The day of the battles had long since dawned and at the moment a dozen females from all three troll tribes were dancing to festive and powerful drumbeats in the ritual square. They were partially bare on top, but ceremonially painted and their hair, arms and legs were adorned with accessories such as gold rings, tooth necklaces and pearl earrings. A huge bonfire was burning in the middle of the square, together with many different offerings and surrounded by a self-made image of the tiki, which was the most important symbol of each tribe. Although once trolls, Tiki were represented by animals and were praised by the respective tribal high priest with a chant,

  Tzugar, who was depicted as a mighty gorilla, was the only Tiki carved out of stone and was worshipped by the Baldslayer tribesmen. The gorilla was the embodiment of brute strength and his own family was above all else. He was also one of the very first to ever achieve Tiki status.

  Meneka, the diamond lioness, was skillfully built and brightly painted. She was the tiki of the Riverfangs and much loved by many Troll tribes, as she herself had once been the queen of an ancient, widespread Troll empire. She stood for troll dominance and looked down benevolently on anyone who advanced a claim to trollish rule.

  For the Venomsnakes, it was Haruk’Zil, the all-seeing serpent. A skillful weave of branches formed the long body of the imposing serpent, which could supposedly wrap around an entire mountain. Despite its sheer size, it always lay in wait undetected, seeing far more than mere eyes. He favored the pursuit of hidden secrets and was known to be more active than many a tiki in fulfilling the wishes of his servants. At least if you gave Haruk’Zil enough and the serpent was very demanding.

  The drums increased more and more, building to an inevitable finale. The chanting of the high priests reached its climax until the last note ran out of their throats and suddenly everything stopped: the drums, the dances, every note and all the trolls, on the square as well as in the stands around it, prostrated themselves submissively before the tiki.

  No one dared to raise their head. Only the high priests were allowed to do so, and they looked to their tiki and their offerings to indicate their approval or disapproval. If the simple fire had left nothing but ashes, even with resilient and liquid things like metals that could not actually turn to ashes, the troll gods were satisfied and so it was. Everything was completely burnt.

  “We may begin!” the high priests announced in the direction of their respective tribes. “Hail to the Tiki!”

  The words praised and extolled by the tribes present followed like a salvation. The square was cleared one by one until the area was completely free so that fights could be held there. This was also the point at which Nukzos was allowed to join them with a few Roder guards, pucks and his fighters, at least at some distance from the trolls, on a small hill.

  The Jatals had previously agreed that the leader of the Baldslayers, Zuzal, would be allowed to announce the fighting. In return, his tribe had had to pay a little more to the pucks. “Baldslayers, and present troll rabble!” he announced from a self-made, but not too high, wooden platform. He was relatively scrawny, but you could see every one of his muscles. “With the blessing of the tiki and their wilen, which our priests have interpreted, we will settle a long-standing dispute today. The winner will henceforth be allowed to call the Underwood Furrow his territory and any loser who dares to set foot in this area will incur the wrath of the tiki and his tribe!”

  Being called rabble enraged most of the trolls of the remaining tribes, but they all kept to the rules of truce.

  Ine’kata sat on a stone lined with leaves and comfortable furs. “He thinks a lot of himself,” she said with a sigh. “Why do you let him make the announcements?”

  “Because it cost us less,” her male replied. His name was Tok’Moji and he propped his face lightheartedly on his fist, while three rings of iron adorned each of his transverse, sickle-shaped tusks.

  “You sound like Khojun the Stingy,” giggled Ine’kata and all the respectable females who were allowed to sit here.

  “You females just can’t handle gold,” Tok’Moji smirked. He wasn’t Jatal because he was the strongest. His mind and muscles were in balance. “Besides, I don’t have to announce the fights. Even so, I know that my tribe and I are better than the Baldslayers.”

  “Mhh, Meneka might disapprove of that.”

  “Meneka will see my strong will. Rule is characterized by more than obvious things.”

  “Listen to our Jatal,” said Banjhan, the closer and somewhat older high priest. “His words are wise.”

  “How could I disagree with the high priest,” Ine’kata raised the corner of her mouth. “Even if I’m still unsure about this troll gladiator.”

  “Your concern is justified. If he were one of us, he would be an absolute outrage. But if you look at it this way, all these arena fighters are creatures without spirit or dignity, and if the tiki didn’t like that, they wouldn’t have given us their blessing.”

  “It’s unfortunate that this troll is mere flesh without spirit,” the wife of the priest said, squinting to the side. “If he fights like he looks, neither Baldslayers nor Venomsnakes would ever have challenged us in the Underwood furrow... and Khojun might not be the champion of the Riverfangs.”

