A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice

when several soldiers stepped forward,
in full armor, and blocked his path with their halberds.
    Morg merely grinned. He turned and looked over
all the other boys, who now stared back at him, this time in fear.
    “Are there any other of you who do not wish to
fight?” he asked. “Any others who do not wish to inflict harm on others? Any
others who are afraid?”
    All the boys stood there, silent this time,
none willing to step forward or say a word.
    Morg nodded with satisfaction.
    “The arena is not for the meek and the fearful;
it is not for those who are unsure if they can fight, or who are not prepared
to kill others. I will not have my gladiators embarrass me before the Empire. You,
step forward,” he said, pointing to one of the smaller captives.
    The small boy stepped forward, and Morg turned
and nodded to another boy, a muscular brute with reddish skin, and evil-looking,
narrow eyes, a pockmarked face, and long braided hair down his back.
    “Drok,” Morg said. “Come forward.”
    Drok, narrowing his eyes in meanness, stepped forward
and gazed on the smaller boy like a lion wanting to devour its prey. Darius
could see the darkness in Drok’s narrow eyes as he stared down at the small
boy. He could sense that he was a hardened killer.
    Morg nodded and one of his soldiers threw a club
to Drok, and another to the boy. The boy fumbled and dropped his, while Drok caught
his effortlessly and spun around to face the boy with relish.
    Drok charged, not waiting, and as the smaller
boy fumbled to grasp his club, Drok brought his own club down with such force
that he snapped the small boy’s club in half.
    In the same motion Drok swung backwards and smashed
the boy across the jaw, spinning his head way around and sending him to the
ground, face-first in the dirt.
    The boy lay there, unmoving, blood pouring from
his mouth.
    Morg stepped forward over the boy and stared
down disapprovingly.
    “You would waste our time in the arena,” he
said to the unmoving boy. “The arena is not for the weak—or the clumsy.”
    Morg nodded to Drok, and he stepped forward, raised
the club high overhead, and began to bring it down for the boy’s skull.
    Darius realized, again too late, what was
happening.
    “NO!”
    Darius brushed aside his captors and rushed forward.
    But not in time. Drok brought his club down,
smashing the boy’s skull, killing him on the spot.
    Darius felt sick to his stomach as he looked
down at the boy lying in a pool of blood.
    Darius, enraged, let out a guttural cry, charged
forward, and tackled Drok, driving him back and landing hard on the ground.
    The other boys gathered around and cheered for
a fight, as Darius tumbled with him in a cloud of dust. Drok was nearly twice
Darius’s size, wiry, all-muscle, not an ounce of fat on him, and he was slick,
covered in sweat. It was hard for Darius to grab hold of him as they rolled
around, caked in dirt and blood.
    Drok managed to get atop Darius and he brought
his thumbs down to gouge out Darius’s eyes. Darius caught them midair and held
them back—but then Drok pulled back and tried to bite off Darius’s fingers.
Darius yanked his hands away, and Drok brought his forehead down and
head-butted Darius in the face.
    Darius fell back to the ground, his world
spinning, and saw Drok reaching down to gouge out his eyes again. Darius leaned
back, wheeled his elbow around, and connected with Drok’s jaw.
    Drok spun off him, landing in the dirt beside
him, and Darius, enraged on behalf of those other boys, punched him in the
face, again and again—until finally he felt several strong hands pulling him
back.
    On his feet, yanked back by several Empire
soldiers, Darius watched Morg approach. He examined Darius, seeming impressed.
    “Your instincts are strong,” he said. “You
would make a fine fighter indeed—except for your pity. Hold onto that pity, and
it will be the death of you. Have no compassion for those weaker than you, for
those killed unfairly. There is