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. In
the center sat the only one wearing gloves, Brother Gurim.
Arryl could not clearly make out his features, but he
guessed the senior inquisitor had a smile on his face. For
Gurim, all was right in the world. This day was to mark yet
another triumph.
Arryl wished he could drag the false cleric down to the
field and tell him the truth.
The tournament had been played, the exhibitions had
finished. All that remained was the final mass combat. A
free fight, in which a man could only hope that he survived
the time limit. Arryl heard some of the prisoners plotting
desperately to keep in the back, away from the rest of the
combatants. Their plans collapsed when Arack informed
them that hesitation would not save any man here. The
archers on the walks had orders to shoot any gladiator who
shied from battle. The prisoners had to fight. As long as
they did, they had a chance. Arack emphasized the last, and
the prisoners looked more hopeful.
Arryl could have told them the truth. They were
doomed. Most were unskilled fighters, even barring the
days of training. They had learned enough to hack and
slash, but the skilled fighters were few and far between.
The masters of the Games did not want their hand-picked
gladiators killed
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