  Khojun also enjoyed the honor of sitting at the Jatals side. However, ever since he had seen Blood Tusk in the puck camp, he had felt something for the first time in his life that he had never felt before - worry. But it wasn’t for himself and he hid it. “This Blood Tusk is an enigma,” the champion murmured into his fingers. “He seems to have been blessed by the Tiki and yet they have condemned him to a life without them and his kind.”

  “Both a blessing and a curse,” concluded High Priest Banjhan. “Gifts that are of no use to him. His tribe or his ancestors must have truly angered the tiki.”

  “Just, if he has no idea about anything, how can that be a punishment for him?” Ine’kata interjected and her female followers nodded in agreement.

  “My La’Jatal, don’t occupy your pretty head with things that have no relevance,” Tok’Moji puffed. So many had been talking about this blood tusker since yesterday, but for him the troll was history. “He won’t survive these days. That will be his curse, no matter what gifts he possesses, and now enough of that.”

  “Of course, my Jatal,” Ine’kata bowed her head obediently, glancing fleetingly at Majanie. Her servant had spoken of spending a night with this Blood Tusk just last night.

  Majanie had mentioned this because she wanted to make her plan seem as natural as possible and thus make any reports from the scouts seem inconsequential. However, when her La’Jatal started talking about an unclean troll again and warned her not to defile herself, she had abandoned her plan. Perplexed as to how she was to obtain the gladiator’s blood, she had been reassured by her mistress. If the troll had been a true ancestor and an answer of the all-seeing serpent to the prayers of the females, he would survive and be available for any plans. Then Zu’ji would not need to hold a ritual to test his purity and she could offer his blood as pure thanks.

  “It begins,” Khojun said, and he leaned forward.

  Three troll warriors at a time, each from a tribe, stepped onto the ritual ground and would fight. They could fight each other and kill each other, but that didn’t count in the end. It only mattered who would kill the fourth in the group, one of the many fighters of the Pucks.

  In the case of the very first fight, the honor went to the Swordmaster. At least that’s how he saw it, because to the trolls he was just cattle ready for the slaughter. However, this did not affect him and he blocked out unnecessary noises. His mind was clear and his expression stony, while the setting evening sun of the jungle made the silver in his cheeks glisten. He carried three swords with him, one of which was an extravagant, longer katana of unusual shape and rested on his back. Two scimitars hung from the sides of his belt and he wore almost exclusively cloth clothing. Black balloon pants and an airy, half-open shirt made up most of it. It was the best way for him to move around. Only his footwear was sturdy but supple leather. His position was in the center of the ritual square, surrounded by a sea of cheers and shouts of hatred directed at him as well as the hostile trolls.

  But even for the trolls, everything was in order and in a perfectly aligned triangle, painted white in the sand, each troll warrior stood at one of the corner points. None of the warriors stood out physically and they were all lanky in build, like the average troll. Strength, however, was clearly in their arms and legs, each equipped in their own way for this battle and daunting in their appearance, drenched in mask, paint thorn or blood.

  One of the trolls stood at the back of the Swordmaster’s neck, out of his field of vision, but his breathing remained shallow and he calmly gripped one of his scimitars.

  His every movement made the warriors a little uneasy, as none of them had ever seen a dark-skinned human before, and they looked at each other silently. Without a single word, they all agreed to a truce. No one would attack the other and only the gladiator was the enemy.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The Swordmaster began to rotate his scimitar skillfully, swinging it in his hand and around his body. To the spectators it looked like a game, far too complicated to imitate and it impressed many, but to the swordmaster it was a dance and not a game. It unsettled his opponents until he brought his blade to a halt and balanced it on a single finger in front of his chest.

  Lurking, the trolls began to circle him, spear and curved blade at the ready. Small throwing axes and knives were strapped to their hips and legs and suddenly they saw their chance to attack.

  With moderate effort, the Swordmaster tossed the scimitar on his finger a few feet above his head and the blade made only a few rotations before it began to fall.

  Nukzos swallowed and watched the whole thing, a pocket watch in his hand. He stopped time as the three trolls attacked in almost perfect coordination and the ticking of his watch struck as if there was no other sound within the ritual place.

  Despite the sheer speed of his opponents’ attack, the Swordmaster patiently took his time and drew his second scimitar.

  Neither the spectators nor the troll warriors on the square could keep up with everything that was happening, it happened so quickly. It took less than 5 seconds.

  The Swordmaster had a clean stroke for everyone and he stayed in the same place. His thrown scimitar was about to reach the ground, but before it did he slid the weapon he had just used back into its sword belt without haste.

  Only then did the thrown steel sink into the sand and the trolls all ran past the gladiator, all of them losing their heads and their bodies falling lifeless into the dust.

  It robbed the hardened jungle trolls of every sound, even some of their breath.

