From their pens under the wooden stands, packed to capacity this day, those who would soon be fighting for their lives sat or stood in their own private reveries. Some sweated and worried, their bowels watery with fear, while others hid their terror behind masks of courage or detachment. A lucky few awaited the fight with the confidence borne of a string of victories and a healthy sword arm.

Jina sat with her back against a cool stone pillar, regarding her fellow warriors with interest and care. They would fight after the animals and the slaves, before the gladiators and the main events of the day. Scant weeks ago she would have been preparing for combat in one of the individual cells reserved for the gladiators, deep within the vast amphitheatre. As fate had determined, she was here as one of twelve women, eleven of whom would lose their lives on this cripplingly hot day, their juices turning the arena sand to crimson mire for the entertainment of the common people of Kafara.

Stretching her taut arms, Jina eyed her opponents. They were all confined to a small wooden cell, guarded by two armed men who patrolled between their cage and those of the animals nearby. The creatures were wild with panic, throwing themselves against the sides of their cells and snarling, shrieking or keening in terrified rage. There were lions, baboons, bulls and bears, hunting dogs and woodland cats, and creatures Jina could not even recognise. The smell of faeces hung heavy in the air, but only they and the people in the common stalls above had to endure the stench, and no-one of note cared much for either group.

Across from where she sat, Jina noted the dark-skinned woman called Caran, and marked her as a major threat. Like Jina, the woman was a disgraced gladiator, but their similarity ended there. Jina had refused to end the life of a wounded foe against the orders of a bloated princeling from some far-flung realm. Another gladiator might have been thrown to the animals for such an insult to an honoured guest of the city, but Emperor Nasili, ruler of Kafara and the surrounding realm, obviously held the young gladiator in some affection, and granted her pardon to fight one last time. With her gutsy determination and flair for the fight she had earned this respite, as her first combat had nearly been her last. Almost hamstrung by a lucky blow, Jina had fought for twenty minutes on a day as hot as this one, until finally she had turned the tables on her opponent - a wiry, bald headed northern woman - and skewered her foe through the heart. Her brave fight won her recognition and the respect of not only the audience, but the Emperor himself, who made her a gift of a fine shortsword, with a single emerald mounted in the pommel.

Many fights had followed, and Jina became a favourite amongst the city folk. But a gladiator’s fame was often short lived. A favourite of the people sooner or later inevitably ended up face-down in the sand, twitching and writhing, their flesh sundered by steel as easily as any others. The fickle crowds devotion would then shift to another, their champion quickly forgotten.

Half the crowd had cheered, and the other half had jeered as Jina held her sword over her panting, blood flecked foe two weeks ago, and found she could not thrust down into the woman’s heaving breast. Something had changed; her hard edge had somehow been stripped away, and although she knew she would die for insulting the visiting Prince, she had cast her sword aside and stood unflinching under the deluge of catcalls and rancid fruit.

Caran was returning Jina’s gaze, her large eyes cool and calculating. She wore her dark hair short, and wore facial paint that made her look ferocious to the distanced crowds watching her fight. Her jerkin was studded black leather, and her legs were wrapped with strips of leather that wound around her taut, tanned flesh down to her calf boots. She wore a grisly necklace of cuttings from her previous foes, and the sheer amount of shrivelled lumps of flesh attested to her skill in combat.

The warrior women locked eyes for long seconds before they both - at some ungiven signal - looked away to regard the other women.

Jina’s gaze fell on Maeve. The copper haired woman sat curled in a ball, rocking herself back and forth and singing to her baby. Her arms were clasped around a swaddled blanket in her lap, and her dark eyes alternately flitted with desperate unease around the cell, then turned with love upon the tightly wrapped blanket. Jina did not feel compassion for the woman, as such emotions had no place in the soul of a gladiator, but she understood why the woman had committed her crime. Her husband had smothered her child, sickened by the babe’s relentless squalling, and Maeve in her grief had slit his belly wide open. Had she been of a lower caste, she would have even now been running, screaming, from the claws and teeth of the wild animals on the arena floor. Instead, Nasili had elected that she take her chances in the arena against other women who had shown they could take another’s life. Maeve fingered the rim of her empty blanket, crooning softly to her lost child.

Beside the grief-crazed woman stood a blonde girl, the youngest here as she had not yet reached her twentieth year. She wore tattered remnants of fine clothing, and stood with a notable pride amongst such despair and squalor. Jina marked her as Helena, a noblewoman who had turned to thievery for sport when her rich husband humoured her no longer. Although she had been caught pilfering in the private rooms of the Emperor himself, her husband’s pleading with Nasili finally resulted in her inclusion in this event rather than immediate execution. Although there was little hope of her surviving this day, at least she would die with honour and dignity rather than dangling at the end of a hangman’s noose.

Two women stood together to one side of Helena. Remarkably alike, they were the twins Anya and Koto, their long black hair strung into waist length pony tails and cast around their shoulders to fall between naked breasts. Their eyes were slightly elongated and cat-like, and their skin was the colour of almonds, identifying them as natives of Ippan, a mysterious land far to the east. Their dress, no more than opaque gauze around their slender hips, was apparently a traditional garb from their land, and Jina surmised that the waiting crowds would be suitably impressed. No one knew why the twins were here, as they did not appear to speak the local languages, but Jina had noted the guards escorting them with somewhat more vigilance than most of the other women. These two Ippanese would bear close attention when the fight commenced.

Two other women sat together near Caran. These women were not related, but were a pair of thieves and cut-throats long wanted in the city. Their names were Larila and Kristen, and they dressed similarly in patched leather jerkins and doeskin leggings. Larila wore her blonde hair in a short bob, and had the looks of an innocent child that belied her cruel nature. Her companion was a hard faced brunette, with plaited hair and eyebrows, and decorative studs in her nose, ears and lips. Apart from their dress, these two women looked poles apart, but their shared love of violent crime and sadistic torture had earned them infamy in the city, and they were here at the petition of the people. Emperor Nasili would have preferred them both to have been put to death, rather than risk even one of them being free to walk amongst the cityfolk again, but he was a ruler who understood the need to listen to his people and relented gracefully.

