Avarice Blacksteel

The Wager

Can I ever be the same? The words ran like a mantra through his head, dead, toneless words. Aran stared almost blindly before him, seeing yet unseeing. He no longer felt the weight of his chains, nor the desire to live in any more than the most rudimentary of ways. Since his loss in the ring something had crumbled within and had been replaced with something nameless and dark.

Aran had not been allowed from his cell since that following morning, when he had been taken by force from the horse and interred here. Life went on in the world just beyond his vision. Slaves were bought and sold, men died in desperate battles just feet from his cell on the hard earth. It did not matter to him, he did not care. He ate without tasting, he breathed because his body could, he spoke to no one.


“I am most worried about him Sir.” Keith was issuing his daily report of the goings on in the compound below to his Lord. Master Jacques stood as he often did on the stairs to his domicile looking out on to his kingdom built on the suffering of human trafficking. He was as always proud of what he saw.

“And you do not think a bout would shake him from his stupor?”

“No Sir I think he would only suicide Sir, and if not prove so dangerous we will have little choice but to shoot him. He’s broken Sir, but not in the usual manner.”

“Hum.” Jacques twisted his mouth in consternation putting his thick fingered hand to his chin, scratching at his goatee thoughtfully. Pondering what was best in this unusual situation. “I had hoped for better from him, is he at all saleable?”

Keith was quiet for a time, he too was thinking carefully. “Not likely Sir, he might make a good beast of burden for someone, but I think he is far too dangerous to take from that cell.”

“Do we not have anything to quiet him with?”
“There is opium Sir.”

“Then I suggest you use it, when he is quiet I want to look at him myself.”
“Very well Sir.” The arena master strode away.


Aran looked up dumbly, his eyes narrowed in the gloom, the chains on him clinked as he registered he was not alone. He had not been sleeping but merely dozing. Sleep was for those who had more comfort in their minds. He did not sleep nor dream. The key grated in the lock, he sat unmoving, lulling the intruders into a sense of comfort only exploding into unbridled fury as the men drew near. They fell on him seeking to drag him down. He was hit with a heavy club and even a knout. It did not halt him, only serving to anger him more as the hardened rawhide stripped his flesh to blood.

Keith watched the struggle grimly, arms crossed from the doorway to the cell as the mass of men sought to drag the dangerous man to the floor. He should be humanely shot Keith thought. It would be kinder, the wretch has clearly lost his mind. However it was not his choice, it was Master Jacques decision. Aran was finally secured in a hogtie, face down on the earthen floor. After the intense struggle he had become very vocal, wild eyed, and he spat at the men.

Keith wondered idly if his Lords champion could best this enraged man now? Likely not.

They grew the poppies here in the summer in lieu of the availability of other medications. They flourished in the orange sands, their beauteous pink blooms giving no hint of their deadly and addictive qualities. The sticky brownish resin proved most useful in many treatments and brought a high price when traded. Though this year the valuable crop could not be planted, it would if the weather persisted be a blow to his Lords usually most lucrative economy.

The arena master had carefully prepared the opium for administration, no easy task when a man had become as wild as this. He had been presented with two choices, he could try force him to inhale it, or administer it as a suppository. He had elected for the latter. It would take longer to calm the man but would be by far the safer proposition. It had been a long time since he had to do this but occasionally it was most necessary.

He gave his charge the dose with little hesitation, pushing it far inside him. The man struggled but it was to be expected, his corded muscles fighting in the ropes to no avail. He then left him to wait for the drug to take effect.


Master Jacques looked down at the prone man still hogtied on the dusty floor, he poked at the bronzed shoulder with his crop. The big man did not move. Keith kneeling before the blond giant pulled his hair, his face turned to one side his green eyes heavy lidded, jaw hanging slack, dripping drool into the dust. He was conscious, but barely. The drug had indeed worked very well. “He’s quite safe to handle now Sir, shall I unrope him?”

“Yes, please do.” Jacques stood back admiring the fine beast he owned. Remembering a time in his own youth he had been blessed with the fortune of a similar physique. Time and good living had seen its demise in the last decade.

“You really believe he could best my man? He was the clear loser in the wrestling match.”

“I guess my Lord you were not present to see him in his angered state.” Jacques now rued he had declined the opportunity. He knew his arena master never claimed anything lightly. Keith was still baiting him on this matter.

“I think he could have taken him naked with only that broadsword.”

“You think so? By the way, have you found anyone who can use it?”

“No Sir, not at all.”

“Not even my champion?”

“He may Sir, given time, but not without some very lengthy practice. That weapon Sir is all but a lost art.” Jacques had to admit Keith was possibly right, privately regretting he could not wield it either. He had in fact made quite a miserable showing with the weapon deciding it was for ceremonial use only. Part of him was most curious, burning to see what this savage could do with it.

Possibly that was drove his next madness, for he was not usually a man to act on a sudden flight of fancy. He looked across at his man. “Let me propose a wager.” Jacques eyes were unusually bright even in the gloom. “Do you really believe in what you just said?” Keith swallowed, but to his credit did not lose his veneer of calm.

“Yes, Sir I do.” He inclined his head in reverence.

“If this man indeed wins against my fully armored champion, naked and using that sword. I will grant you the ownership my blonde slave girl. I know you have eyes for her.”

“And if he loses Sir?”

Jacques smiled cruelly. “You get to wear my brand.” It was a terrible wager, yet Keith did not falter agreeing to the terms