HELLO ALL! SOME CHANGES AND A STORY

Hello all!

For those of you returning—I think all 15 regulars—and for those who were roped in by my aggressive business card campaign, welcome. I hope you are all doing well.

First, I’d like to say many things—that I’m a hypocrite and I’d like to apologize and that I don’t know what I am doing. That is normal—though the more I learn about irony, paradoxes, contradictions, and actual hypocrisy, the more I learn life is just already upside-down sideways.

First, again, I’ll try and clean up my language. The Internet is fun and all, but swear words attract and repel the oddest people, so I’ll watch out for that. Second, I am trying to get the framework ready for…ugh, ‘community involvement’. Probably a Discord chat room, because I’m proving a fool (again) in thinking ‘I can be a successful author with no publicity!’ Well, I tried.

For those new here, pretty much all my stuff is going to be PG-13—the older PG-13 of 2006, like in that Bruce Willis/Mos Def movie, 16 Blocks, where it covered drugs, sex, alcoholism, police corruption and one F-Bomb. Not the PG-13 crap of today, which is just the old Rated R and the new Rated R is the X/XXX of yesterday. Overton Window effect in film much?

F&*(! S&$#! A$$&*%! @#$%^R!*

[*Sorry, that is my inner Tourette’s Id Demon Adolescence trying to rebel. I swear when I get angry and I’m avoiding swearing as part of my regular speech. Now, if you’ll excuse me as I have a hooker pour shots in my mouth while firing off my gun at a dartboard.]

The point being that I understand the Internet is full of god-awful content, and that the best way to handle it is NOT to sterilize it, but to have people grow up. I expect the same here and at my other related websites. There will be dignity and common sense, and we shall laugh at the things that deserve to be laughed at—including everyday fools.

Anyway, what was I rambling about? …Right, so I wanted to be a children’s storybook author, and that didn’t turn out right. I hope you see why. SO, Pg-13, age range from 14-20+; I never shy away from controversial topics (ahem, H-40.0 excepting) and I write stories. I can’t not! This has been some of the most fulfilling months of my life in spite of all the uncertainty.

Which is to say…Well one of my former co-workers said it best, ‘He’s crazy, but he’s got a good mind.’ He said this, thinking he was out of ear-shot, but I heard him anyway. It  happens.

…Man my coffee has not kicked in yet. Right, where was I? Stories! SO I’m flying upside down at the moment, because this week I’m posting short stories instead of my regular blog posts. Yeah-yeah, I know, I apologize for ‘changing unexpectedly’ when I said I was going to go into a biography like ‘Life Lessons from Anime’ posts. Boo-hoo. Don’t you see what I’m doing? I’m writing short stories that are flat-out weird things that I wrote in a fever dream, in order to promote the ‘more normal novel’ that I want people to buy!

I have to use the weird to attract people to the normal. How else am I going to get anyone’s attention? Oh, ****it, here’s a free story.

THAT YOU CAN DOWNLOAD AS A PDF ON MY SUBSCRIBESTAR: https://www.subscribestar.com/dair-productions

Ahem, without further ado, the not-as-weird story of the pair.

“Stormclaw the Gladiator”

In the land between the great salt rivers, where the marshes grow reeds and iron, the contest between life and death raged in silent furiousness. As the elder tadpoles devoured their brothers in the muck, the marsh birds consumed the locusts that ate the marsh-grass; as the frog throttled the worm in its throat so too did the ibis throttle the frog in its craw. Beyond the rivers were the dead lands, scorched-in-clay; within the rivers, life eating itself in the hope of more life. Men built empires upon such lands.

Men, too, were gone from such lands. Their cities became the scrabbly hills, their towers became the sweeping cliffs. Though, the graves remained their own. A body impervious to time! Such is a tomb. And many tombs lay between the great salt rivers, impervious to time, but not to memory. Men came and gone, just as the giants before them came and gone. And what after man? In that land—the greenskin, full of tusks and luster.