Jina swept her eyes past Caran, until they caught the eyes of a black haired woman named Oonagh. This woman’s crime had been to practice witchcraft within the city walls, and as she had been caught literally red-handed, her fists plunged deep into the steaming carcass of a freshly butchered pig, she had not even attempted to defend herself. The customary burning had been foregone at the wishes of the High Priest who - as an aide to the Emperor - enjoyed a day at the amphitheatre as much as anyone. Oonagh was expected to be the first to die, as she was a slight and somewhat frail woman. She was wrapped in a long cloak and huddled in a ball, her luminous green eyes dropping from Jina’s as soon as they met.

Beside Oonagh stood Gerin, a veritable giant of a woman. Standing six and a half feet tall, Gerin was heavily muscled and square jawed. She flexed her mighty arms as she paced uneasily, alternately cracking her knuckles and wiping her sweaty palms over a closely cropped scalp of blonde down. A visitor from the farmlands to the west, Gerin had been involved in a bar-room brawl on her first night in the city. Two men had died, and Gerin had been accused of killing at least one of them with her bare hands. As honest as she was large, Gerin did not deny the charge, stating only that she had lost control and fought with whoever stood before her. That was good enough for the Emperor, as all others charged had denied being in combat with the two men. Regardless of the truth, Gerin stood to take the blame, but asked that she be given a chance in the arena. Nasili had agreed.

Next to Gerin sat a slender, black skinned girl with long white hair and brilliant blue eyes. She sat in meditation, her long legs crossed easily before her and her arms upraised by her sides in supplication to whatever God or Gods she worshipped. Little was known about the woman, whose name was Akimba of Imalia, a large but forbidding island some distance off the east coastline. The Imalians were known as religious fanatics, but details of their deity were sketchy. When Akimba enticed a homeless street beggar into her inn room and sacrificed him in a routine religious ceremony, the Imalian was surprised at the reaction of the city’s authorities, but serenely accepted her fate. Nasili had decreed that, as she was a stranger to this land and was following what for her amounted to a monthly routine, she should not be put to death. He pondered on her punishment for some time, and had been surprised when Akimba herself had asked for the chance to fight in the arena. Faced with a willing solution to his predicament, the Emperor had given the order.

Finally, Jina examined the woman sat directly on her left. Kel was the gladiator she had refused to slaughter two weeks previously. Now she would possibly have to face this woman again in combat, and this time there would be no mercy for those flaunting the rules of the arena. Twelve women would march out to fight, one would leave through the main arch with her freedom and a pouch of silver.

Kel turned to face Jina, her lips curled in a snarl of hatred. Jina had insulted the honour of this brave gladiator by not giving her the death she deserved. During the past two weeks, Jina had tried talking to her one-time comrade, but Kel had offered her no more than the occasional gob of spittle or choice curse. Kel considered herself already dead, and looking into her eyes now, Jina could tell the woman she had saved two weeks ago expected nothing less than a violent death. She still wore the bloodied leather halterneck and skirt she had been wearing during her last fight, and her chestnut hair was unkempt. Her face, angular and once handsome, was dirty and stained with tears and grime, and she spat at Jina’s feet before turning away.

Time passed, and the sounds of slaughter began to work on the minds of the twelve women. Jina, Caran and Kel kept themselves to themselves, but the others began to talk. Anya and Koto conversed in their guttural tongue, obviously sizing up their opposition. Jina wondered how the sisters intended to fight to the finish. Even if they joined forces, they would have to fight each other before one would be released. The same applied to the murderers Larila and Kristen, although Jina doubted that either would lose much sleep after killing the other. They talked together, seemingly relaxed but casting their eyes across their soon-to-be mortal enemies. The noblewoman Helena was talking kindly to Maeve, squatting beside the deranged woman. Somehow she had managed to make the red haired woman place her blanket on the ground beside her and become more aware of her surroundings and situation. Maeve was almost babbling, but she looked more alert and focused than before as she stared with fear at the motley collection of women she would soon face beneath a tumultuous, blood crazed crowd. Oonagh was talking in low tones with the giant Gerin, who had sat beside the witch girl. They seemed resigned as they chatted, and Jina guessed they talked not of the upcoming fight or their crimes, but of their old lives outside of the amphitheatre, or perhaps their dreams of starting again if they were lucky enough to survive this day. Black-skinned Akimba did not talk, but chanted in a peculiar sing-song voice, a monotonous hymn or prayer to her evil deity.

Soon the animals in the nearby cages had all been collected by their keepers and dragged roaring and spitting into the arena, to slaughter slaves or be slaughtered by armed men, or perhaps to be pitted against other beasts in mass combat. The roar of the crowds became a constant pain in the head, and the smell of blood was sometimes sharp, sometimes sweet, but constantly present. As Jina was guessing their time was close, she heard the sound of approaching boots and turned to see half a dozen armed guards marching through the gloom towards their cage. Their leader nodded to the guards stationed outside the cage itself, and the men unlatched the door and swung it wide, gesturing and shouting at the women to form a line and move into the well-trodden passageway that led between the cages. The women moved obediently, forming a ragged line that was pushed and prodded towards the main tunnel that led through a massive arch into the arena itself. There was no point resisting; there was nowhere to run.

Squinting in the light as they left the gloom of the cell area for the first time in nearly eight hours, the women were arranged in a more ordered line in the wide tunnel that led into the arena itself. Scabbarded weapons were thrust into their hands, with barked warnings that to draw the weapons before the fight began would be to bring about a swift death. Jina looked glumly at the small knife she had been given, aware that the guards were handing some of her opponents swords, spears and axes. She even saw a couple of shields, and guessed that the women were being armed based on their chances. With such a paltry weapon she must be considered a favourite, but somehow that thought did not lighten her heart, and she gloomily thought of what lay ahead as she stared past her fellow warriors into the arena itself.

