. She also kept in mind that if what Tren said was true, both guards were probably eunuchs and had little personal interest in her beyond escorting her to where she was supposed to go.

The corridor was unlit, the torches of the guard providing the illumination as she was marched steadily forward. The corridor ran on far beyond what she expected. She passed door after door, wondering just how many people the Thuski kept imprisoned until she finally found herself in front of another door.

The guards grinned at her. “Good luck barbarian,” one of them said. He pulled back the heavy bolt on the door and threw it open, motioning that she should proceed.

With no other option, she moved through the door and found herself in a small chamber. It appeared that she had merely exchanged one cell for another. The door slammed behind her, leaving her in total darkness. There was just one strange difference. The floor beneath her had changed from stone to sawdust, however, alone in complete darkness once again she shrugged and lowered her body to the sawdust and waited once again.

With no way to keep track of time, and nothing to do the wait seemed to stretch on endlessly, so it was with some interest that Zenaria detected a noise that seemed to be coming straight through the wall. The noise was quickly identifiable as the sound of a number of people talking, and then the wall in front of her rose into the air, revealing a large well-lit open space. As the sound of voices increased, there was no doubt that there was a large gathering of people surrounding the open space.

Zenaria stepped forward and the wall closed behind her leaving her in a large sawdust-covered area. She squinted as the light stuck her eyes; she had been in darkness so long that she had a hard time adjusting, but gradually her vision cleared.

“What is this place?” she muttered. She was standing in a large circular enclosure about thirty yards across with walls about fifteen feet high above which were situated row upon row of stone seats, all of which were crowded with spectators. Then she noticed that one section of the seating area was considerably more elaborate than the others. Not surprisingly it was occupied by Ravar Kund. As Zenaria stared up at him he raised his hand for attention.

“Friends,” he shouted, as the crowd quieted. “We have a bit of a treat today. In the arena is a wild Erogenian barbarian. She is reputed to be as fierce in combat as she is beautiful, something that will be proven today.”

A coarse shout followed Kund’s address. “Looks like she’s more suited for the harem than the arena. I’ll pay you a hundred gold for her.”

Zenaria looked in the direction of the speaker and saw a man wearing robes so heavily embroidered with gold thread that he actually shone like the sun.

“I’ll tell you what, Tanar,” Kund replied. “I’ll put five hundred gold on her to last out this day.”

“Done,” Tanar responded, “but it seems a waste of woman-flesh. I could spend an eternity between those thighs.”

“I suspect even the High Thuski might find sleeping with someone who is likely to bite off his manhood a bit daunting.” Kund returned. “It is small wonder that the barbarian is still a virgin.”

“Is she now?” Tanar asked. His voice betrayed more than common interest. “And you haven’t forced yourself on her? That seems unusual given your nature.”

“My nature does not stoop to rape. I have never taken a woman against her will.”

Tanar snorted. “That is because they have been so terrified of you that none have dared refuse. Is the barbarian the first?”

“You abuse your position and my hospitality with your coarse assertions,” Kund replied angrily. “Even the High Thuski should display common courtesy.”

“I apologize, Lord Kund,” Tanar responded. “We should not argue over something as unimportant as a barbarian, and a women at that. After all she is merely one form of entertainment or another.”

The comments of her supposed master and the High Thuski had Zenaria fuming, but she was in no position to do anything about it. She could only wait and see what was to come.

Kund returned to his seat and a hush fell over the crowd. Zenaria looked around expectantly wondering what was about to happen. There was a low rumbling sound and on the other side of the area a partition was raised. A large shape loomed out of the darkness and stepped into the light of the arena. He stood blinking in the sudden light just as Zenaria had. He was a powerfully built man wearing nothing but a brief loincloth. His swarthy body was marked with scars, indicating that he had been involved in numerous combats. As his eyes caught sight of her and he smiled and licked his lips.

“A woman,” he grunted. “What did I do to deserve this? Aroo be praised.” He looked expectantly toward Kund who grinned down at him.

“A special prize for you today, Gundar. Defeat her without killing her and she is yours.”

Gundar bowed, his hand on his heart. “You are generous, Excellency. I will remember you while I enjoy her.”