None knew where they came, merely that when the land was abandoned by man, the race of former wretches found the rugged land to their liking. For, what else did they know, a race so young and ignorant? They feared the tombs and deserts, full of the dead, and demons, and knew not how to farm upon the great salt rivers, as clever man did. The mountains were haunted by the earth-folk, vengeful and uncompromising, whose beards were filthy with dirt. The fertile plains? Whose dew was the sun’s kiss and breath the early frost? Home to howling, pointy-eared reavers, who drank blood for the sun and sacrificed brides for the moon. Their horses ate flesh.

Nay! The best place for the greenskin was to live where none else would—the scrublands, whose grass is too tough for frail horses, but not for beasts of burden; the lumpen hills, barren of anything but clay and flint; the acid mire, where naught but slime-mold grows. And what did they make from such slime and mortar? A city.

“Uzzhgalar! Young and mighty, born from the land! Uzzhgalar! Sculpted by free hands and bright eyes. Molded by flesh, grown by craft, honed in battle. Uzzhgalar! Whose streets are the canyons, the rooftops the cliffs, the alleys are caves. Uzzhgalar! Who makes the road safe, by making it dangerous!”

These words were shouted by a goblin, a goblin with a very deep and booming voice in fact. He was standing on a stone dais in a space just beyond a bolted gate. It was his daily routine to shout at visitors coming in from the road.

“And how does mighty Uzzhgalar stay dangerous? Why, the bubbling water that gushes life from the muddy earth. Fresh and pure, and yours today for a fair price!”

The small crowd of travelers studied the goblin merchant. He had gold rings in his long nose and in both half-ears, and his clothes weren’t in tatters. With him were four daughters, each of different ages, and they too had matching gold rings in their puggy noses and long, slender ears. Clearly, the merchant had been around for a while.

“Herg! You have beserker brew, for strength in battle?” asked a stumpy orc.

“In mushroom and tuber flavors,” said the merchant.

“What about antidotes that flush away poisons?” chuffed a lumpy ogre with a broken club.

“Friend, say no more—I have a whole panacea in powdered form. Sweetner is extra.”

“HMM!!!” said the ogre, whose brows smashed together in furious thinking.

“Got anything for virility?” asked a visiting troll. “Asking for a friend. He hasn’t grown his back, yet. And the missus ain’t taking no for an answer.”

“My good skrool,” said the goblin merchant, “you are looking at proof of my product! This is but a quarter of my sixteen daughters. My, family recipe, hurr hurr hurr!!!”

Eyes rolled as much as laughter boomed. The goblin merchant placed a free sample-size in each of his customers’ paws and claws, as an understanding of what the proper dose should be. As every warrior of the savage races knew, ‘too much of a brew turns you to goo’!

The crowd of paying savages milled around the goblin merchant and his slacking daughters. Coin clinked, trades matched price; the goblin sire beamed like a prince on his crate a wares. Uzzhgalar! It was his city, his cradle, his birthright. The clay-wrought alleys channeled the cool wind away from the hot. He chose this precise spot, fought over it, bled for it, for he knew in his weaselly heart, it was blessed by Ahwhir, lord of air and champion of freedom! Free wind, that kept the heat and the stink away? A heavenly bargain.

It was more breezy today, for there was less a throng of Free People today. The goblin sire could see particular faces today, like a young green mother, pregnant with a litter, or that old barkeep from across the way, that the sire shanked to get his prized place. Or even, that slouching greenskin scurrying towards him. He was a little more ruki than raki, if you got my drift.

“My fine Freeman,” began the sire, “step in line for my fabulous wares!”

“Like the ones you sold me?” scowled the sloucher. “See my mangy face?!”

“Yeah,” said a mangy troll. “Get in line. He’s got a cream for it.”

“You know what he puts in his creams?” said the mangy sloucher, who held up a paw rife with scaly yellow eczema.

“My good edi,” said the goblin sire. “I only use the finest snake oil in my products!”