Men ran to and fro, dragging carcasses across the bloodied sand. Butchered beasts, men and women were cleared away, fresh sand was sprinkled, and water perfumed with flower petals was sprayed into the air in a vain attempt to smother the stench of death. Within minutes, the arena was clean and white once more, ready for the next bout of slaughter. Jina felt sickened to her stomach. She had fought many times in this place, and even enjoyed the thrill of risking her life for a handful of coins. Now all she wanted to do was get away from this miserable life. To do that, she would have to take more lives, but she forced herself not to think of these women as lives, but as obstacles placed in her path. Once they were out of her way, she could make a new life for herself.

A fanfare sounded, and the guards ordered the women to march into the arena. Six of the soldiers flanked the would-be warriors, and as they filed into view of the packed crowds, the people erupted in a deafening cheer.

If the din had sounded loud from the cells, here it was ear-splitting. Jina was used to it, but she saw some of the women cringe and stare open-mouthed at the seething mass of humanity that had gathered to watch them die. The guards used short corded whips to keep the line straight as they guided it around the edge of the arena, allowing the entire crowd to see the warriors, until they came to a halt before the Emperor’s podium.

Nasili stared at the women, his face noncommittal, as his spokesman introduced each of the women to the crowds, describing her crime while the muscular guards dragged the warriors forward in turn for the crowd to see. When her turn came, Jina shouldered herself free of the guards to step forward proudly and raise her head as the crowd roared. They saw a tall woman with shoulder length blonde hair, clear blue eyes and a finely muscled and tanned physique. Jina wore a tan leather halterneck and stitched trews. Straps of leather were wrapped around her forearms and palms, and she wore soft knee boots of brown leather. Many of the crowd bayed for blood, the gladiator’s glory quickly forgotten, but Jina noted that many cheered her, and that bolstered her flagging spirit. Caran also received many cheers when she was announced, but Jina fancied that the vicious gladiator only received this praise from the most bloodthirsty of the crowd. Many, even regulars to the arena, considered her method of dispatching her foes ungallant and unnecessarily vindictive. Caran raised her black gloved fist in a gesture of defiance and the guards dragged her back as the introductions continued.

Anya and Koto received the big cheer, as Jina expected. The Ippanese women stood straight and tall, their fair skin naked to the hot sun. They glanced at the crowds in imperious distaste.

Strangely, the honest giant Gerin received a loud cheer. She nodded clumsily to the Emperor and gazed up at the crowds in awe, stepping back obediently at the guards order. The witch woman Oonagh was then dragged forwards, and the cheers turned swiftly to boos and catcalls. Oonagh’s head drooped in misery, then screamed in dismay as the guard handling her grabbed the neck of her robe and yanked hard, ripping the garment from the diminutive woman with one swift movement. Naked and ashamed, Oonagh wept as the crowd yelled abuse and coarse remarks, and the guards grinned as they manhandled the woman back into line.

Jina stared at the men with loathing, then noticed that one - their leader - wore her jewelled shortsword at his belt. Rage began to slowly build within her. That sword had been a part of her life in this cursed place, and in a strange way was her only friend through the months of fighting and death. She had spent hours honing and polishing its slender blade, and admiring the single emerald mounted in the hilt. In truth, the jewel was small and worth little, but somehow its presence gave her confidence in her skills as each fight began. The blade had ripped the life from dozens of gladiators, and Jina felt naked without it. It had been taken from her when she was arrested and thrown into the cells two weeks ago, and she had not thought she would see it again. She eyed the coarse oaf who now owned it with hatred, and swore that - if she survived this day - she would reclaim what was rightfully hers.

The introductions continued, with Larila and Kristen also having to endure deafening jeers and shouts of hatred. They screamed abuse back at the crowds until the guards used their whips to bring the murderers back under control. The crowd seemed to enjoy this, and the guards continued to lash the two shrieking women for more than a minute. Humiliated and sore, Larila and Kristen glared sullenly at their armed captors as Maeve was introduced to the crowds. The red haired murderess stared wildly at the massed throng, seemingly on the verge of panic, until her guard dragged her back in line and the black skinned Akimba stepped forward.

She observed the people with detachment, as if she wasn't truly aware of her surroundings or predicament. Jina frowned to herself as she thought of the white haired priestess' prayers and chants in the cell. Was she under some sort of spell or divine influence?

The noblewoman Helena was next, and the crowd booed loudly, aware that this rich woman had freely plundered numerous homes of those worse off than herself for nothing more than sport. The blonde woman waved to them good-naturedly, but Jina could plainly see the look of hopelessness on her face as she turned to stand in line again. Helena obviously expected to fall during the upcoming battle.

Finally, Kel stepped forward to face the crowd, and received as mixed a reception as Jina had. Even though she had done no wrong, she was here with criminals and murderers, her crime simply that of being alive.

The warriors were then dragged or whipped into the centre of arena, where a dozen small rocks had been arranged into a wide circle. As they prepared for combat, Emperor Nasili’s spokesman explained to the crowds in his loud, clear voice that only one of the women could leave the arena. Her crime would be forgiven, and she would be rewarded with twenty silver pieces. She would be free to start a new life, but would have to leave Kafara within two days or else be put to death.

With all the preparation, ceremony and crowd pleasing preamble out of the way, all that was left was the fight itself. At the spokesman’s signal, the women drew or readied their weapons, facing each other across the circle as they waited for the Emperor to start the battle. Nasili stood and moved to the front of the podium, held a white bolt of cloth out over the arena, then let it fall.

