Her First Match
For five years, Aebbe had trained and fought at the behest of her masters. She had yet to have an actual match, but she was prepared for them now. She was old enough. She understood how the system worked - the scars on her back, from the whippings she took when she hadn’t understood, reminded her.
She entered the ring with a steady and confident gait, wearing a simple steel breastplate, subligar, and boots. The armor bared more than it covered, and was made to fit her maturing form precisely. Showing her off was part of the show, after all.
Her opponent was a veteran, a man who knew no other life; he had been in this little gladiatorial slave ring for decades, and was now in his early forties. He was as fit as ever, dressed as sparingly as she. They both carried sword and shield.
Aebbe glared at him heatedly during the introductions that were called by the crier. She had fended him off one a number of occasions, most recently a week ago when he had snuck into her bedroom. She’d taken his finger for that offense, though it had not been reported to any of the taskmasters. That would only have made things worse for them both.
She didn’t even know the man’s name. She hadn’t made a habit of learning names. Learning someone’s name meant you got close to them, and that would get you killed in this place. The introductions ended, and the fight began. It was a fight to the first who yielded or was incapacitated - no kills allowed.
She knew, though, that sometimes certain circumstances arose that it was inevitable.
The fight began swiftly, when the giant of a man lumbered at her and swung his shield arm at her wildly, hoping to send her flying. She leaped to the side, stabbed him lightly in the hip. Enough to hurt, to draw blood. Enough to gimp him. He limped to a stop and turned, glared at her.
Then he charged her again, more controlled. He thrust his blade forward and she knocked it away with her shield, which left him open. She thrust her blade forward again - once again, let the blade bite into the man’s belly but not deep enough. He roared at her and took a few steps back, now bleeding from two shallow but painful founds. She just smiled coldly back but her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” she said to him, in a quiet, sing-song voice.
They exchanged a flurry of blows. Aebbe one most of the engagements. A cut to his thigh there. A nick to his shoulder there. She absorbed a few minor hits, but none drew blood. Finally, she baited him into a grievous mistake. He over extended and planted his foot too far out in front of him.
She sidestepped and slammed her heel into his lower leg, midway between ankle and knee. She heard and felt the satisfying snap of bone, and the man stumbled and fell. “Do you yield?!” She shouted, for the crowd - and the criers, the taskmasters - to hear. He shook his head, and she kicked him hard in the broken leg, drawing a roar out of the downed man… but still no surrender. He crawled and tried to get back up onto his good leg, but she followed and ruthlessly harried him. She kicked him in the ribs as hard as she could. She stabbed him again, in his uninjured shoulder. But she knew he was prideful, and stupid. Occasionally, he would take a while swipe at her with his blade or his shield - which she never knocked away from him - but he always missed. The crowd had long fell silent, as the sport had worn off. Technically, neither had yielded, and neither was truly incapacitated. She waited for him to try to stab her again, and then sliced down sharply with her blade and took his hand clean off, which resulted in a pained scream, “Do. You. Yield?!” He glared at her, but did not. She raised her blade, leveled it over his throat. “No - wait - the match is -” She heard the crier’s voice, but it was too late. She slammed the blade down into the man’s throat. If he would not yield, then he would die. She would be punished, she knew; but not severely. The crowd had heard her. The taskmasters had heard her. He would not yield.