Kund rose to his feet once more. In his hand he held two swords. “To your places,” he said.

Gundar moved back to the wall of the arena, his body bent in a sprinting position, the heel of one foot touching the wall. It was at that moment Zenaria suddenly realized what Kund was going to do. Her lips tightened in a grim smile and she touched her heel to the wall.

Kund arced the swords through the air. Kund had aimed for the approximate centre of the arena and Gundar was moving before they even landed.

Zenaria beat him by two full strides and in a single motion scooped up both blades. Gundar slid to a halt, a look of complete surprise and consternation on his face; a look that quickly turned to rage and then fear as he realized he was completely defenceless against a barbarian warrior four inches taller than he was. Laughing, Zenaria hefted the weapons, flipping them into the air and catching them as they came down. It had been all too easy. What sort of warrior did Kund think she was?

A quick look at the blades told her something else. Except for their points they were unsharpened hunks of low-grade iron, almost incapable of holding an edge. “What am I supposed to do with these, Lord Kund, bludgeon this fool to death?”

Laughter from the stands greeted this comment. “The barbarian bitch has a tongue on her,” Kund,” Tanar jibed. “Perhaps it should be put to use where it can do the most good. How much do you want for her?”

“I will have her win my bet first,” Kund replied angrily. It was more than apparent that he reacted poorly to barbarian slaves with a sense of humour. He glared at Zenaria and then at Gundar. “Kill that fool.”

Gundar fell to his knees, but he made no move to run away, not that the narrow confines of the arena would have given him any place to hide. In the tradition of the gladiator he knelt and waited for Zenaria to deliver the death blow.

Disgustedly Zenaria tossed the swords into the sawdust. “Kill him yourself.”

“The barbarian bitch needs a flogging,” Tanar shouted. “Sell her to me and I will attend to it personally. I will pay you double our bet.”

“If anyone flogs her it will be me,” Kund growled. “But first she will win my five hundred gold.” He signalled and the sliding door that had admitted Gundar was raised again and a second man stepped into the arena. He was as tall as Zenaria and wore a studded leather harness that crisscrossed his torso, but like Gundar he was unarmed. “I suggest you pick up one of those swords, barbarian. You will need it.” He tossed a third blunted sword into the arena which landed at the feet of the man who had just entered.

Gundar stepped forward, with a grin he picked up both blades. “Too late,” he grinned. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

The second man had already picked up his sword. He looked first at Zenaria and then at Gundar. “If she lives, I take her first.”

Gundar nodded. “Sure, Dehn. Just leave enough of her alive for me.”

Zenaria now understood the blunted swords. Kund didn’t want her killed, he wanted her beaten and captured and then subjected to brutal ordeal at the hands of his gladiators. At best the Thuski was little more than a voyeuristic thug.

The two gladiators came directly at her, completely lacking in subtlety. It was a normal reaction when confronting a single unarmed nude woman even if she was a barbarian.

Zenaria had never seen two warriors move more clumsily. A twelve-year-old warrior of the Snow Leopard could have beaten them. She took them out in seconds through the simple expedient of kicking Dehn between the legs, twisting the sword from his hand even as he clutched at his genitals, and slamming the blunted blade into the side of Gundar’s head. The heavyset gladiator toppled sideways, blood streaming from a gaping wound.

The crowd reacted in stunned silence, and then there was the sound of a single audience member slowly clapping his hands. “Well, Kund,” Tanar’s sardonic voice sneered, “it appears you may yet win your five hundred gold. “What else do you have planned?”

Kund gestured and the doors opened again, however this time no armed men appeared, instead two unarmed men entered, and crossing the arena dragged the two gladiators, one still, gasping in pain, from the arena. They also took the other weapons, leaving Zenaria holding her crude sword. “Hmm,” she muttered. “Perhaps I should have made that look a bit more difficult.” It had suddenly occurred to her that there was nothing to stop Kund from sending fighter after fighter against her in increasing multiples until she was eventually either worn down through sheer exhaustion or overwhelmed by superior numbers.