The cloth unfurled as it fell, and the crowd were silent as it fluttered slowly down, then landed lightly on the clean, brushed sand. At this, the crowd roared again. Somewhere, at the front of the stands, drums beat a rhythm to incense the crowd to higher hysteria as the twelve women raised their weapons and prepared for combat.

Jina crouched in a warrior’s stance, her knife held before her as she eyed the other women. She had noticed the way Larila and Kristen had deliberately moved to stand on either side of her in the circle and, as she expected, the two murderers immediately turned to attack her. They had both been given shortswords, and as Kristen moved in from the right, Jina dashed to the left towards Larila, whom she assumed was the weaker fighter of the two. Larila looked startled as the gladiator woman leapt at her, then swung her sword in a wide arc to keep the other at bay. Jina checked her lunge until the blade had swished past her, then ducked forward, her knife slashing at her blonde opponent’s side. The knife slit open soft leather and skin, and Larila gasped as blood poured from the shallow but painful wound. Jina, now behind the girl, raised one booted foot and kicked Larila firmly on her behind. Wailing, Larila staggered forwards, almost running into her partner.

Kristen dodged the falling body, casting her companion a quick, scathing look before she advanced on Jina. The hard faced murderess took her time, trying to give Larila a chance to regain her feet and recover from her early wound, but Jina took matters into her own hands, lunging forwards with her knife outstretched. The move was a feint, and Kristen seemed to guess as much as she stepped forward deliberately to thrust her shortsword towards Jina’s bare belly. Sucking in her stomach, Jina arched her back and twisted, and the shortsword’s blade swished alongside her tanned torso, only inches from her flesh. Without giving her dark haired foe a chance to recover from her lunge, Jina grabbed the woman’s sword arm with her left hand, placed her shoulder under Kristen’s armpit, then heaved the other girl into the air. Kristen yelled in fury as she flipped head over heels to land sprawled on her back, her sword sticking upright in the sand several feet from her body.

Jina was tempted to jump for the weapon, but already Kristen was moving, and she could hear Larila approaching from behind. She turned to see the wounded blonde girl running at her with fury etched on her features, her sword upraised as her other hand clasped the wound in her side. She looked crazed, but Jina knew not to underestimate the woman, and waited for her to attack first. As she thought, Larila was not as reckless as she appeared to be. She checked her approach and side-stepped to try and keep Jina between herself and her partner. Jina had other plans, not wishing to be backstabbed - a skill she knew Kristen would be a master of. She scuttled forward towards Larila, forcing the woman to jab and slash to keep her at bay. Larila was skilled with the shortsword, but Jina had fought with dozens of gladiators, and knew when to take her chance. As Larila jabbed towards her guts, Jina stepped to one side and grabbed the woman’s wrist, twisting it viciously and forcing Larila to drop her weapon with a cry of pain.

The blonde cut-throat’s back arched as her arm was twisted almost out of its socket by Jina’s vice-like grip. She sagged to her knees, her left fist flailing in a vain attempt to keep Jina’s knife away. Knowing Kristen would be close, perhaps even lunging at her unprotected back, Jina quickly slashed open Larila’s throat and released the woman’s arm. Larila’s eyes bugged and she clutched at her ripped throat with both hands. Blood squirted from between her gripping fingers, sprinkling the clean white sand before her. The crowds perpetual roar rose a notch at the first sight of gore, but Jina had no time to revel in her kill. She whipped around to look for Kristen, surprised to see the dark haired woman still struggling to her feet. Behind Jina, Larila gurgled and collapsed forward to lie sprawled and dying, her legs twitching as her life blood spread in a puddle around her upper torso.

As she reached for the dying woman’s shortsword, Jina had a second to glance around the arena. Nearby, the gladiator Kel was in combat with the noblewoman Helena. Beyond them, Caran was toying with the naked witch Oonagh. Looking down at Larila’s body, now still at her feet, Jina felt the familiar knot of excitement in her stomach. She had killed; she had ripped the life from another woman with the speed and skill of a trained gladiator. Knowing she had a second or two to spare, Jina placed one booted foot on Larila’s bottom, raising her sword above her head to receive gladly the adulation of the death-crazed crowd. Then, snatching her attention back to Kristen, Jina held her new shortsword confidently as the dark haired woman sprang to the attack.

Helena was tiring rapidly. As she staved off Kel’s superior attacks with her small shield, the part-time thief desperately wished she had not betrayed her husband by her recent life of pointless crime. Tired of the more traditional womanly pastimes, she had simply wanted to bring some excitement back to what had become - for her - a meaningless life of comfort and plenty. Now she was here beneath a bloodthirsty crowd, frantically parrying the attacks of a trained gladiator. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks and her short blonde hair was plastered to her face with sweat. Her blouse and leggings were ripped by a number of minor cuts, and the wounds, although small, stained her once fine attire with freely flowing blood. She stabbed desperately at her opponent, and Kel - tired of stretching the fight to a satisfactory length for the pleasure of the crowd - saw her opening and lunged. Helena shuddered as Kel’s knife sank into her chest just under her left collarbone, collapsing to her knees and staring at her killer with wide eyed shock. Kel prised the blonde girl’s sword from her numbed hand and held it aloft as the crowd yelled in excitement.

As Kel yanked the knife free of Helena’s body, the noblewoman bucked and fell back, her limbs writhing as the front of her blouse was drenched with blood. Triumphant, Kel stepped forwards over her foe’s body and sheathed her new sword in the dying girl’s breast, skewering her heart and stilling her thrashing body.

Nearby, Caran had been playing with her opponent, the naked witch woman Oonagh. The short, raven haired girl had fought with spirit and determination but, like Helena, could never have hoped to walk free this day. As Caran neatly side-stepped an overstretched lunge from her diminutive victim, she rammed her knife into Oonagh’s exposed belly and ripped it sideways. The tearing noise her flesh made was sickening, and her huge green eyes widened further still as she doubled over clutching her split stomach, falling to her knees and vainly trying to keep her guts in place. Caran laughed as she bent to claim Oonagh’s blade, then grabbed the dying woman’s mass of hair and pulled her head back. As her back was forcibly arched, Oonagh moaned as her entrails spilled free over her thighs and the gore splattered sand. Holding her new sword aloft as she drank in the crowds mighty cheer, Caran laughed shrilly, a crazed sound feared by any who had seen her fight before.

