Squinting through the rain coursing down their sun ravaged faces, the guards examined the horse and cart that plodded towards the gate, coming from within the city. Few would have cause to leave the city in such weather, but as the cart closed they saw the dour, corpulent figure leading the tired beast of burden, and were once more thankful for the rain. When the slaughter wagon rode past after a days events at the arena, the stench and clouds of flies made even hardened men such as these gag.

'What's the hurry, Modruk,' one of the guards called mockingly. 'In a hurry to be buried, are they?'

Modruk glared sourly at the guards. He was a man of considerable girth and bad humour. He lived to drink and eat and, although his job paid well, he disliked the abuse that some gave him because of it.

'I have my orders,' he snapped back. 'The storm will pass, and the heat will return. By the morning these will smell worse than your mother’s flaps, Krige.'

Krige scowled as his colleague barked a laugh. He stepped forward as if to strike Modruk, but the gravedigger fingered his short whip in a manner that suggested he cared little for Krige's official status. Instead of approaching the fat man, Krige moved to the back of the large cart, throwing aside a weather-beaten covering that was stained with the blood of hundreds of slain warriors. Then his eyes widened.

'Hells fangs,' he muttered. 'What did we miss at the arena today?'

Modruk grinned over his shoulder. An all girl battle, Krige. You would have loved it.'

Krige licked his lips as his eyes slid over the recumbent forms in the back of the cart. The bodies were piled together in a heap of loose limbs and bare flesh. He saw naked breasts and gaping, lifeless mouths, blood encrusted wounds and spilled entrails. He felt his penis swell, and realised his breath was coming faster. Finally able to tear his eyes from the pale flesh, he looked up at Modruk, who was still grinning.

'I'd have loved to have seen that,' he muttered.

'Twelve women, and only one walked free, the gladiator Jina,' Modruk told the guards. 'Made a bit of a mess of Caran, she did. You may see her leaving the city, though I doubt she'll get far.'

'What do you mean?'

'Twenty pieces of silver for winning the fight, but she was badly wounded. I dare say a few folk will try and relieve her of her burden, and possibly her life, before she gets a chance to leave the city.'

Krige nodded, his lips pursed. 'You're right. We'll be keeping an eye out for her, then.'

Modruk frowned. 'Don't forget it was your old friend Modruk who told you she would be passing.'

Krige laughed. 'Don't worry, fat man. If she passes, and decides to donate her winnings to us, you'll be good for a few coppers.'

The guards laughed, and Modruk muttered obscenities under his breath as he whipped his old horse and clattered his way out of Kafara’s rear gates. 'Do people a favour and what do you get? Nothing, that's what! Bah.' As the gate slammed shut behind him and the guards slid the locking beam into place, he glanced back sourly at the city’s whitewashed walls, which quickly faded in the torrential downpour. Visibility was minimal, but Modruk trod this path often, and guided his weary nag a mile outside the gates, to where a small gully lined with scrub and withered trees made for an acceptable burial place.

Hundreds of men and women lay under the sand and thin soil. Gladiators and other warriors who had fought and died in the arena. The bodies of slaughtered slaves and criminals were used to feed the lions and other fighting beasts, but Emperor Nasili demanded that warriors be buried with at least a shred of dignity.

A wheel skidded in a patch of wet mud, and Modruk frowned at the dreadful conditions. He gripped his reins tight as he guided his horse down the slight incline that led into the gully, thinking sourly that his mass graves would already be starting to fill with water. He had dug three large pits here this morning, before the sun had heated the ground to an unbearable level, and before the games had begun. He had then returned to the city to watch the fights, secure as ever in the knowledge that he would have plenty of work to do before the day was over. The weather was unexpected, and although he too appreciated the respite from the droves of flies that normally followed him, he was not particularly fond of getting soaked as he laboured.