She appeared to have guessed Kund’s intentions correctly. The door opened again, admitting a man that by any definition was truly stupendous. His physical proportions dwarfed Zenaria, standing at least a foot taller than she was and probably weighing three times as much. He was not Sandakar, his features completely unlike any person Zenaria had ever seen. His face was dark, not black like, Sorvat, but closer to the colour of the spice called cinnamon that Tren had pointed out in the market. His body was covered with tattoos depicting serpents; they writhed down his body, encircling his arms and thighs, and even extending to his face. He was armed with a single weapon, a huge mace, studded with sharp iron spikes. A single blow would be all that was needed to crush her completely. Strips of leather studded with bronze were wound around his arms, and legs, as well as his torso. They offered some protection against a slashing weapon, although a straight thrust would find his flesh.

Unfortunately the crude sword that Zenaria held had no more chance of being used as a thrusting weapon than a garden hoe. It was a clear mismatch, and the hushed hush that fell over the crowd as the monstrous gladiator entered was clear proof of that. Only Tanar spoke up. “Kund, what kind of a contest is this? The girl can have no chance against a beast like Krang.”

Kund laughed mirthlessly. “Are you going to withdraw your wager? I would expect no more from a man of so little honour.”

“It is you who are sullied by this display,” Tanar rejoined. “I thought you at least would match the barbarian girl against opponents who were at her level.”

There was a murmur of agreement, but Kund did not relent. “Take her, Krang. She is yours to do with as you wish should you take her alive.”

“Uhh!” Krang grunted. “She will live, but she will wish she had not. I’ll split her tight cunt like a piece of kindling.”

Zenaria stared calmly at her gigantic opponent. The first rule of battle was never to allow fear to rule. She faced death, or worse, but giving into panic would almost certainly guarantee defeat. She could not hope to match Krang’s strength. If she was to survive she would have to use superior skill to bring him down.

“You mine, bitch,” Krang said as he moved toward her.

“Not yet,” Zenaria replied as she moved away from him. She studied him carefully, looking for any weakness that she might exploit. In spite of his huge size, Krang was light on his feet, as she suspected he would be. Even someone as big as he was could not depend entirely on steer strength and power to defeat all opponents. She would just have to hope that he had never come up against anyone as quick as she was and that his overconfidence would give her a chance to defeat him.

There was at least one factor in her favour. It became immediately obvious that Krang wanted her alive, and his first crude comment had left little doubt about why. Lust twisted his features as he lunged toward her, balancing lightly on his toes. He resembled some huge demonic dancer, terrifying in appearance, and intent on brutally tormenting her in front of the assembled audience.

Zenaria continued to move away. In this, she was helped by the size of the arena. A good thirty paces across, and circular in shape, it would be difficult for Krang to corner her and there was lots of room for her to avoid any mad rush he might make at her.

She soon found that simply backing up was not good enough. Krang suddenly lunged toward her, covering the intervening space in just three huge strides. His speed was astonishing, and had she not been expecting such a tactic he would certainly have gotten close enough for him to catch her.

He held his mace like a staff, intending to simply knock her down and then leap on top of her, using his superior size and strength to bend her to his will. Zenaria darted to one side, and then stepped past him, striking at the back of his knee with all of her strength as she did so.

Her aim was good, but the blunted sword did not cut through the leather strips that were wound around his leg. Her blow was deflected and instead of hamstringing him she mere made him angry.

“Aaawwrr!” Krang growled. He whirled and swung his huge mace where Zenaria had been. “You bitch. I hurt you.” He came at her, his club arcing through the air.

The blow was too quick for her to avoid by stepping back. Instead she leapt as high as she could, striking at his wrist as the club passed under her.

Krang seemed to lose all control. The blow to his wrist seemed not to bother him at all, but now he attacked without the least hint of finesse, sweeping his mace from side to side. Zenaria dodged back. Each swing of Krang’s weapon described an arc of about ten feet and her only chance was stay as far away from him as possible.

She danced nimbly back, using to her advantage the fact that each of Krang’s swings left him slightly off-balance and cut into his forward momentum. It enabled her to retreat faster than he could advance, until with a howl of rage he charged right at her. She escaped only by ducking under his attack and once again darting behind him, but she still managed a cut with her sword as she skipped away from him. This time she changed her target, and her sword blade struck his Achilles tendon.