“He uses geckos,” whispered the sloucher. “I’M ALLEGIC TO GECKOS!”hE

The sloucher sprung, long knife drawn from his roped belt. He did not clear the scabbard all the way. He scratched a bystander on the arm. The bystander did not take this kindly, who first grabbed the sloucher by the britches, and then slugged him in the face. The bystander tried, at least, for the sloucher—had a slouch. The blow went wide and hit another bystander in the face, and then all hell broke loose. The goblin’s stall was not in a proper market, so a brawl was not forbidden over the sprawl. Teeth flew and tusks cracked. Mountains of burly flesh tumbled onto the hard-packed street. An old green gam threw a flowerpot at someone’s head.

And like, that, the brawl turned to stillness. The savage kinds awoke, as from a haze, from their pent-up rage.

“Oh no! I broke a tusk. Now my wife will wonder why I was fighting!” cried a troll-man.

“How embarrassing, old chap,” said an ogre.

“Indeed, silly bean” said the ogre’s other head. “Young misses, are you all right? I’m afraid, your stall is splinters.”

“Yeah, I’ll be pulling them out my tuckis,” mumbled a goblin daughter. The youngest, who dodged out of the fight, saw her sisters were bruised, but well. Her father and his assailant were nowhere to be seen.

“Daddy won’t be home tonight,” she muttered. She spied some loosened change and palmed the coins. Then, she went about picking the broken wares out of the dirt. Her sisters dealt with the main stall. The young goblin maid, small-nosed yet pretty, placed her tiny finds in the folds of her skirt. She picked at the small pieces when a shade loomed over her. At first, she thought it was a great green sack, and then saw it was a great big belly, and attached to that belly was a young haggard mother.

“Hi Grunda,” said the goblin maid.

“Hmm? Oh, hello, Gronkle” said the haggard green mother, an orc.

“Geez, Grunda, you’re showing so much. Shouldn’t you be home, getting ready for the litter?” said Gronkle.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do all day,” said Grunda. “Grodder hasn’t been home yet, and the midwife is scheduled for my neighbors, and…Why was I out again? Oh, for your father’s skin cream. Grodder hasn’t been home. I haven’t gotten a footrub yet in so long.”

Gronkle saw that Grunda was turning pale teal in the face. The babies were sucking a lot out of her, and they were taking more for the big push! Heck, Grunda’s face told it all—puffy, worried, and sodden with hurt tears.

“Grunda! Ask a favor from Grodder’s patron. They got that big house—they can set up a wachook room for you when the time comes.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh, no…” sobbed Grunda. “I can’t ask such a thing, they will take one of my pups as payment.”

“Better than Grodder showing up with you dead and the babies hanging out,” said Gronkle. “Hang on—hey! Hey, tell dad I’ll be back later!”

Her sisters waving her away, Gronkle took Grunda by the puffy hand. The goblin lass was right at the height where Grunda’s big navel would poke her eye out. Grunda had chosen to not cover up her middle, as proof of her strength and fertility. Gronkle knew Grunda was a bit dim, and vain, but Grodder saw something in her.

“You’re a big as a hill,” said Gronkle.

“I feel like one,” said Grunda. “You jealous?”

“Hey, every atsi wants to mother the next great warband,” said Gronkle. “Me? I want to see the world first. Maybe join a caravan.”

Grunda plodded along on calloused feet. Her shoes had worn out; they were only straps around her soles. Gronkle saw toes that Grunda hadn’t seen in months.

Every laborious step shook the ground under the green-women’s feet. Grunda was quite big—no, that wasn’t it. Gronkle meekly led her tottering counterpart through a wider alley (for obvious reasons). It was becoming a wider alley, for more obvious reasons. Pickaxe and adze smashed apart the nearby cliffwall. The rumble of rubble tumbled into groaning carts. Peon and ogre alike carted away the debris. The city had ordained that more living space be carved out of the unused stone. Whether the new path would be open-aired or dome-covered was up for debate. Gronkle knew about it, because her father aired his grievances about it behind closed shops.

“Hey Gronkle! What’s shaking, short-stack?” The caller was a green muttman, lanky and long, and his companion was an even lankier troll man.