As he drew his cart to a halt beside one of the pits, he peered down into the hole, which already had a foot or so of muddy water at the bottom. It would be best if he finished the job quickly tonight and got back to the dry and comfortable surroundings of Kafara’s taverns. With this thought, he alighted from the cart and scurried as best he could around to its rear, where he whipped the covering off the butchered bodies. He paused as he looked at the dead women again. Although many were hideously disfigured, there were two or three that had been killed cleanly. Notably the two Ippanese girls, who lay gracefully sprawled across the top of the body pile. Modruk had thrown their corpses on last, knowing that he would have time to enjoy the warrior womens cool skin before they would be buried, and before they would start to stiffen.

Clambering onto the back of the cart, his breath coming in deep gasps as his eyes roved over the smooth lines of pallid flesh, Modruk grabbed the thighs of one of the Ippanese girls and yanked her half off the body pile. Her torso slid towards him, while her thin arms remained thrown above her head. The motion caused her small but perfect breasts to rise and wobble enticingly, and he marvelled at how soft and pliant they still were as his callused hands enfolded the fleshy mammaries, cool and slick with rainwater. Blood engorged his member and he moaned as he mashed the Ippanese girl’s breasts together. He licked his lips as he looked at her face. Her eyes were closed, and her dark lips were slightly open, revealing straight white teeth and the tip of her tongue. Her single long ponytail spilled over her shoulder and down to her side. Her clothing - which amounted to nothing more than a strip of pale blue gauze between her legs held together by a slender chain - was soaked, showing the black mass of her pubic mound. Unable to resist the dead girl any longer, Modruk pulled her legs apart and squatted between them, drawing his pants down to free his stubby member. He folded the thin strip of cloth between the woman’s hips back carefully, at the same time examining the wound under her ribs more closely. She and her sister had committed suicide by throwing themselves on each others blades, then collapsing to the arena floor in a passionate - if not conventionally sisterly - embrace. At that moment, Modruk had known that he would have one or both of these gorgeous women before consigning them to the earth.

Grabbing the girl’s buttocks, he lifted her lower torso up towards his throbbing penis, then thrust his hips forward with one violent jerk. His length slid deep into the dead girl, and he moaned in pleasure at her . . . warmth?

His eyes snapped up to her face, and he gasped as he saw her dark eyes were now open and staring at him. Before he could push himself off her, the Ippanese girl’s hand lanced out and gripped him by the throat. Her fingers contracted, and razor sharp nails bit into his flesh. He gurgled in pain, struggling for breath and grabbing at the woman’s forearm. She was amazingly strong! As his body started to buck and writhe against her, she clasped her legs around his buttocks, holding him inside her as she tightened her grip on his windpipe. His face began to turn blue, and his tongue lolled from between his quivering cheeks. His jowls shuddered and his eyes rolled back as his life quickly began to slip away. His engorged penis, still inside the woman who was now killing him, throbbed and quivered before ejecting its load deep inside of her, marking Modruk’s last seconds as he gurgled and convulsed, blood spilling from his lips as his body died.

For long seconds the Ippanese woman held his body to her, as she cast about with wild eyes, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. Then she pushed him back, and he fell from the back of the cart like a sack of potatoes, splattering mud everywhere as his vast form slapped against the sodden soil. Sat with her back against the pile of bodies, legs spread and with Modruk’s seed dribbling out of her, she clutched at her body where her sister had stabbed her with precision and conviction. None of the watching crowd would have been in any doubt that the wounds would be fatal, but Anya and Koto had perfected this discipline for just such an occurrence. Lying together on the arena floor, their breath coming fast and their blood spilling from the wounds, they had deliberately slowed their heartbeats until they were almost undetectable, and took on the aspect of corpses. Modruk himself had checked the fallen warriors to ensure they were dead, but his was a cursory examination, and he had not detected the faint life signs of the two Ippanese.

Rain slicked off Anya’s body as she determined that her wound had closed. The cool water sloughed off her unblemished skin, cleansing her of the foul undertakers touch. She shuddered as she looked down at his hideously bloated body, then turned to examine her sister.

