//------------------------------//
// 1 The First Bout- The Manticore 
// Story: The Arena 
// by BluesyTreble 
//------------------------------//

  Rye leant over the railings, watching as yet another young colt was sent into the arena. He knew that green maned colt, for he had seen him in the schoolhouse. Lightweight, he was called. That colt had always skipped training. The manticore roared, signalling its victory over the previous fighter. Lightweight's knees visibly shook. He tightened his hooves around the axe, his soft and smooth hooves clamping the rough hickory handle tight.

"PLAY!" The portly fight arranger shouted, waving a blood-red flag.

Lightweight backed away from the manticore, holding the axe out as if to stop the massive beast from advancing. The manticore gave a low growl, causing Lightweight to emit a tiny whimper. The audience shouted for blood to be spilled.

The manticore pounced, knocking the axe out of Lightweight weak grasp. Lightweight's bone-chilling scream echoed throughout the Arena as the audience in the front row were spattered with Lightweight's blood. The savage beast had torn open Lightweight's gut, causing intestines to roll out like wriggling snakes from a poacher's net.

"THE MANTICORE WINS TWO BOUTS!" The fight arranger screamed, whirling his flag around his head so hard Rye thought he was going to take off. He lowered his tone. "Who now can best this brutish monster of the forests? Who will show us a GOOD fight, worthy of song and poetry? Clean up!" The audience booed as two burly guards, clad in black plate, kicked the gutted colt off the arena, into a trench where rotting corpses of other slain colts lay. Rye thought about the slain colts' parents, and shuddered at the sorrow they would feel.

"You're up next, yellow one," Two more guards placed hooves on Rye's wide shoulders, pulled long by vigorous archery, and firmly led him down into the armoury. "This round you will have no armour, hurry up and pick your weapons, yellow prick." One of the guards told him. Rye turned to look at the weapon rack. The bloody axe had been returned to its place, alongside swords, warhammers, and various polearms. It was an all-melee round. Shields hung on the opposite side of the rack. Rye perused the selection. 'A boar spear?' He asked himself. 'No,' he thought, the manticore would simply snap it into two. He settled eventually, on a longsword paired with a sturdy little shield the size of a wagon wheel.

"Next fighter to face this fearsome adversary would be RYE HARVEST, FROM PONYVILLE!" The fight arranger shouted whilst turning back to the audience. They cheered, wanting even more bloodshed.

Rye trotted into the arena, gripping shield and sword warily. He had attended every training session the town held, and he felt reasonably prepared. But the odds of a young colt against a monster seemed stacked against him. He rapped the sword blade against the iron rim of his shield for courage. The thick stench of the corpse-trench filled the Arena's fighting circle. He made ready, bracing his shield and holding his sword low, ready to stab.

"PLAY!"

The manticore charged, emitting a roar that seemed to make the world tremble. Rye stood nervous, cold sweat running off his yellow coat and black mane.

"Kill or be killed." He remembered what Sir Cuir's, Ponyville's Lord had said. Sir Cuir was liege lord of Ponyville, faithful to the overthrown princesses. He and Righteous Fury were the stallions who imposed the "Longbow and Arms law" more than twenty summers ago. All colts from seven summers old had to learn to draw the great yew bow, and master close-quarters fighting. It was hard work, but it was crucial if Discord was to be thrown off his ill-gotten throne. The training then kicked in.

Rye strode three steps forth, using the momentum to swing upward his shield. The limewood shield slammed into the manticore's face, causing it to reel back, stunned. Rye took the opportunity to swivel his shield away and deliver a slash, delivered with strength not only from his sword-hoof, but from the momentum of his swiveling hips as well. His first blow caused blood, black in the summer light, to ooze down the manticore's face. The audience were cheering now, craning their necks for a better view. The manticore shook its bleeding head, and this time received another blow, a thrust of Rye's sword. The tapered blade sank in deep, causing more blood to spurt out, and onto Rye, staining his yellow coat a bright crimson. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. The manticore now roared, not in victory, but in agony, its teeth stained red by its own blood. The monster reared up, both paws going to the face, but Rye denied him the action, and with an almighty roar of his own, drove the sword between the fourth and fifth ribs of the manticore, the blade puncturing the hide and sliding into its heart. The manticore now froze, its feral eyes wide open and jaw hanging limply. It made a mewing sound, and fell forward, yanking the stuck sword from Rye's shaking hoof.

The audience went very quiet. It was the first time a colt had won. Unhappy nobles drew out their purses in very bad grace, for they had all betted on the manticore.

"THE COLT WINS! AN ARENA RECORD!" The arranger screamed whilst the same black plate-clad guards pulled the dead manticore carcass, and rolled it into the trench. The first non-colt corpse. Rye, eyes wide open in surprise, confusion, and battle weary tire, held up a hoof in victory. The congealing blood of the manticore glistened on his coat. The audience, acknowledged a good fight, though not in their favour, with ringing applause, drumming their hooves on the floor of the theater. 

Back in the armoury, Rye slumped against the wall, watching as guards returned his bloodstained longsword and shield to the weapon rack.

"I actually won." Rye meekly said, brushing at the dried blood his coat. The smell of sweat and blood still lingered about him. "I actually won."

"Don't get too cocky, luck one," The guard turned from the weapon rack to glare daggers at Rye. "If you win, you will fight in the next bout, and the next, and so on until you're nothing but another corpse in the trench or until the arena closes for the evening."

Rye went silent immediately.