“It better be your purse!” called Gronkle. The mutt waved her over, and Gronkle had to push Grunda by the buttocks to get her in their direction.

“Ey, sweet cheeks,” said the troll. “Get a load of her.”

“I’d cart her home,” said the mutt. “Where have you been all my life, my big beautiful and gorgeous?”

“Oh, where’s home?” said Grunda.

“The money,” said Gronkle to the muttman.

“Yeah, yeah, tell your dad to stop sniffin’ after me,” said the mutt. He handed over a sizeable wallet. “What’s up, shorty?”

“Dad making enemies again,” said Gronkle. “Broken kiosk, again. Grunda here’s about to pop with no place to pop open (the troll man winked). Bored! What about you guys? Slacking off?”

“Ehy, we’re on our brew-break, munny,” said the troll man.

“We’re waiting to slip away,” said the mutt. “You hear about it yet?”

“What?” said Gronkle.

“They caught a human expedition!”

“What? No! The whole city would be talking about it.”

“Wasn’t much left, from what I hear,” said the muttman. “But they were packing the craft, I tells yah. Two wagon loads of loot, at least, and they haven’t found their camp.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And, uh, the humans fought back good. Real good. I hear a couple of patrons died. Uh, not well.”

“Oh. So where are the rest of the captives?”

“Well, well, well,” said the mutt. “I hear they’re making a special change at the coliseum, last minute. Not the regular games, if you get my drift.”

“Really?!” squeaked Gronkle.

“And, for a modest fee, I can get a couple of extra passes,” said the mutt.

“What? You didn’t tell me,” said the troll man.

“So, about that purse I owe’s yah—”

Yet at that moment, Grunda made a popping sound, and spasmed at her legs. A curious smell began emanating from her. The troll man made a sign against wicked spirits.

“Grunda, you couldn’t wait?” said Gronkle. An unmentionable spot was spreading, and Gronkle got the full view.

“No better excuse,” said the mutt man, who dumped out his cart. “Get in, you diamond mine. Where’d you want her?”

Grunda spilled into the handcart, not noticing the bumps and bruises on her flesh. The troll man wished him well, but all knew he could not touch or help without breaking taboo. The mutt man followed Gronkle, who hitched her skirts, as she scampered forward.

“Hey, is Grun-darr Skullcrusher’s place that way?” she asked a bystander.

“No, that’s Grunn-darr Skullsmasher’s home. Skullcrusher is down that alley,” said the big-eyed bystander.

“Thanks.”

They pushed through the milling crowd to the city quarter where the wealthy had their homes built upon the stone. Terraced gardens flowed like steps down the sides of each wealthy manse. A few had iron-wrought fences, and fewer had guards. Gronkle counted the numbers on each post, until she was at Number 5 Bloodspatter Way. This place had a guard, with a tall hat, spear, shield, and scaly harness, on the other side of the fence.

“What business?” he grunted.

“This is Grunda, wife of Grodder, who asks a favor for the patron,” said Gronkle.

The guard eyed them with beetley brows. Grunda looked more like she was holding back a scream. She’d become as pale as a silk sheet.

“What favor?” said the guard.

“A wachook room,” said Gronkle.

“Humph!” said the guard. “Patron Skullcrusher has no guarantee, for his pups are grown. No promises.”

He went to the house, quickly returned, a worried look on his face. “The Lady Gargantua!” he cried. Behind him was a figure anything but: slender, in a silver dress, broached in small gems, and a she had a tall cylindrical, white hat. Her face was sea green, her small tusks were polished ivory, and her nose was powdered dark green.

“What is this pitiful sight?” said the lady Gargantua.

“Grunda, wife of Grodder your servant in need of a room!” squeaked Gronkle. She’d never seen such beauty before.

“Grodder? Yes, he served my father well,” said the lady. “He was released from patronage.”

“What?!” squeaked Gronkle. “But, he’s—”

“You have a request then?” said the lady Gargantua. “A favor for the meek, from the mighty?”

“A wachook room,” said Gronkle. “He’s really gone?”