Krang howled with rage. Had Zenaria had a properly sharpened weapon, it would have severed the tendon, but even so it left him limping. “Bitch!” he screamed. “I not fuck you. I kill you.”

He proceeded very hard to try to do just that. But his injury seemed to slow him just enough that Zenaria was able to keep up her deadly game of mouse fleeing the cat. But it was a close thing. Not since she had been humiliated by Garrod had she been so close to exhaustion. There was no shade in the arena except near one of the walls where there was a patch of shadow. However, there was no way that Zenaria could take advantage of that, and the sweat streamed from her body.

However, she was not the only one suffering. Krang was staggering with exhaustion, his enraged rushes having taken much more out of him than Zenaria’s controlled responses to his attacks. “Get you bitch,” he gasped, charging toward her once more. This time as Zenaria managed to once more avoid him, he went down, falling to his knees, his mace lowered.

It was the opportunity Zenaria had been waiting for and she leapt to the attack, her crude sword raised. Only at the last instant did she catch the gleam in Krang’s eyes. She had just enough self-control left to shift her body away from the mace as it came up with incredible speed. Krang was down, but he was not yet out.

“Bitch,” he gasped again. He lurched to his feet, his chest heaving. For a second sweat dripped into his eyes and he raised a forearm to wipe it away. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it Zenaria took full advantage of it. She took two steps forward and swinging with both hands cracked her sword across the lower wrist of the hand that held the mace.

Again, the dullness of the blade prevented a cut that should have taken his hand off, but it achieved its purpose. Krang howled in agony, the mace dropping from numbed fingers, and clutched at his shattered wrist. His eyes wide in disbelief and fear, he backed away from Zenaria.

She followed. For all of his howling, the injury was slight. She needed to finish him off while she had the chance and not prolong the fight, but at that moment Kund’s voice rang out. “Hold! I’ll not have a barbarian bitch damage my best fighter.”

“Not your best fighter anymore,” Tanar laughed. “Looks like the barbarian is.”

Zenaria halted. Staggering from the heat and exertion, she was not in condition to pursue the fight much farther, and she allowed Krang to lurch toward the now open door that had admitted him to the arena. “What now, Kund?” Tanar’s mocking voice asked. “She looks like even the stable boy could take her now.”

Kund motioned angrily. Several gates around the side of the arena opened, admitting a flood of guards. They surrounded her with a hedge of steel, pinning her in the centre of the arena. “Chain her, and take her out of here. But make sure she is well treated. I want her ready for next week.” He turned to Tanar. “A challenge, Tanar. My champion, the barbarian against yours. First to draw blood three times wins and the loser is forfeit to the winner.”

“Tempting,” Tanar replied. “I will take your bet. Your barbarian is much better than I had imagined, but still no match for my fighter.”

“Agreed then before witnesses,” Kund finished.

Zenaria dropped her sword. She offered no resistance as she was chained. As she was led from the arena the last thing she saw was Kund’s face glowering down at her.

Chapter 15: Ulua
Blindfolded once again, the guards herded her back through the dark corridors. In spite of her chains and exhaustion, she was at the same time strangely exhilarated. Battle and triumph over one’s enemies were, after all, was what a warrior of the Snow Leopard lived for. She only regretted that she had not been granted the time to chant her victory song.

This time the guards did not take her back to the small dark cell. Instead they escorted her up several staircases until she was once again felt the sun on her skin. For an instant she supposed that she was being taken back to the tower, but instead she found herself ushered into an area that was strong with the scent and sound of water. There was the sound of a door closing and then the blindfold was removed.

Squinting into the glare, Zenaria found herself in a small garden, in the centre of which was a fountain sprinkling its water into a deep circular pool. The walls of the compound were decorated in the complex geometric patterns common to the architecture of the Sandakar as was the fountain itself and the tiled expanse around it.

As her vision cleared, Zenaria found that the guards were no longer present and instead she was attended by several young women. “Hmm,” she thought, “must have run out of eunuchs.” She wondered at the status of the girls attending her. They were dressed in robes that covered them from ankle to shoulder, but left one shoulder bare. They were uniformly brown-skinned, almond-eyed, dark-haired, and of a race different from the Sandakar.