  All the Swordmaster had to do now was pick up the stuck sabre and walk away with his head held high.

  As soon as the ritual area was clear, a crowd of trolls growled disparagingly and mockery rained down on the defeated candidates. “Unworthy pack! No tiki will embrace you! Throw their corpses to the lowest scavengers of the jungle!”

  “That was ... an unfortunate start,” Khojun said in surprise. He was a troll through and through, judging more by external values. “Could that upset the tiki?”

  “Hardly,” the high priest reassured him without showing any sympathy. “That’s what the trials are for, to sift out the weak so that only the best will settle the dispute.”

  Further away in their seats, but still quietly, Nukzos grinned to himself. “I’m telling you! Our fighters don’t fall that easily,” he said, and he greeted the sword back with the pocket watch in his hand. “Just under five seconds! A new record for you, against three at the same time!” The lightning-fast gladiator merely nodded and sat down on a free stone to clean the marginally bloody blade side of his scimitar with a cloth.

  However, the next battles were not to be quite as spectacular as this first one. They were bloody and vivid, but the trolls beat the normal gladiators more than the other way round.

  The pucks had Abaroth withdrawn from the fights for the time being and left him in their camp. The Jatals agreed that a Setek could inflame tempers too much and disturb the peace of the trials.

  Still, there was always Cecil, another ace of the gladiators. However, the brunette woman was immediately ridiculed by the trolls, mainly due to her 5′5" height and wiry, delicate figure. Dark leather was her choice of protection. It was helpful, but not a hindrance, and in addition to a long sword without a hilt, she carried a good two dozen thin throwing knives.

  That, as well as any kind of throwing weapon, was allowed. Any kind of ranged weapon, like bows, was absolutely not, and magical talent was completely excluded from the fighting.

  When Cecil was in position, she struck the ground with her sword and a piercing vibration sounded from the weapon steel.

  The troll examinees, one of whom was a female riverfang, smiled at the weak woman, but at first none wanted to make the first move. Even the giant among them, a nearly 2.60 tall, broad Baldslayer, did not immediately go first, but not out of fear. The opposite was the case, as no one took the gladiator seriously.

  She then showed that she was not only cheeky, but also daring. She ran towards the giant Baldslayer at lightning speed and drew the tip of her blade razor-thin across the sand. A double-sided barbarian axe held together by skulls was swung towards her, under which she dived playfully.

  With this move, the thigh of the bald thug was ripped open, but he hardly cared and, roaring with rage, he took up the pursuit of the woman.

  For Cecil, this was the moment to show off her talents. Light-footed and cartwheeling, she evaded the troll’s axe. After a failed axe blow, she even climbed onto the weapon stuck in the ground and rolled over the Baldslayer.

  A Venomsnake warrior was next in line and he immediately ran at her with his sword. Before he even got to her, however, he received four throwing knives in his upper arms and shoulders, causing him to stumble.

  With a flick of his wrist, Cecil knew how to get past him to take on the female riverfang fighter as quickly as possible. At just over 2.30, she was still physically superior and Cecil was confronted with two serrated short swords. They were fast weapons and she had to avoid getting tangled up with them.

  The advantage was clearly with the riverfang female, simply because of her longer arms and she was always on the offensive. However, this made her too confident of victory and although she wore knee and leg guards made of bone and wood, she was caught off guard.

  Once Cecil had gained enough distance, she threw a throwing knife into her opponent’s bare foot. The pain of the extremely sensitive part of her body gave her the break she had hoped for and the opportunity to attack herself. She did not kill her rival, but she did cut off her left forearm.

  Wounded and growling, the female riverfang retreated, but her escape was to end immediately.

  The Venomsnake slyly slashed his rival and lunged at the gladiator again. He drove her towards the Baldslayer at her back.

  To avoid being caught in a death trap between these two beasts, Cecil showed her marksmanship. Just out of sight, she threw a knife point right into the Baldslayer′s left eye. It annoyed him more than hurt him, but it stopped him for now, allowing Cecil to finish off the Venomsnake. She dodged a sweeping blow as she ran past and her sword opened up the troll’s defenseless back.

  “Don’t lose to this puny wench!” other Baldslayer′s shouted to their warrior, beside themselves.

  With a growl, the wounded examinee pulled the knife from his eye without tearing it out and he broke the blade.

  Cecil had to be extremely vigilant. If this troll hit her once, with or without a weapon, it could be the end of her. To weaken him further, she took each of the remaining throwing knives in turn and hit with almost all of them. Nevertheless, the bald thug kept coming at her. He even left the knives in place and didn’t slow down. Each of his axe blows shook the ground beneath her, so she simply had to speed up. Without worrying about the other examinees, Cecil was able to fully engage with her opponent, and nimble as a monkey was no understatement. For a moment, it even seemed as if she could strike faster than her own shadow: Arms, legs, open areas on the torso. She inflicted smaller and larger wounds on the bald thug, superficial and deep.