“One favor at a time, little atsi,” said the lady. “I grant your request, at my price. Let them in.”

The mutt man carted Grunda in, and Gronkle followed after. The lady’s maids set up a simple wachook room, but no midwife was needed, for Grunda gave birth without aid. Gronkle was there, and even she couldn’t believe the sight. Five pups from one belly! All healthy enough. Grunda would have a handful for years. The house maids swaddled the newborns, the mutt man was kept in the entry, and Gronkle was led to a nearby parlor with the lady Gargantua. Her father’s trophies littered the room, from mighty beasts, treasures, and weapons from lands far away. Gronkle felt like dirt from outside.

“Little atsi, you may bargain,” said the lady. “There were five born, no?”

“Yes, your lady,” said Gronkle. “I don’t suppose you’ll patron all five?”

“Ho-ho-ho!” chortled the lady. “We are wealthy, but not extravagant, little goblin. Is not one the usual exchange?”

“Yes, but—one atsi with no endi can’t raise all those pups. Grodder is really gone?”

“That belongs to the counsel of my father,” said the lady. “I may ask for his ear.”

Gronkle thought for a moment. “Two,” she said. “One for the wachook, one for the father.”

“At least they will not be alone,” said Gargantua. “Those matters must wait for later. My father will return soon, but my brother has work today. I agree with your bargain, young Gronkle.”

The lady paused in thought. Gronkle read her face. “Perhaps, you wish to be in my service?” said the lady. Gronkle’s heart dropped faster than Grunda’s babies. She felt ripped in half in yes and no. But before the shock wore away, a call came from up the house.

“My brother!” said the lady Gargantua. She let herself out of the parlor, and Gronkle followed. At the door was the…ugliest son of a grok she’d ever seen. Skin like over-cooked lizard meat, grizzly stubble more gristly than a boar’s, a chin that could break rocks. His eyes, though! His freakish, sky blue eyes! His only redeeming features were his mane of long black hair and shoulders broad enough to carve canyons. The blackened scar on his cheek was a nice touch.

“Stormclaw, my brother,” said the lady, who embraced and kissed him. Gronkle saw a happy-sad smile on the fair green lady.

“Don’t pout,” said Stormclaw. He lifted her chin. “It makes you cuter. What’s the fuss, sister? A peon, a whelping, and a new housemaid at our home? What will father think?”

“That is business for our father,” said the petite Gargantua. “You have your duty today, and may not return.”

“Outsiders came to our home,” said Stormclaw. “They knew the warnings.”

“Yes, but—”

“It is my honor to end them with honor,” said Stormclaw.

“Honor? What of honor?”

“Be careful, sister, we have guests in the house.”

“Fie! She is my handmaid! Gronkle, sworn to secrecy! Obey!”

“Uh oh,” said Gronkle under her breath. She lost her breath in her little lungs when the burly Stormclaw glazed at her with his too-bright eyes.

“And you! Peon! Fetch my palanquin.”

“Uh, yes your ladyship! Good luck, Gronkle!” said the mutt man. Stormclaw and Gargantua went to their chambers, Gronkle with the latter, as she now had to prepare her ladyship for public appearance. The lady mostly prepared herself, for she was impatient with Gronkle’s lowly ways. Instead, she barked that Gronkle look presentable. The goblin maid made due with a new dress, and made her hair sopping wet with perfume. It filled up the palanquin as the lady’s entourage went to the great coliseum of Uzzhgalar.

Gronkle never heard an ocean. She heard the rumbling ebb and flow of the crowd, even through the private ways reserved for those of lady Gargantua’s stature.

“What a way to get into here,” she thought to herself. The private tunnel opened up to the best seats in the crowd, near the main gate and close to the Nerk. The coliseum itself was a little more oval than round (a happy accident in construction) and layered like steps from top to bottom to pit. The crowds milled around the track. Near the private boxes were seats for the dignitaries, the announcers, and scorekeepers. Gronkle let out a little gasp—her ladyship’s box was a seat of honor, away from the rest!