She was beginning to see some sort of pattern to Sandak society. Men were allowed to take more than one wife while others were castrated to even things out. She wondered where the young women attending her fitted in, but they ushered her toward the pool before she could utter a sound, chattering amiably to her.

“Come, mistress. You must be bathed and then prepared for tomorrow.” One of them produced a key and unlocked her chains while the others took her arms and ushered her toward the pool. She did not resist as they helped her into the cool water and she felt the sweat and heat dissipate.

The water was another mystery of Sandak life. Where did it all come from? She and Tren had crossed a desert wasteland to reach Uhra Don, but here water flowed more freely than back in her tribal compound, where every bucketful had to be laboriously carried up from the stream that flowed through the village. She had vivid memories of water duty during the winter months when the icy surface of the stream had to be first broken, and then the buckets dipped into the freezing pool and then carried on a shoulder pole; one bucket on each end to balance the load. No young man or woman was exempt from that duty and not even the assertions of the tribal elders that such duty strengthened body and mind made it any less arduous.

But in Uhra Don the water flowed from hidden pipes, reaching all parts of the city and somehow forcing its way into fountains. It was a mystery she wondered about, but had no understanding of. Her thoughts were diverted by the appearance of food and drink. While she stood in the water and the female attendants rubbed her body with soft cloths, one of the girls had appeared with a plate of assorted fruit and a glass of wine.

She drank and then studied the way the light refracted as it passed through the translucent wineglass. She had seen glass before, but it was an exotic and expensive substance rarely traded in her homeland due to its fragile nature.

”Jingua glass, mistress. From across the sea,” one of the girls said.

“Jingua?” echoed Zenaria.

“A far away empire,” the girl explained. “Across the great sea that lies to the west.”

Zenaria had heard of the sea. It was said to be a great river that went on forever. Suddenly she realized how little of the world she really knew. If there was a great and mysterious umpire across the sea what then lay beyond that? Did the world go on forever, or was there a limit. And how did it end? What happened when one reached the horizon and the home of the sun and the moon?

She picked up some of the fruit and chewed it thoughtfully. This talk of a great empire far away had her wanting to see more of the world, but first she had to find some way to escape. She knew the names of the various fruits now. The plate before her was a selection of melon, papaya, figs, dates, plums, and grapes. She reflected that until she had come to Uhra Don only the grapes were familiar. And she still did not know the name of the hard-shelled fruit she had eaten in the market.

Her attendants guided her from the water and led her to a stone bench across which a towel had been laid. They helped her onto it; manoeuvring her body by gentle touch into the position they desired and then rubbed her dry. Then warm, slippery hands began to play over her body, kneading her shoulders, calves, thighs, and buttocks. At first, Zenaria stiffened under the touch but she soon relaxed as the gentle massage soothed every part of her body.

She had experienced massage before. Snow Leopard society used it during warrior rituals, but never before had she been so perfectly relaxed as perfumed oils were rubbed into her skin. “You are, his Excellency’s First Warrior now, mistress,” one of the girls said. “Krang has been demoted until he is healed.”

“First warrior? What does that mean?” asked Zenaria.

“It is a great honour,” the girl answered. “You are first among his Excellency’s gladiators and will fight to uphold his honour among the Thuski of Uhra Don.”

“Uphold his honour?” Zenaria said as she was helped to her feet. “You mean kill other warriors in the arena for the amusement of the wealthy and stupid?”

The girls hushed at her words and exchanged frightened glances. Apparently referring to their masters as fools was something that was just not done. With no wish to trouble her attendants further, Zenaria closed her mouth and let the girls dress her.

It was a relief to feel clothing on her body once again. She was tired of the lascivious stares of the Sandak men and the soft ankle-length silk robes that were wound around her brought a comfortable sense of security. Perhaps there was more to clothing than mere protection from the elements.

She was escorted into the shade and sat down on a cool marble bench. Spread out on a table was another selection of food and drink, including meat, soft cheese, and bread. In spite of her consumption of the fruit she found that she still had an appetite, but she did not eat immediately. Instead she invited the girls to sit with her. She gestured to the food. “I will eat provided you share the meal with me.”