The grin she wore slipped a notch after she let go of Oonagh’s hair. Instead of rolling into a foetal ball or screaming in mortal agony, the witch plunged her hands deep into her own spilled entrails, her face twisted in pain and concentration as she stared at the gory mess before her. Then, eerily, the dying woman began to laugh herself. A ragged, wheezing laugh that turned into a blood spraying cough. Her body shuddered as it died, but still she found the strength to lift her head and leer at her killer. Caran, who had killed dozens in this arena without once fearing for her life, suddenly felt an icy sensation of dread creep up her spine. Ignoring the other fighters, the dark skinned gladiator knelt by Oonagh’s side.

'What do you see, witch woman?' she demanded intensely.

Oonagh coughed again, then forced her final words through blood flecked lips. Her luminous green eyes closed for the last time.

'Death . . . for my killer, this day.'

Roaring in sudden rage, Caran stood, grabbing Oonagh’s hair once more and dragged the woman’s body upright. Her scimitar scythed through the air, slicing through the witch woman’s neck. A fountain of gore erupted from Oonagh’s butchered body as it jerked and fell loosely to one side, and the crowd let loose its most deafening roar yet as Caran held the witch’s head high.

Wiping her sword on Helena’s inert body, Kel was witness to this display. She had long hated the dark skinned gladiator, and knew what Caran would do next. Having killed her opponent, Caran traditionally hacked a trophy off the corpse to the horror or delight of the crowd, adding the nugget of flesh to the cord around her neck. Sometimes, the defeated warrior was still alive when the trophy was taken. Now, as Caran prepared to slice an ear off the freshly decapitated head, Kel silently determined that this devil in black leather would never again defile the corpse of an honourable warrior. Shouting a challenge, she strode towards Caran, who looked around in annoyance. Then, she grinned as she cast Oonagh’s head casually to one side and readied herself to fight again.

Jina was beginning to gain respect for her foe, as Kristen was an accomplished and intelligent fighter. The plait haired woman circled the gladiator, probing the blonde girl’s defences with short jabs and careful lunges. Her eyes were dark and mocking as she curled her lips into a leer, the sun shining off the metal rings in her nose, ears and eyebrows. She waggled her tongue at Jina in provocation, allowing the warrior woman to see the studs there also. Jina would, however, not be drawn into a rash, irritated assault. She parried Kristen’s hesitant attacks and stabbed forwards a few times herself, then backed away deliberately, drawing her foe forward.

Then Jina stepped back onto one of the rocks that had been used to start the melee and lost her footing. She staggered back with a curse, and Kristen saw her chance. She jumped forward with a blood-curdling battlecry, realising as she did so that this was what Jina had intended all along. The blonde gladiator’s own sword lanced out, and Kristen effectively impaled herself on the blade, shrieking in pain as Jina’s sword sliced through her groin and emerged from her lower back amidst a spray of gore. She collapsed immediately, forcing Jina to yank the bloody blade free with a shriek of metal against bone. Kristen slumped face down in the sand, her hands pressed to her belly as her body shuddered in agony.

Jina did not know exactly what this woman had done in the outside world, but did know that Kristen and her partner had been vicious and vindictive murderers. Even so, she would never leave an opponent to suffer in this fashion and, amidst the howls of protest from the bloodthirsty crowd, straddled the woman’s writhing body and thrust her offal-slicked blade between Kristen’s shoulderblades. Pinned to the arena floor, Kristen’s body tensed, her limbs twitching and her head snapping upright. Crimson urine sprayed across the arena floor from between her thighs as she lost control of her bodily functions. She let loose a ragged scream that turned to a horrid gurgle as blood erupted from her mouth, then she slumped lifeless.

Already weary of blood and death, Jina looked about to see how the other fights were going. She noted Kel and Caran in fierce combat, and Akimba and Maeve engaged in what seemed to be a closely matched fight, then her attention was drawn to the Ippanese twins Anya and Koto, who had teamed up to fight the giant Gerin.

Armed with a long spear, the muscular Gerin was fighting for all she was worth, but the nimble twins were taking advantage of their almost inhuman link to silently plan assaults on their huge opponent, that invariably left Gerin with another shallow but painful wound. The twins were armed with long bladed knives, and used them to slash the back of Gerin’s knees and hands, slowing the huge woman down. Gerin swiped her spear at the pale skinned twins valiantly, but the size of the weapon did her few favours. She blinked through sweat, and the blood dribbling in her right eye from a particularly well placed cut one of the twins had managed to land moments ago.

Jina made to move forward and engage one of the twins, but the two girls noticed her, both glancing her way at the same time, and ended their game with their giant foe. As Anya danced before Gerin to keep her attention diverted, Koto spun around to the giant’s blind side, then jumped nimbly onto Gerin’s back, wrapping her smooth, pale legs around the other woman’s torso and looping her left forearm round her thick neck. As Gerin staggered in surprise, the Ippanese woman stabbed her long knife deep into the blonde woman’s muscular back time and time again, loosing spurts of crimson that spattered the white sand as Gerin reeled around in a vain attempt to dislodge her tormentor. Within seconds she had crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of fine sand, to lie moaning, her clawed fingers raking the sand frantically.

Dancing to her sister’s side, Koto - liberally splattered with Gerin’s blood - glanced dismissively at Jina before facing her twin. Jina stopped in surprise as the two girls threw themselves together in a close embrace, their lips and breasts mashed together as they both sheathed their knives between the others ribs. Jina could only watch incredulously as they crumpled gracefully to the sand to lie sprawled and panting, mortally wounded. The crowd was also stunned by this joint suicide, but quickly turned their attention to the fight between Akimba and Maeve, which seemed to be finally drawing to a close.

