//------------------------------// // 3 Third Bout - Ogre // Story: The Arena // by BluesyTreble //------------------------------// Rye staggered back into the armoury, limping badly from a dislocated joint. His right shoulder ached. He threw the pollaxe on the floor with a clatter and sank on the benches, giving a weary sigh. The guard loudly cleared his throat on purpose, startling Rye. "Next up will be your last fight for the day. Sun is setting, if you haven't noticed." The guard's voice sounded different. It sounded.... older. Rye looked up. He recognised the black armor, gilded with brass. The guard however, stood much straighter than he previously did. His back now bent backward, like a... Longbow. "Did you need something, little pup?" Raised a forehoof in enquiry. He held his hoof up for a short time, giving Rye ample time to look. The unmistakable black tattoo of a sun, the cutiemark and standard of Her Highness, Ruler of Equestria, and by the grace of herself, Princess Celestia. "L-loyalist?" The simple enquiry risked Rye his life, for those shown to be openly loyal were declared heretics, and hanged. The guard turned his head, protected by a black barbute and nodded. Grey Fletch, longbowpony and loyal subject to Celestia." The guard warmly smiled and pushed out his barrel chest further, proud to be a Loyalist. "Rye Harvest!" Rye replied, and ducked as Grey tossed him a spear. The spear clattered on the stone floor, a little ways from the pollax. "Your next opponent is an ogre. Discord's cronies apparently yanked that poor bastard from another realm. Those things can't dodge for a half-bit, so jab the spear at his stomach, and you should be fine." Rye nodded, and picked up the spear. It was almost a pike, its head scraping against the ceiling. It needed two hooves to hold level. "Oh, and Rye?" "Yes?" "Where do you sleep?" "Second bed from the left." "Prisoners' barracks?" "Yeah." "Sleep well and early, for at midnight, something big will happen. Something to change our miserable lives here, you, me and the rest of them prisoners." "Got it, Grey." Rye ended the conversation, and strode out, holding the spear diagonally. "THE LAST FIGHT OF THE NIGHT! An ogre, captured from the land of Nirn and brought here to smash this young fighter! Who will win? PLAY!!" The announcer, nearly asleep, hastily formed his speech and initiated the bout. The doors on the ogre's side opened, and out stamped a being, twelve hoofwidths tall. Its two heads snarled and it's four eyes focused on Rye, narrowing in bloodlust. It bared it teeth, and bellowed, a wordless cry in an attempt to intimidate. Rye flinched. He had never seen this creature before. five appendages sprouted from the end of each forehoof, the appendages curling around a mace. The gargantuan, monstrous creature held the mace in one forehoof, and thumped his wide chest with the other. Rye focused himself on the fight, taking the opening this dumb monster was giving to jab the spear at the its stomach, as Grey had advised. The broad, sharpened head of the spear sliced into the flesh, drawing first blood. The ogre roared in pain, took hold of the spearhead and tugged it out, the force pushing Rye back a few paces. Rye pulled with the spear, bringing the broadhead out of the monster's grasp and cutting its strange forehoof deep. The ogre roared, wringing the injured appendage. Black-red blood spattered onto the sand, glinting in the light setting sun. Despite Discord taking over, he had still raised and lowered the sun on time. Rye had often pondered this. The ogre clumsily swung with its mace, the spiked head missing Rye by a considerable margin. As the twoheaded monster sluggishly brought his mace back up, Rye lunged, his right backhoof sending a lance of pain up his entire leg, and shoved the spear into the stomach again. With his bow-given strength he gritted his teeth and shoved even more, until the head of the spear ruptured through the ogre's back. The ogre stopped in mid-track, his four eyes on his two heads widening, his mouth, nay, mouths opening in an 'o'. The beast, nearly twice as tall as Rye, fell to its knees, and fell forth, yanking the spear shaft from Rye's hooves. They chafed. "And a quick victory!" The announcer scarce had energy to shout now, his voice ragged and weary. "Rye Harvest, leave the arena now, and rest! You've earned it!" And so back through the armoury, and into the barracks he staggered. Grey gave him a curt nod as he passed. That night, as Rye eased into his bed, one side sagged. Pulling back the straw mattress, he realised the cuboid block of oak that served as part of the bedframe had been removed, and sloppily tied in its place was what Rye scarce dared to believe it was. Unmistakenly, in the dark, it was a long stave of yew, nocked with horn at each end. Gasping with disbelief, Rye ran a calloused and chafed hoof along its smooth varnished belly, the beautiful bicolored wood gleaming dully in the moonlight. Rye had not seen this weapon in nearly a month. Rolled around the great yew stave was a slip of parchment. The colt snatched it up and read. "A stave of yew, tied on with bowstring, Bodkins and broadheads hidden under the bed. At midnight you shouldn't be a-sleeping, But escaping as the guards all lie dead." Rye looked around. He saw the occupants of the room do the same as he had, looking at similar yew staves tied to their beds, picking up the parchments and reading. Some were already asleep, eyes closed and waiting, Rye lay down on the itchy yellow straw and shut his eyes. It was going to be an interesting night.