“Mistress, we cannot. We are not permitted,” the girl who seemed most vocal said.

“What is your name?” Zenaria asked.

The girl bowed her head. “Setia, mistress.”

“And the others, Setia?”

“They are called Memta, Nori, Atua, and Palla,” Setia answered, introducing each of the girls in turn.

“Well, Setia, warriors of the Snow Leopard do not eat while others go hungry. I will not eat until you and the others join me. I suspect that might please your master even less.”

The girls looked at one anther and then conversed briefly in a language Zenaria did not understand. Finally, Setia spoke. “We will eat if it is your pleasure, mistress. We were told to please you in any way.”

Zenaria did not miss the added meaning behind Setia’s answer, but she chose to ignore it. Setia and the other girls seemed to have been chosen for their physical attractiveness, but she faced a formidable challenge. On the morrow she faced the High Thuski’s champion. It might be a good idea if she was not enervated from several hours of sexual activity. She had to admit she was tempted. She had never entered into a same sex relationship before, but her vow did not prohibit such activity and Snow Leopard society had no taboo regarding such interaction. And she had to admit the young women now sharing her meal with her were very comely even if their sultry beauty was different from what he was used to.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she thought. She smiled her appreciation of their company, but that night she slept alone; if she could be considered alone with the five girls sleeping within arm’s length of her. Their soft breathing was so enticing she almost changed her mind, but then she thought of Krang. Tomorrow she would face someone else like him. She had to be strong. Closing her eyes she relaxed and then slept.

Morning came soon enough. The girls were up before she was and had her breakfast waiting for her. A little embarrassed that she had slept through their rising, Zenaria joined them. As before she insisted that they eat with her, and then breakfast over, they prepared her for the coming combat.

They stripped her of her fine robe, and bathed her using soft cloths. Although it was early morning it was already quite warm and they used cool water from the pool for the job. Next they oiled her body with scented oils until she gleamed like the surface of a mirror.

Zenaria was embarrassed by such attention. Snow Leopard warriors attended to their own preparations for battle, and certainly none were as elaborate as what she was being put through, but she said nothing as they began to put on her armour.

The black leather harness that was strapped onto her body seemed intended to display her female charms rather than offer any real protection. Studded leather straps crisscrossed between her breasts, offering her support but little protection other than a horizontal band of leather that crossed her nipples. A heavy brass-studded leather belt encircled her waist and provided a little protection and privacy to her nether region by means of a padded leather strap that ran from the belt between her legs and buttock cheeks to the back of the belt.

Her costume was rounded out with knee-high light leather boots and leather gloves with extended cuffs that covered her forearms. However, it was the final item in her gear that gave her the greatest surprise and pleasure.

“My father’s sword,” she exclaimed. It was presented to her by Setia and was sheathed in a black leather scabbard that matched her armour. She unsheathed the blade and saw that it gleamed with oil. The edge of the blade had clearly been honed to restore its razor sharpness. She gave it a practice swing, the blade humming as it cut through the air.

The five young women regarded her with something approaching awe. “You will prevail, mistress, even Ulua will tremble before your might.”

Zenaria sheathed her sword. “Ulua?”

“Lord Tanar’s champion,” Setia explained. “Undefeated in over fifty combats. But you, mistress, have nothing to fear.”

Zenaria smiled and then sobered. The thought of combat against so mighty as foe as Ulua exhilarated her, but there was also the fact that she would be forced to fight an opponent purely for the purpose of providing entertainment to the Sandak nobility. However, she had little choice. If possible she would not kill her adversary. However, she would not hold back. In combat it was all or nothing and she could not afford to show her opponent mercy if it meant she might suffer injury.

The process of outfitting her had taken until mid-morning and already the heat was building up. However, she needed to get used to moving in her armour and footwear and spent the next hour moving through her sword drills. In spite of the fact she did not exert herself she was dripping with sweat by the time she finished. However, Setia and the other girls were there with cups of chilled fruit juice and a bucket of cold water to sluice her down.