Her ladyship and other maids did their best to settle in, though it was clear her lady was heart-sad, and distracted. Gronkle perched herself on the railing like a little child. The private box was a stone’s throw from the pit.

“Oooh, darling, how good to see you,” said an odious voice from a next-door box. Gronkle looked over, and saw a goblin-matron of some years, wearing a fulsome dress and a high, white-powdered wig. The bright-purple lipstick was the finishing touch.

“As with you, Lady Eeekka,” groaned Gargantua.

“Oh, your brother will do fine, as he always does. You worry, my deary, too much,” said Lady Eeekka. “Ohh, there’s my hubby.”

Gronkle looked over, and saw that the Lady Eeekka was referring to the coliseum announcer, a flabby orc in a yellow-blond wig.

“Endi and atsi, of the Free Peoples!” he boomed without aid of mask or horn. “Today, we have a special occasion! Trespassers, from the world of men!”

‘Boo! Boo! Hiss! Sqwank!’ went the crowd.

“Fools, who did not heed our warnings! Foolish, my friends, are they, whose forefathers abandoned this land. They came with iron! With steel! With blackpowder!”

‘‘Boo! Boo! Hiss! Sqwank!’ went the crowd.

“They may know something of honor—I have not asked—but we shall give them honor. And honorable end! Neither rot in the prisons, nor a death by forbidden slavery! Nay! They shall have their arms, and meet steel with steel, skill with skill, with the mightiest warriors of Uzzhgalar!”

‘Woo! Woo! Yeah! Squoggu!’ went the crowd.

“Then, bring out the trespassers!”

Gronkle saw five humans, pink-skinned and bloody, in their arms and armor from far away lands. They came out of one gate. Gronkle had an odd knack for telling humans apart, though the first three were not of note—red and brown hair, with two wearing blue-and-white colors, and the third an old grey-head who wore black and yellow. He held a mighty mace, and was missing an eye. The fourth man, though, was extraordinarily tall, with long hair like dirty gold, and he had beautiful, powerful legs. The fifth man, also in blue-and-white, had thick dark hair, shoulders broad enough to carve canyons, shiny blue eyes, and had a blackened scar upon his cheek. Wait…

A small gasp went up from the crowd. The murmurs whipped up to the announcer.

“What is this? I know not by what treachery they thought to bring,” he said, “but it will avail them not in the pit! Or perhaps, they know of our mighty warriors, and flatter us with cheap imitations! Behold, our mighty originals!”

Another gate opened, and five warriors of the Free Green People stepped forth. Grax the Axe, Morg the Mighty, Grunn-darr the Skullstomper with his iron boots, Chaulk the ogre, with club in one hand, and none in the other. He wore the teeth of the beast that took his other arm. And last, was Stormclaw, with axe and round shield, his chest bare, his arms and shoulders armored.

“What the grok?!” squeaked Gronkle. The five doomed men lined up before the five gladiators, each almost to a mirror to the other. The crowd noticed, too. None wore helmets.

The mighty warriors of Uzzhgalar hailed their treacherous invaders, ‘You who are about to die, we salute!’ But one of the warriors, the mirror to Stormclaw, waved at the gladiator. The stranger spoke in the language of men, so Gronkle only understood a few words. She heard the word ‘Clawed, Clawed’, and saw that the dark-haired human pointed at their black scars on their cheeks. Stormclaw was unmoved—but then the very tall blond-haired human spoke in a garbled hill-tongue, ‘no harm, family’. Gronkle saw that Grax the Axe cocked a hairy ear.

But alas! It was too late, for the Nerk nodded his half-bone chin. “Begin!” bellowed the announcer.

BANG! It was so fast, Gronkle nearly disbelieved her own eyes. One of the human men had drawn out a metal tube, with a wooden stock, and pointed it at Chaulk the ogre. His eye exploded in gore, and he fell down dead; the back of his skull looked like a cracked egg. The crowd became so enraged it began brawling with itself—though that was not out of the ordinary for the start of a game.

