ELEVEN

The following is a story written by Paul Roosa based on the upcoming RI produced game ... FANTASY GLADIATORS

His scarlet sandals scuffed across the cobblestone arena as the fighter desperately tried to survive this savage game of death. The orc's swift attack, its sheer ferocity, had thrown him off balance, and the tide of battle had shifted to favor his grotesque opponent.

Bruutus the Anvil was not use to being on the defensive, and his retreating steps were clumsy and unpracticed. If not for the use of his flail as a staff, the barbaric orc called "Slayer", would be standing over his evenly divided corpse!

Hack and hew, split and slice. Bruutus threw his weapon up and vainly used his shaft to deflect the orc's chopping axe. But solid oak is little match for the razored bronze blade as it whistled closer and closer to flesh.

The smell of orc is enough to tell one that he is standing much to close, let alone the fetid spittle that was oozing onto Bruutus' temple as he is forced into a clinch with the behemoth. Baring yellow fangs, it grinned as if it new victory was in its massive paws. But to Bruutus the Anvil, this was just another orc, just another opponent, to grind under his sandaled feet.

The crowd smelled blood, and its cheers roared through the circular arena. Much wine was spilled and money exchanged hands as the end drew near. Or so they thought.

Overconfidence spewed from the orc, his arms swung wild, and his aim grew dim. Now it was Bruutus' turn to grin. For what the crowd percieved as skill, the fighter knew as the orc's arrogance. Strength was little match for experience in this game, and all Bruutus had to do was wait ... until his adversary overextends himself ... just once.

What time is right to make the decisive blow? To rend ones opponent senseless and crush his bones? This last thought goes through the orc's tiny brain, as he reaches back over his head, both hands gripping his axe to finish the little man and his funny stick. One thought too many.

A second or two, that is all the time it takes for the tide to turn from ones favor to anothers. With a death spiral, Bruutus spins and brings about the business end of his flail to dance among the "Slayers" lower ribs.

A blood curdling howl silences the stunned onlookers, and the orc drops his axe and crumples to his knees before the fighter. All bets are final and no more wine is poured.

Silently Bruutus lowers his flail, raises his gaze and searches the audience. What will he see? Will they be merciful, just this once? Will the orc called "Slayer" be carried off to heal his wounds and fight another day?

The answer is always the same.

Whistling through the air, the bitter song of Bruutus' flail plays upon the orc's skull, singing a note of death.

And on this day the orc called "Slayer" was slain.

Victorious, the fighter strides off toward his dark quarters to bind his wounds, the clamor of the crowd ringing in his ears, while another corpse is removed from the arena, removed from history. For there is no honor in gladitorial death.

Bruutus the Anvil 11 ... Death 0.

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© Copyright 1995 by John Jay Wirth

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