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"Sometimes," Nelk was saying, "there are those who do
not make it to the Games."
THE BOY! was Arryl's first thought.
"Blessed Paladine!" He started to run, but the elf's foot
tripped him up.
Arryl tried to regain his feet, but found the hooked and
jagged head of the elf's mace against his throat.
"It's already too late, Sir Knight. It was too late before I
even started to speak." Nelk stepped back and allowed
Arryl to rise. Several gladiators from Sylverlin's group
were heading toward them, carrying a limp form.
"It seems there's been another training accident,"
Sylverlin shouted jovially.
The victim was not, as Arryl had feared, the boy.
"Fen Sunbrother," he murmured. Part of the half-elf's
body had been covered by an old, stained cowhide, but
blood had already seeped through it. Arryl guessed he had
died instantly.
Nelk called out, "What happened?"
"What always 'appens?" retorted the lead gladiator, a
grizzled bear of a man with scars all over his arms and face.
" 'e fairly threw 'imself on the blade! 'e was warned about
movin' like that, but 'e wouldn't listen!" As an afterthought,
the bulking figure added, "Master Sylverlin couldn't 'elp
but run 'im clean through
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