Koto still slept, but now her chest could be seen rising and falling steadily. Anya examined her sister’s wound, and was satisfied that she had delivered a suitably skilful strike also. She dragged Koto off the other bodies, then sat on the lip of the cart to wait for her sister to recover. They still had a job to do, and although their capture had been an unexpected setback, their 'deaths' could now work in their favour. A slow smile appeared on her usually dispassionate face as she drew her knees up and began waiting patiently.

----------

Jina awoke abruptly, spluttering as the stale water that had been thrown in her face went up her nose. Instinctively bolting upright, she groaned and clutched at her wounded side, grimacing with pain as she peered down at the dirty dressing that now patched her cauterised flesh.

She had known the physician would not spare her any compassion. Like practically everyone else in Kafara, the shrew faced man would have known who she was, and how much money she had in her possession. Twenty silver pieces was no fortune, but it was more than enough for some people, especially those that lived in this region of Kafara. Fingering the soiled dressing, Jina eyed the man with suspicion.

‘Pray you have done your job well,’ she told him coldly, ‘For should it become infected, I’ll be back to gut you before I die.’

Syrus the physician sneered at the dishevelled ex-gladiator as his eyes roamed her battered but powerful form. He had relieved her of her halter and leather skirt while she slept, taking the time to fondle her taut flesh as he looked for the rest of her money. She had paid him five silver pieces to clean and cauterise her wound, and she had passed out only during the latter. Of the other fifteen silver pieces there had been no sign, so he had sent a runner to round up his girls. They had been patrolling the streets of Kafara, plying their timeless trade, but tonight they would have a little variety.

‘Don’t worry,’ Syrus told the warrior woman, throwing her armour down at her feet, again irritated that she had also not brought her emerald-pomelled sword with her. ‘I wouldn’t dream of damaging my reputation over an outcast gladiator. You’ll live, and at a bargain price, I might add.’ His eyes gleamed covetously. ‘Didn’t your winnings come to something more than five silver pieces?’ he asked her casually.

Jina glanced at him as she pulled on her halter, not seeming to care that her bare breasts wobbled in a highly enticing fashion. ‘I drank it,’ she explained simply, and Syrus nodded.

‘Of course you did.’ He stood, moving to the door and opening it for her. ‘Excuse my rudeness, but this room is best used for more profitable business. I let you recuperate her long enough as it is.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Jina sneered, but noticed that darkness had now fallen over Kafara. Likely she had been unconscious for a little more than an hour. She painfully got to her feet, grabbing the bag of paltry belongings that had been thoroughly searched as she was sleeping. Grudgingly she conceded that her wound had been professionally dressed, as Syrus - for all his sins - had once been a master of his trade. Now he gained his living by patching up criminals and mercenaries, killing and looting them when he could, and by managing his team of low class streetwalkers.

As she stepped from the room, Jina saw three of these women sitting around a table in the what passed for Syrus’ waiting room. The women looked at her shrewdly. One smoked a pungent weed wrapped in leaf, while the others drank from mugs of wine. They were pretending to play cards, but the charade did not fool Jina for a second. As soon as she left they would be on her tail, following her to where she left her sword and the rest of her money. Jina looked over her shoulder at Syrus, who had been peering at her rear end reflectively, obviously recalling the feel of her muscular buttocks when he had groped her unconscious body. It was a shame she would be leaving the city soon, as Syrus obviously needed to be taught a lesson.

‘Take care, my dear.’ Syrus waved his hand dismissively. ‘The games won’t be the same without you.’

Without answering the odious man, Jina brushed past the whores and left the small dwelling, noting with satisfaction that the long-threatened storm had finally broke. Closing the door on Syrus and his women, Jina lifted her face to accept the rain on her face gratefully. She ached all over, and her cauterised wound throbbed. She was weak, and needed to take to bed for several days to restore her strength. Unfortunately, she would probably be hounded from the city by others keen to get their hands on her winnings. Glancing up and down the sparsely populated street, Jina moved off as quickly as she could, intending to keep to the back alleys and quieter areas of the city until she was ready to leave.