As Zenaria sipped the juice she wondered how the Sandaks got it so cold. Surely in the midst of the hottest place she had ever been there could be no snow or ice. It was another enigma presented by her cruel but sophisticated captors. “One day,” she thought, “I will see how they do this.”

However, she was not to find out that day. A short time later the door to the compound opened and another young woman entered. She bowed before Zenaria. “You are to follow me mistress. It is time to go to the arena.”

It was a change from the blindfold and chains and Zenaria wondered about it. Apparently as Kund’s champion she was no longer to be treated like a runaway slave. However, she wondered what was to stop her from simply running away.

She got her answer when she stepped through the door that the child held open for her. She found herself in a narrow alleyway enclosed by high walls. To one side was a blank wall, allowing only one way for her to go, and so with a quick wave to Setia and the other girls she set off as the girl led her between the whitewashed walls.

The walls provided shade for most of the long walk, something that Zenaria appreciated. It was now about midday and the desert heat was oppressive. However, she expected that the arena would probably be packed as it had been on the day of her debut, a supposition that was confirmed by the noise of the crowd as she approached the arena.

The child stopped by a heavy wooden door. It was obvious that the arena lay on the other side, both from the noise of the crowd and the fact that the door could be opened vertically by means of pulleys. Looking up Zenaria saw two half-naked men holding the ropes that operated the door. They looked down on her with what might have been interest, but said nothing.

Zenaria waited. On the other side she heard the crowd quiet and then the voice of the High Thuski. She could not make out any individual words, but guess that he was probably introducing the contestants, one of which was her. She felt the familiar feeling of anticipation rising within her. It was something she could not help. A warrior of the Snow Leopard lived for battle, even if that battle was a contrived contest fought against an opponent who had no freedom to do otherwise.

Kund finished speaking and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Then the ropes holding the door tightened and the door opened leaving her facing the expanse of the arena. She stepped forward exposing herself to the spectators and a shout went up. Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected anyone to cheer for her, and then she remembered that an important part of the spectacle of the arena was betting on the contestants. That was confirmed a second later by a shout from the audience. “Fight well, barbarian. I have a hundred gold riding on your head.”

The comment was followed by numerous similar comments indicating widespread betting support. And then the door on the other side of the arena opened and an even more deafening shout went up as her adversary stepped into the arena.

“Ulua! Ulua! Ulua!” The thunder of the chant had Zenaria wanting to cover her eras, but instead she stared at the figure that stepped into the ring in stunned surprise.

She had expected a hulking monster like Krang, but the warrior that stood across from her was nothing like she would ever have imagined.

She was tiny, standing about a foot shorter than Zenaria and dressed in shining black leather armour very similar to that which Zenaria wore. Like Zenaria, her body glistened with oil and the studded leather straps that made up her only armour were arranged almost identically. The only difference was the fact that she wore a leather helmet that hid half her face, and two strange weapons that looked more like short versions of the three-pronged metal spears that Zenaria’s people used to catch fish.

However, it was not the armour or weapons that drew Zenaria’s eye. It was the fact that her opponent had the same dark eyes and golden skin that Tren had. She stood quietly. There was none of the loud posturing that had characterized Zenaria’s early opponents.

The crowd quieted and Kund spoke. “Three cuts or the first disabling or fatal wound determines the winner. The loser becomes the property of the winner’s master.” He raised his hand. “Begin!”

Zenaria had never seen anyone move so quickly. Only her lightning reflexes prevented her from losing the battle in the first second. Ulua was across the arena and striking with her strange weapons before Zenaria had time to draw a breath. She soon discovered just how well those weapons worked. The tines of one tied up the blade of her sword and the other came straight at Zenaria’s throat. Only by twisting her entire body and striking out with her knee did she avoid being speared.

But Ulua was far from finished; she jumped over Zenaria’s kick and thrust at her with both weapons. This time Zenaria could not avoid the attack. The longer centre tine of one of the weapons entered her right shoulder and would have penetrated through to her back had not the shorter time struck one of the brass studs of the strap crossing Zenaria’s shoulder.