Akimba, her black skin streaked with sweat and her white hair tousled, swished her handaxe to keep Maeve at bay. Her red haired opponent was breathing heavily, but jabbed valiantly with her spear. Akimba knocked the spear aside and moved in to slash at the pale skinned woman’s throat. But Maeve was nimble if not skilled, ducking under the weapon and scuttling back to give herself room to manoeuvre. Both women were obviously unused to wielding weapons, but as Akimba advanced to attack again, Maeve lunged in a frantic attempt to skewer her foe between the breasts. Akimba brought up her axe, her reflexes saving her as the spear’s tip was knocked aside by the haft of the weapon. Unbalanced, Maeve desperately tried to regain her footing and bring her spear back under control, but Akimba had seen her opportunity and took it quickly.

Yelling in delight, the priestess chopped viciously down into Maeve’s right breast, splitting open her opponent’s flesh and causing blood to spill over her tunic. Maeve gaped down at the ragged wound, dropping her spear to clutch her breast with both hands. Akimba was laughing wildly, and swung her axe again, this time burying the weapon in Maeve’s scalp. Killed instantly by this second blow, Maeve’s body crumpled into a bloody heap, chunks of white matter and jets of fluid spilling from her hideous wound. Akimba let her axe fall with the corpse, abandoning the weapon to claim Maeve’s spear. Obviously happier with this weapon, she held it aloft to the crowds cheers, a toothy smile signalling her delight at her first victory. At her feet, Maeve’s body twitched in death, blood oozing from her mouth, nose and ears, and one eyeball slowly swelling to pop from its socket and spill down her cheek, followed by a torrent of thick gore.

Caran and Kel sweated and cursed, their blades frequently locked together as they heaved and shoved, slashed and parried back and forth across the sand. It was an even match, but during the last two weeks, Kel had been brooding rather than exercising, and her laxity was showing. Caran threw the smaller woman back again, slashing her scimitar and opening a nick on the brunette’s bare stomach. Cursing, Kel jabbed her sword forward, desperately trying to find an opening in Caran’s seemingly impregnable defence. Caran’s face paint ran, mingling with sweat, as the gladiator bared her teeth at Kel and her eyes flashed. She was crazed, and the thundering drums that continued unabated in the stands seemed to add to her inhuman fervour.

Jina glanced at the two gladiators, then turned to face Akimba, who - having now recovered from her elation - was approaching the blonde haired girl, determination once again etched on her features. Jina readied her sword as the black skinned woman approached, but then Akimba stopped and peered with seeming amazement past the gladiator. Jina knew there was nobody left standing behind her, but her experience warned her that Akimba wasn't faking her astonishment. She turned quickly, and pain exploded in her side as a spearhead sank into the flesh just above her belt.

Her body twisted by sudden pain, Jina gaped dumbstruck into Gerin’s face as the giant yanked her spear free. Jina collapsed to her knees, clutching the deep wound in her side as Gerin staggered back drunkenly, the bloody tip of her spear raised and her face twisted in crazed bloodlust. Jina recalled seeing Koto’s blade plunge deep into Gerin’s back time and time again, and could scarcely believe the woman could still be alive, never mind standing and fighting. She was obviously weakened, otherwise her blindside spear thrust would have impaled Jina totally, but she would certainly have the strength to finish the gladiator girl off. Jina valiantly tried to climb to her feet, but her muscles seemed to have no power and she collapsed onto her side, her face a visage of pain as she waited for the spear’s tip to sink into her body.

The blow never came, as Akimba yelled a battlecry and leapt at the wounded giant, jabbing again and again with her own spear and forcing Gerin back. Turning her attention to the black skinned priestess, Gerin flailed with her spear, and as Akimba parried she was knocked back by the force of Gerin’s blows. Akimba could only imagine the strength of this giant woman when she was in prime health, and quickly changed her tactics, ducking and dodging Gerin’s attacks with speed if not skill.

Kel staggered, dropping to one knee as her strength failed her. Crowing in anticipation of her victory, Caran swiped her scimitar in an arc that swept Kel’s sword from her hand. The brown haired gladiator crumpled back to lie sprawled before Caran, who stepped forward to straddle the stricken woman’s body, her bloody sword held over Kel’s heaving breasts. She raised her free arm to the crowd, laughing madly as the bloodthirsty people called for the defeated woman’s death.

Nearby, Jina wearily climbed to her feet, but a sudden bout of dizziness made her stagger and crumple to the ground. Her vision fogged and her wound throbbed in unbearable pain. She tried to stay conscious, knowing that if she slept now, she would never wake. But the sand was warm and the sound of the crowd seemed now to lull her to sleep. Her eyes fluttered and closed as her consciousness slipped away.

Gerin thrust time and again at Akimba, but the priestess was uninjured, and was able to dodge the attacks until Gerin’s weakness made her stumble. The tip of her spear raked the sand, and the giant sagged on the weapons shaft, her breath ragged and blood flecking her lips. Akimba grunted as she drew her spear back and thrust it forward with all her might. The tip burst through Gerin’s side, releasing a fresh torrent of gore as the blonde woman shuddered. She jerked upright as she was impaled, and as the bloody tip of the spear ripped from her left armpit she collapsed sideways to lie twitching and lifeless. Akimba screamed in delight at her second victory, but quickly grabbed the shaft of her weapon and tugged it experimentally. It was firmly lodged in Gerin’s unfeeling corpse, so the black skinned priestess stooped to grab the giant’s discarded spear, then turned to see who remained.

The gladiator Jina lay crumpled nearby, her blood pooling around the deep wound in her back. She still breathed, and Akimba stepped close, raising her spear to end the woman’s life.

