“I could try to sneak in a few daggers and hand them out as soon as the fight starts,” Kamnar suggested, grabbing a few more of the rust-worn knives off the wall. Obviously, the rags they were given didn’t come with pockets, but they were held up by a thin rope-belt; placing it parallel to the rope and tightening it underneath, Kamnar saw that the dagger was fairly well hidden, so long as the guards weren’t looking too carefully. He was also able to hold one gently in his fist, as it seemed the blade was too dull to cut skin without enough force.
As he and Eltharion were discussing possible smuggling strategies, Gar began to speak in his strange parlance, proposing a plan that utilized teamwork and individual abilities. His idea was a pleasant surprise to Kamnar, if a bit idealistic – and sure enough, just as he was about to voice his agreement, Eltharion and the dwarf-man broke out into an argument. If Ktakar didn’t have the sense to break them apart, it would have become physical. Kamnar sighed in exasperation; he found their racial prejudices predictable, yet foolish, especially considering their current situation.
At that moment, the lanista returned with a man who seemed to be some sort of supervisor, papers and quill in hand. The lanista – Draigo was his name, apparently – told them all to prepare themselves for the upcoming fight. Shortly thereafter, the fighters were all guided to the caged elevator and cramped inside it. It all seemed to be moving too fast for Kamnar to process; as the cage ascended jerkily along its railings, he used this brief recess to mentally calm himself. He thought of the missionary trip he took to Uk Tu three summers ago, of watching the brilliant spores fall gently from the enormous mushroom shelters like leaves from a tree. At that time, Durak Bol-gar was more of a mentor to him than the traitor he sees him as today.
Just as Kamnar started to feel somewhat composed, the elevator rose to the inside of the battlefield, an absolute chaos of blood, guts, and bodies; the cheers of the crowd and the booming voice of the announcer blurred together confusingly. A mixture of disgust and terror threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to exhale deeply, shutting his eyes and gripping his fists, the iron dagger poking at his palm; the dull sting brought him back to the present, and he resolved to fight with as much lucidity as he could muster.
Focusing on his surroundings, he noticed that the cheers from the crowd seemed to indicate the popularity of each group of fighters; considering the impressive roars following the broadcasting of their own Lanista Draigo’s name, Kamnar figured he must be well-known for choosing the toughest gladiators; that, or the crowd noticed Gar amongst them and thought any team with a bear-man had the best chances. Speaking of Gar, the creature seemed to be experiencing some sort of duress, far more primal than that which Kamnar felt; the markings on his body shifted and glided along his fur like liquid snakes. Kamnar had no clue as to what sort of magic they were, but Gar was clearly in no shape to answer questions.
Remembering his duty, Kamnar inconspicuously handed some of the fighters, including Ktakar and Prinny, the daggers he snuck in, keeping one for himself in case the weapon-gatherers were unable to acquire enough for everyone. Kamnar realized suddenly that the crowd had gone silent, presumably with anticipation. Without warning, all three cages opened, fighters from each end of the arena spilling out of them aggressively; Gar charged out through the open gate and into the battlefield with such ferocity that the other fighters, including Kamnar, were blasted backward against the bars. After recovering, Kamnar, keeping Gar’s plan in mind, allowed the elves to exit first behind Gar and followed them out with Hroth. Staying near the pit, he put his back against the closest wall and held his dagger outward; it was much too small to hold with both hands, but being accustomed to claymores he hoped to scavenge something larger.
Just as he thought this, seemingly as an act of ironic providence, a heretic from the eastern end of the arena slipped past Gar’s blind frenzy, charging at him with a large, rusty axe; the man’s eyes were filled with recognizable apprehension and regret. As the heretic raised his weapon against him, Kamnar struck him low in the abdomen with a closed fist; a splash of the human’s saliva and blood spilled out of his mouth from the impact, and Kamnar took his chance to grab the axe by the handle, forcefully kicking him back and knocking it out of his hands. Kamnar could not suppress thinking how similar that attack was to the one that killed the black orc peasant’s father mere days ago, but quickly shook that grave reminder away; he tried to internalize Eltharion’s advice to focus on his retribution against Durak Bol-gar, other fighters clashing and struggling in the open field. This was not the time to lose himself.