Stormclaw, Grax, Morg and Grunn-darr charged, heedless of any other metal tubes. In their thunderous charge, they smote down two of the human men, including the one with the metal tube. It was now three verses four. It became two verses three, for Stormclaw and his imposter paired off away from the others, long-bladed sword against axe and shield. Gronkle was amazed at the old grey-head human, for he deflected blows from Grax and Morg, both axe and flail sliding away from the greyman’s shield. A blow from his mighty mace winded Morg. The blondman parried thrusts from Grunn-darr, who lanced at him with a spear, and yet the blondman had not a point on him.

Stormclaw and his mirror whirled as dust devils in the pit, long-bladed sword against axe and shield. It was like two bull-beasts locked in a struggle—and Gronkle saw plenty of bulls—for neither could attack and defend nor sneak in a counterblow. For such large men, their footwork was amazing, more intricate than any swing. The imposter was always moving with his strikes, never staying in place…ack! What was that? Stormclaw pulled a trick, for he caught the longblade with the hook of his axe, and then bashed his mirror in the chest. They dropped their arms and grappled over the shield.

All the while, Stormclaw’s mirror was shouting—no, Gronkle saw that he was pleading! His face said it all even from away.

“ooo!!!” roared the crowd (for they had calmed down now from their excited brawl). Stormclaw pulled another trick, a crowd favorite. For, he had certain edges on his rounded shield sharped with a rim of metal, and with that sharp edge he cut his imposter across the neck, though not deeply. His mirror fell back, gouge flowing, and yet Gronkle saw he recoiled more from horror than pain. The blondman gave a cry; he threw a mighty kick at Stormclaw, who tumbled backwards even behind his shield. Yet his foolish heroism left him open—Grunn-darr saw an opening, and thrust at him.

“Oooo!!!” roared the crowd. The old greyhead with his mighty mace had thrown himself between the blondman and the spear, and took the point in the waist. And yet the greyhead fought on, his checkered shield a bastion. It was now two against four, with the imposter curled on the ground.

“Family! Family! Brothers!” shouted the blondman. He was shouting at Stormclaw and the nearby crowd, who began to murmur.

“Oh, my,” said the Lady Eeekka. “Lady Gargantua, you know I’m going in my years, but am I hearing that right?”

“No,” said Lady Gargantua. “I must be hearing things, too.”

“My lady!” squeaked Gronkle. “I hear what he says. That pinkskin is saying they’re brothers. I know that dialect.”

“No,” said the Lady Gargantua.

“Is that true, little scullion?” said the Lady Eeekka to Gronkle. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not! They’re kin, look at them.”

“I am, dear, and they look like skinless dogs. Oh, but it is so dreadful. Hubby! Hubby! …Hubby, come here!”

The Lady Eeekka’s hen-pecked orc-husband waddled over and bent his ear. There was another “Ooo!!!” from the crowd, for the greybeard had smashed in Grunn-darr’s head, and was thrashing with his shield like a madman; the blondman and Stormclaw were locked in a grapple, to Stormclaw’s favor. The wig-wearing announcer grunted, and his goblin-wife grunted back deeper.

The announcer drew in a breath, and approached the Nerk. He sat there, half between life and death, as was his role; he had not an eye, a lip, or part of a nose; one hand was withered and the other still strong. His word was law, and the law gave life and death. The announcer spoke in hushed words with the Nerk, who (it is said) glared at the space between worlds. Gronkle did not dare to hear, lest death be pronounced upon her, but, she did hear the mighty roar that bellowed from the Nerk’s chest. The crowd went silent; the gladiators cautiously disengaged from their foes, who even they were stunned by the roar.

The announcer resumed his place, and said “It seems, we must postpone our judgement! For there is sufficient cause, that to conclude this honorable battle, will result in great dishonor! Warriors! Return to your gates. Gather your glorious dead. There is much to deliberate.”

The great coliseum deflated its crowds. The survivors were gathered into the houses of healing. The long day closed under a windless sun; the life of night soaked the hard-baked earth from the great salt rivers, and the world slept.

…

More to follow!