Before she could thrust her weapon down into Jina’s chest, a shout of challenge distracted her. She glanced around to see Caran standing over the panting and defeated body of Kel. Caran’s face was ruddy and her eyes were wild. The gladiator knew her freedom was in sight, and only this priestess stood in her way. She turned her back on Kel, then as an afterthought turned back long enough to slash open the sprawled woman’s belly. Kel screamed shrilly as her flesh was sundered and her guts oozed into view. She clutched the split in her abdomen, but instinctively rolled into a ball, groaning in agony as her innards seeped from her body.

Caran was a terrible sight as she advanced on Akimba. Her black leather armour was sheened with sweat and blood, and the latter slicked her blade and swordarm. Her smile chilled Akimba, and the Imalian priestess chanted a prayer beneath her breath as she set her spear and waited for the gladiator to attack.

Without preamble, Caran swept her swordarm back and swooped in for the kill. Akimba raised her spear to block the attack as best she could, but all Caran did was flick her blade in the direction of the white haired woman. Blood spattered over Akimba’s face, and the priestess blinked as the crimson droplets hit her eyes. The distraction lasted a fraction of a second, but Akimba gasped as Caran grabbed the shaft of her spear a short way below its tip, and pulled the weapon to one side. Her body vulnerable, Akimba could only look into Caran’s eyes as the gladiator rammed her scimitar deep into the black skinned woman’s groin, then ripped the weapon upwards and out. Disembowelled by one swift movement, Akimba stepped back, her eyes rolling up as she finished her final prayer with a croak, then collapsed forwards to lie spreadeagled in a steaming pile of her own innards and bodily fluids.

The crowd roared in ecstasy, and Caran acknowledged their applause by raising her gory blade and placing one booted foot on Akimba’s lifeless body. Sickening squishing noises sounded from under her boot as Akimba’s butchered corpse was pressed into the arena floor, and Caran turned to look down at the body, pondering on where to start cutting to add to her necklace.

Then she caught a movement in the corner of her eye. Frowning, she looked up to see Jina standing shakily a short distance away, gazing down at Kel’s mortally wounded body. The crowd were cheering her!

Kel coughed, blood spilling from her lips as she moved her head to look up at Jina.

'Finish me,' she croaked, 'Like you . . . should have done before.'

Jina nodded, swiftly drawing back her swordarm to thrust deep into Kel’s breast. Her heart pinioned, Kel’s eyes bulged and she belched gore before her body shuddered and her head slumped against the sand. Jina blinked back tears as she stared down at the woman who had once been her comrade and friend, but as she heard Caran approach, her heart hardened and her eyes narrowed. She looked up into the face of the woman who was the only thing standing in the way of her freedom.

'Still alive, then?' Caran growled. 'Good. I would have hated to miss the opportunity of gutting you myself.'

'There's life enough in me yet,' Jina agreed, 'At least, enough to see your corpse in the sand.'

Caran laughed as she took in the other gladiator’s sorry appearance. Blood splattered her skin and armour, and although much belonged to her previous opponents, the crimson sheen that slicked her side and leg spoke volumes. She would be slow and pained, an easy victory.

'Don't be fooled,' Jina advised her foe with a grim smile, 'I've bested gutter scum like you in a sorrier state.'

Suddenly enraged by the wounded gladiator’s arrogance, Caran raised her crimson blade and leapt to the attack, slashing and jabbing with skill and strength. Jina gasped as she parried the attacks, each jarring impact sending waves of pain shooting through her weakened body. She could not even consider launching an attack of her own against such a deluge of skilled blows, and felt her knees weaken as Caran forced her back step by step. Then, she tripped and sprawled onto her back with a wail of despair, having fallen over the huddled, headless corpse of Oonagh lying steaming in a crimson morass of bloody sand. She kicked out her legs to propel herself back from the butchered body and Caran’s blade, but the dark haired gladiator was already swooping with a victorious shout, her blade held high above her head as she prepared to inflict the terminal blow.

Then, inexplicably to Jina’s eyes, Caran stopped mid-lunge, staring down at the hideous corpse at her feet and remembering the witch woman’s words. It were as if she could suddenly see her own death in the looped coils of purple intestines and steaming organs that lay spread before the naked body. Oonagh’s head lay nearby, her dead eyes fixed upon Caran, her bloody lips twisted in a sneer.

'No!' Caran cried in rage, forgetting about Jina in an instant as she leapt towards the mocking head, her scimitar slicing down to split the skull open like a ripened fruit. Blood and brains splattered across the sand, and Caran drew her offal slicked sword back to stand panting and grinning as she observed the mess her blade had wrought. Oonagh’s head lay neatly severed, her eyeballs - popped free from their sockets by the force of the blow - quivered upon the sand. Her teeth were scattered and her tongue lolled, purple and swollen. Caran threw her head back and laughed. How could she have thought this witch would have supernatural powers. She was flesh and blood like any other woman, and she died just as easily.

Then, a rending pain in her chest turned Caran’s laugh to a gasp of surprise and agony. She looked down with astonishment at the crimson blade that suddenly jutted from between her ribs, and knew that Jina had struck a fatal blow.

Standing behind the gladiator, Jina panted weakly, sagging against Caran’s back. The thrust had sapped her of her remaining strength, and now nothing remained should the dark haired woman recover from this hideous wound. Jina’s heart sank as Caran screamed in rage and swept around, her upraised swordarm catching the side of the blonde warriors head and sending her crashing back once more against the arena floor. Caran stood over her, swaying and coughing blood as she clutched at the blade skewering her with one hand, and raised her scimitar above her head with the other.

'So . . . the witch woman . . . spoke the truth,' she gurgled through the blood bubbling on her lips. 'But . . . you will not walk . . . from here . . . either.'

