The fighters of the Arena watch in mute astonishment as the howling and laughing mob occupies the equipment shelves of the Wolf Team. My citizen army, here to replace those puking their guts out in the Infirmary. One would look at them and think they are eager to fight. I don’t have to look at them to know they are frightened to death. The sole reason why they are still here is the group instinct that binds them together. The first one that flees is the coward. No one wants to be that coward.

  “When you’re done dressing,” I tell them, “pick weapons from those racks over there,” The lot literally climbs over one another to grab the choicest pieces. Most of them are not finished dressing; one shuffles after the rest with the suit clinging around his ankles, dragging it along. It’s too much amateurism for my pride to swallow at once but it’s either this or nothing.

  I turn away and find myself face to face with the big white beastling. It holds a piece of chainmail gingerly.

  “Not big enough, eh?” The thing makes a slight nod. “Let’s see what we can do.” I shuffle through the remaining suits like a dandy clothier of Merchant’s Quarter, except my suits are steel instead of silk.

  “These are all blunt!” one of the citizen army shouts out.

  “You can thank me later,” I call back without turning.

  I reach the end of the rack. No suit is big enough.

  “I’m not letting you fight without a suit.”

  This is simply wonderful. I need everyone of this riffraff on my Dance Floor in half an hour and I can’t even suit them all.

  Then I remember one other option.

  “Come with me,” I tell the beastling.

  I limp my way to the staircase, up to the first floor and into the Den. The first day I became Arena’s Master, Ysa made me put up these walls to make a lair for her she-wolves. The handful of female fighters we employed should have the option to prepare without the rowdy male company. Most of the men are decent enough but still every woman on the payroll agreed they wanted their own space to dress and prepare without the men’s eyes on them.

  No man was allowed in here. Ever.

  Except Asterion. He’s been Ysa’s catch from day one, the only male fighter she ever took under her wing and trained up.

  As soon as the doors are opened, all eyes in the room are on me. I know that look – it means intruder, never mind that it’s my Arena. Even though women didn’t interest me in that way anymore, I couldn’t help but notice the view. I guess some things never change.

  “What do you want?” Ysa growls from within their centre. I was tempted to give her a lecture how I’m her superior and that she should address me with more respect, particularly in front of employees. But I remember the last time I tried to explain the hierarchy to her.

  Instead, I say: “I need Asterion’s old dancing suit.”

  “What for?”

  “For a tea party. What do you think?”

  This suit had to be made for Asterion when he was still a beginner fighter. The Arena Master of that time wanted to toss him aside, said he’s not worth the investment. Ysa defended him, swearing he had potential. She had a new suit made for him at her own expense. It was in this suit that Asterion took on and defeated Red Empress, former Arena’s Primal. I saw quite a bit of fighting in my day but that was the most glorious duel I’ve ever seen. It was also the last real trial for Asterion; after what he did to Red Empress, no one would dare challenge him for the title.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Her eyebrows go up. “You actually found yourself a bum that large?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” It was worth bringing in the beastling just to see her confused.

  If Asterion ever steps on the Dance Floor again – unlikely since no one is mad enough to face him – he would fight in his custom made Primal’s Suit, a gift from the Guild of the Smiths. Which means the suit from his common days was available but since she was the one who paid for it, I wasn't going to demand it from her. So here I was, begging instead.

  And she knew it, I could see it on her face. “Do we give prized battle suits to rookies now?”

  “Then knit a new one.”

  Every face in the room suddenly promises violence. The women eye me as if I am about to be gelded. Nothing pisses them off more than men demanding women to be docile. I almost turn and make a run for it. Almost.

  Ysa dispels the tension as she stands up, disappears behind the corner and returns with a chain mail suit slung over her shoulder. She unloads it on my shoulder and slams the door in my face. I drop the heavy thing to the floor and beckon the beastling that stands behind the corner. While the thing's getting dressed, I go check on the mob’s progress.

  Yep, still shouting and shoving. Children in a candy store. I shake my head in despair. Most noise comes from the bullies, trying to hog what they think are the best pieces. I can see it’s about to turn into a fist fight or worse.

  “Shut it!” I yell at the head bully. “Maybe you’re chief out there but in here I’m the boss! I don’t care if the Hegemon’s ghost walks in, in here he answers to me and so do you. And make no mistake: you have no reputation in here until your first fight.” This seems to work.

  I limp my way across the warehouse to the other team’s lockers. All are ready to head out on the sand but I can see the chagrin on their faces.

  “In normal circumstances, I would never allow fighters who have not been trained to step on the Dance Floor,” I address them all calmly. “But these are not normal circumstances, are they?” They stand mute. “You are forced to fight amateurs. No, less than amateurs. It is a disgrace, yes, but if you want to be paid, you will fight them. And I expect all of you to behave like professionals.”

  A moment of silence before they realize what I’m asking them. “Do you want us to go easy on them?” one says with a grin.

  “You know people will not like it if they do not get a real fight,” says another.

  “Even if you bludgeon them to death, the people will not get a real fight,” I say. “So go easy on them as much as possible or you will be scraping their remains off my Dance Floor with your own hands.” I don’t like the looks they give me. This will not end well and there’s not a damned thing I can do to prevent it.

  I limp back to my citizen army. Finally everyone has a piece of weapon they are content with and ready to move out. Except for the bloody beastling. It still stands there, looking dumb. Miraculously, it has the suit on. It’s a little loose around its shoulders and the cat’s limbs are a bit longer than Asterion’s but it’s a better fit than all the other suits. And yet the thing still stands there, looking at me stupidly.

  I point at the racks the citizen army just abandoned. “Weapon,” I say, my voice thankfully steady. In truth, I am anything but calm. I’m not a bloody wet nurse and this giant seems to be simpler than a three-year-old. Can beastlings even be smart?

  The thing takes its time, picking up blunted axes and softened maces others have left behind. It stops and gives me another one of those profoundly stupid looks.

  “Yes, they are weapons,” I say. I can feel the last drops of my patience leaking out. “And no, I don’t have any extra up my sleeve. You will have to do with what you have.”

  The kitty raises its hands, closing them into fists.

  It intends to fight barehanded.

  I roll my eyes and grab a handle of a greatsword. I have trouble lifting it with one arm. “The edge is blunt,” I say, “but you can still break bones with this piece. You’ll get more respect with it than without it.” Or you might get mobbed because no one will take you on single-handedly.

  The beastling takes the greatsword, hefts it, moves it around awkwardly. It’s arms are strong enough but it’s plain as daylight it never held such a weapon before. This is what I get for taking on beastlings. It might be big and strong but strong doesn’t make one into a fighter. It takes brain and it takes ferocity and beastlings have neither.

  This is what I turned the Arena into. But did I have any other option?