It should have been a disabling blow, but Zenaria was now caught up in her battle rage. She hardly noticed the pain and deflecting the blow of the right-handed weapon, she struck back with her sword, delivering a blow that would have cut the golden-skinned woman in half had she not darted quickly backward. Nevertheless, the unexpected counterattack left a long bloody scratch where the tip of Zenaria’s blade had traced a path across Ulua’s belly.

Zenaria continued her attack, using her great strength and longer reach to drive her opponent back across the arena under a hail of blows. But Ulua was skilful. She caught each blow on one or the other of her fork-like weapons and managed the occasional riposte that came close to catching Zenaria once more. Finally, reaching the wall of the arena, Ulua darted away from Zenaria’s attack and out into open where she crouched, waiting for Zenaria’s next move.

Both fighters eyed one another for the briefest of moments and then went at it again. Zenaria held her sword two-handed, the better able to twist her blade to meet Ulua’s attempts to tie it up and also to strike quickly at her opponent. It became a game of cat and cat, with each of the warriors trying to find an opening in the other’s defence that she could exploit, and they circled one another constantly, their sleek oiled bodies gleaming in the desert sun and their weapons flashing in the light.

Zenaria tried every trick she knew, from brute force to the cleverest parry and riposte, but she could find no opening in Ulua’s defence that came close to inflicting another wound. Nor could Ulua use her weapons to once again tie up Zenaria’s blade and drive home a bloodletting attack. It became obvious that the battle was going to be decided on the basis of stamina. Whoever weakened first would lose and it soon became apparent that both warriors were struggling in the intense desert heat.

Zenaria tied to pace herself, but could not afford to relax even for the smallest instance. She was forced to remain on her guard even though her arms and shoulders ached and her legs began to tremble from exertion. Memories of her battle against Garrod and the way he had humiliated her came back to haunt her, but those same memories seemed to liberate a reservoir of strength that she did not know she had possessed. She suddenly attacked, once again driving the smaller women across the arena, and then the unexpected happened.

Ulua, exhausted from the intense combat, slipped on the sawdust and fell, her heels in the air and offering Zenaria a perfect opportunity to end the duel. Zenaria pounced, her finely honed battle skills delivering a death-strike toward her helpless opponent. But somehow, Ulua managed to cross her weapons, stopping Zenaria’s downward strike just inches from her helmet. At the same her feet came up and catching Zenaria squarely in her stomach propelled her forward, lifting her high in the air and slamming her hard to the arena floor.

The impact almost knocked the wind out of her. Her sword spun out of her hand; flying across the arena to land ten feet away. Zenaria rolled, and caught hold of both of Ulua’s wrists just as she tried to rise. She rolled again, using her greater strength and the leverage created by the movement of her body to twist herself over the smaller woman. Exerting all of her strength, she slammed Ulua’s wrists into the sawdust of the arena, breaking her grip on her weapons and sending them spinning through the air. Then she snapped her left hand down, her fist slamming into Ulua’s helmet and knocking it from her head while at the same time raising her right hand to smash it into the golden-skinned woman’s face.

Zenaria stared in disbelief. “Tren!” she gasped, her fist poised for the strike, but held back as she gaped at her adversary. The resemblance was uncanny. It was Tren’s face in almost every detail, although much more finely featured and with the full seductive lips of a woman.

Ulua froze. “What did you say?” she gasped.

Zenaria lowered her fist. “You are Tren’s sister,” she panted. “I cannot fight you.” Slowly, she got to her feet, the adrenaline draining from her body and leaving her barely able to stand. Around her the crowd screamed, but neither she nor Ulua paid it the least notice.

Ulua rolled to her knees, so exhausted that she could not get to her feet. “How do you know that name?” she wheezed.

Zenaria was suddenly overcome with a strange emotion, that completely tied up her tongue. She could only shake her head as she fell to her knees and gazed at her equally exhausted adversary.

Ulua was not quite so incapacitated as she appeared. With a remarkable effort she managed to stagger to her feet, and picking up her two weapons returned to Zenaria. “Do you surrender?” Ulua asked, placing the sharp points against the soft skin of Zenaria’s throat.

Zenaria looked into Ulua’s bewildered face. “I do,” she answered.