She stepped forwards, and Jina could only scramble back away from the mortally wounded woman. Then, searing pain from one scrabbling hand made her gasp, and she looked down at her side to see Caran’s own knife, discarded after it had been used to disembowel Oonagh. Thick gore clotted the knife, but Jina grasped the stained blade and raised her hand, returning her attention to Caran as the dying gladiator stumbled forward to deliver her fatal thrust.

The knife flicked from Jina’s hand expertly, turning once in the air before plunging up to the hilt in Caran’s right eye socket. Caran screamed as her eyeball burst, sending blood and fluid spurting down her cheek as her head fell back and she slumped to her knees between Jina’s legs, her scimitar dropping from nerveless fingers. She sat moaning and coughing thick gore over Jina’s belly, her body shuddering as vital functions started to give out. She picked and pried at the knife wedged in her skull, whimpering and choking as her failing senses tried to cope with what had just happened. Urine soaked the sand between her quivering thighs, and blood spurted and oozed from around the shortsword still wedged firmly through her torso.

Jina struggled to her feet, only now becoming aware once more of the shrieking crowds around her. Her vision fogged and she staggered, but somehow remained upright. Gripping the wound in her side with one hand, she looked down upon her foe, amazed that the vicious warrior she had been fighting scant seconds ago could now be this pathetic, bloody shell before her. Then, she looked about the bloody arena, her eyes hardening as she saw Kel’s maliciously butchered form, and Oonagh’s unrecognisable body, and the still twitching corpse of the priestess Akimba. Caran had enjoyed wrenching the life from these women, and she deserved no pity.

Stepping forwards, Jina moved around to Caran’s shuddering back, and straddled the stricken woman’s head from behind. With the gladiators skull held firmly between her thighs, Jina gripped the sodden hilt of the knife wedged in the dying woman’s eye, then wrenched the weapon down. Caran’s body shuddered once more as the blade in her skull crunched into her brain. Her remaining eye popped from its socket and spilled onto her cheek amidst a gush of fluid, and her mouth drooped open, tongue lolling and drooling blood. Jina wrenched the knife up again, but the blade was wedged firmly in Caran’s skull and broke with a high pitched ring. Jina staggered back off Caran, as the gladiator’s body bucked and slumped sideways, finally dying but still twitching, legs still kicking spasmodically.

Casting the hilt of the weapon aside, Jina turned her back on Caran and the other sprawled and butchered bodies, and dragged herself before the Emperor’s podium. She looked up through squinting eyes, and her vision swam before she focused on Nasili as he stood looking down on her.

'You have earned your freedom,' the Emperor spoke in a loud voice that cut through the cheers of the baying crowd. Instantly their noise abated. Rarely did the Emperor himself address lowly gladiators, especially those that had been disgraced.

Jina fancied she saw a slight smile on the Emperor’s lips as he reached out his hand towards his aide. The man deposited a small bag in Nasili’s hand, and the Emperor weighed it before pitching it at the wounded warrior woman below him. Somehow Jina managed to catch the bag, and a smile split across her face as she felt the weight of the coins within.

'A good fight,' Nasili continued. 'The people of Kafara have been well entertained this day.'

Jina’s smile slipped. Many of those that had died were not warriors. Their deaths had been murder by another name. But the people of Kafara were a simple folk, and there were those that argued that the butchery in the arena was vital to control the base urges of the cityfolk. This was their release from the drudgery of their everyday lives. Plus, each of the warriors that had fought this day had her reason for being there. Jina knew she must forget about them, and walk from here thinking only of her new life. There was, of course, a final matter to deal with.

'I am glad to have given you a good fight one last time,' she panted, still weak from the battle and her grievous wound, 'but would ask a final favour of you, my Lord.'

Nasili’s aide spluttered in indignation at the Emperors side, and those dignitaries present in the podium gathered their breath at this woman’s impertinence. Nasili just smiled.

'What is this favour?' he asked.

'I will need a weapon,' she said. 'I ask that I may arm myself before I leave.'

Nasili pursed his lips. 'That is not too much to ask. Very well. Take any weapon you desire from the arena as you leave.'

Jina bowed deeply, wincing as she aggravated her wound. Before she could turn to leave, Nasili’s aide spoke up.

'Remember, you must leave Kafara within two days, or be put to death.' He glared down at her with derision, but Jina just nodded and turned away.

She walked across blood splattered sand, past Oonagh’s split skull and butchered corpse, and Caran’s equally slaughtered body. She stepped past Kel without looking at her one-time colleague, and spared not a glance for the Ippanese twins that lay motionless in each other arms. She moved past the giant Gerin’s transfixed body, and felt her gorge rise as she staggered past Akimba’s disembowelled form. She did not look at the others; crazy Maeve or the noblewoman Helena, or the two murderous thieves who had sought to take her life at the battles outset. Her eyes were fixed on the guard Captain, as he and his men flanked the wide arch that led to Kafara and freedom.

As she approached the arch, she became aware of the crowd once more. They were applauding her as she moved painfully across the bloody sand, clutching a deep wound that still bled freely. Once she had felt pride when she heard that noise, but now she only wanted to leave it all behind her. Her face set in a determined scowl, she came to a stop before the guard Captain and looked him in the eye. He was grinning, his fat face creased in an evil leer that exposed yellowed teeth and a hairy wart on his upper lip. Deliberately, Jina reached out and grasped the pommel of her sword, scabbarded at the mans belt. His face dropped instantly, and he grasped at her hand, an indignant look crossing his face as he realised this woman intended to reclaim her property. Without pausing, Jina jerked her head forward, butting the Captain firmly on the nose. With a strangled squeal he fell back as blood squirted from his nostrils, and the sword slid easily from the scabbard as he fell. His men reached for their own weapons, confused and looking to the Emperor for orders.

Jina walked past them without looking back as the crowd roared their appreciation. She half expected to be grabbed, or to feel cold steel slide between her shoulderblades. No blow fell, and no-one challenged her as she made her painful way down the long, wide passage that led to the city, and to freedom.