  Blood spurted copiously from him and yet he did not stop fighting. He was not the best warrior, but he could take a considerable amount, which had not been a strange phenomenon on Primal.

  This world was a source of raw power, and mortals with the will to do so had superhuman potential that went far beyond tried and tested skills: speed, strength, magic, resilience, endurance and the like could break through the limits of the impossible.

  The Baldslayer, however, had only been at the beginning of that potential, but he endured enough cuts before he suddenly lashed out with his right arm.

  Cecil tried to dodge with a leap, but only just far enough to avoid the full force of the blow. She flew back a few meters and had to struggle hard to catch her breath, but at least the numerous injuries to the bald thug meant that he could only run after her at walking pace. That gave her the time she needed to finish the fight now! She threw her sword and it pierced the troll’s lower throat.

  Now he paused, but he did not fall. Blood bubbled out of its mouth as it audibly gasped for air, which flowed into its lungs.

  Once again, Cecil mustered all her strength and leapt at the troll. She scaled its chest like a mountain and clutched at her sword to push it deeper into the wound. The troll bared its teeth at her and, weakened, grabbed her right leg. She hastily twisted the blade in the wound and sent her opponent staggering backwards like a drunkard. She herself was only a flyweight and that was exactly what she needed now! Instead of just her arms, she hung her whole body on the sword so that it sank as deeply as possible into the flesh of the Baldslayer.

  Once more the troll jerked at the woman’s leg, but it was a last twitch of muscle. He froze and fell onto his back, beaten.

  That was too much for some of the spectators who wanted to storm onto the ritual site. Their anger, however, was directed at the dead and not the gladiator, although that was not apparent in the heat of the moment. However, the tribal guards were able to keep the few spectators at bay and push them back to their seats.

  “What a pathetic disgrace,” Tok’Moji said, extremely grumpy and disappointed. There was no mercy for him. “Throw this warrior’s corpse somewhere in the jungle and if she has whelps, slit the throats of every last one of that weak blood.”

  Out loud she would never have questioned that order, but Ine’kata clutched her stomach and she leaned in to her male, whispering softly. “That really was a shame, but kill ... you might as well banish the whelps. Then the tiki will decide their fate.”

  “Without parents, they’re dead anyway,” Tok’Moji dismissed just as quietly. “Such a thing has no value.”

  “Then banish the father with them.”

  “The father, you’re right,” Tok’Moji agreed, before audibly correcting his order. “And don’t forget the father! He who chooses such a weak female can hardly be better himself or has clouded judgment. Kill him and his brood and feed them to our animals.” This was his final judgment and before his female could plead with him again, he gave her a look to that effect.

  Ine’kata nodded mutely and obeyed with a dull expression. She was expecting her first whelp and whether troll, roder, setek, no matter what race - maternal instincts could be stronger than all rules and reason.

  “If this female, this human, can fight so boldly, I wonder what comes next,” Khojun threw into the room, for the next fight was Blood Tusk’s and he leaned forward tensely. “I’m sure the pucks didn’t beg for this unclean to be the finale of the first day for no reason.”

  “Only the tiki know that,” Banjhan said and he closed his eyes. The high priest was overcome by an unpleasant shiver, which he interpreted as a sign from the troll gods. “But ... I hear their whispers.”

  Khojun looked to the side. “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s ... not good,” Banjhan predicted quietly. He raised his right hand, which began to tremble heavily. “I sense that this troll must fall by the end of the fighting. Otherwise we could face great disaster.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Khojun said eagerly. He stood up immediately and grabbed his sword, which was lying next to him. This drew a few glances from other Riverfangs sitting further away.

  “No!” Banjhan continued to admonish him overcast. “We must not defile the ritual site. This unclean one must die in front of the tiki, slain by one of the tribes. Sit down again!”

  “That, that makes no sense,” Khojun replied. He hesitated to sit down, but he did. “If this gladiator brings disaster, why are the tiki only telling you now?”

  “I said it was a whisper. I may be wise, but interpreting the will of the tiki also takes time,” Banjhan thought very carefully to himself. “Maybe, yes maybe, they want to test our tribe, no, all three tribes. If we fail against an impure one, we are all lost and no longer worthy of life. Our tribe could be on the brink of extinction.”

  Tok’Moji didn’t like hearing that. “Never will we fall,” he said, and he buried his fingers in his armrest, which was merely a piled-up stone. “We have capable warriors, even the other tribes. We will not fail.”