For the next thirty minutes she padded through the streets, watching her back carefully. Grudgingly she was impressed by Syrus’ girls, of whom there was no sign. It stood to reason that they would be accomplished street thieves, and probably were no strangers to back-alley stabbings either. Normally she would make short work of gutter trash such as they, but in her current condition she would have preferred to avoid conflict if possible.

Unfortunately, by the time she reached the quiet neighbourhood where she had hidden her money and sword, she still had the feeling she was being followed. She ducked into an alley and waited for several minutes in a shadowed niche, hoping to spot her stalkers, but saw no sign of the women. Uneasily, she came to the conclusion that she had wasted enough time and moved deeper into the alley, which was crammed with piles of waste and numerous water jugs, obviously placed here by the owners of the small houses on either side to save them a trip to the communal well in the morning. Jina moved from doorway to doorway, padding through deep puddles and splattering her calves with thin mud. When she reached a point halfway through the alley, she looked around one last time before kneeling beside a pile of rotting vegetables. Moving the smelly mass to one side, she scraped at loose soil with her fingers until she felt what she was looking for.

It was at that second that Syrus’ women made their move. Two women suddenly dropped from above, one each side of Jina, landing heavily and splashing water everywhere as they grinned at the startled gladiator and unsheathed long bladed knives. The third woman approached from up the alley, and Jina realised that she had been followed from the rooftops. Truly these women were accomplished thieves as well as whores.

‘What have you got there, Jina?’ one of the women, a brunette with a pointy nose and blue belted shift, grinned at the gladiator. ‘Hope you haven’t been holding out on old Syrus, have you?’

Jina glanced at the other woman, a blonde with a lazy eye who was dressed in a short hemmed brown tunic, before looking back at the brunette. ‘Syrus need not know you found me. I would prefer not to have to kill you. Take two pieces of silver each and get out of my sight.’

The brunette pursed her lips. ‘Generous. Syrus will probably only give us a few coppers. But we have out scruples, you know. I personally wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I betrayed my employer.’

'Then that might not be a problem,' Jina growled.

The blonde stepped closer to Jina, her knife held low. ‘Keep your hands in sight, bitch. We know you have your sword hidden down there.’

In answer, Jina grabbed a double handful of decomposing vegetation and threw it up into the blonde’s face. She staggered back with a curse, and the brunette lunged snarling. Throwing her weight onto her right side, Jina lanced out one shapely leg, slamming her booted foot into the whore’s midriff. Pain flared in her side, but the brunette grunted as the wind was knocked from her, and landed in the mud with a heavy splash, her legs waving in the air before crashing down. Knowing that the third woman was very close, Jina grabbed the pommel of her sword and wrenched it from the mud, ripping the scabbard off and exposing the gleaming blade to the half light and pouring rain.

She rounded on the blonde, who was spitting and rubbing her face in disgust. As the woman’s eyes cleared and focused on Jina, she had time to gasp before the gladiator’s fist slammed into her face, breaking her nose and sending her reeling back against the alley wall. Turning quickly, Jina dropped into a defensive stance as the third whore, a short woman with a dark bob and opaque shift, lunged with a long bladed knife. Jina stepped aside easily, her sword flashing as she brought it down on the smaller blade. Unbalanced, the dark haired whore staggered, giving Jina time to bring her knee up into her lower belly. With a grunt, the woman sagged to her knees, clutching at the pit of her stomach and dropping her knife into the mud.

Jina backed away down the alley, noting that the pointy nosed brunette was ready to attack her. Screeching in fury, the whore leaped at her, stabbing with her razor sharp blade. Jina stepped back with each lunge, until she saw her opening and stepped to one side, grabbing the woman’s arm and pulling her roughly. With a gasp, the woman lurched forward, and her eyes widened as Jina chopped her sword into soft belly flesh and wrenched the weapon to one side. Howling as her intestines spilled over her groin and thighs, the disembowelled woman dropped to her knees, gripping the colourful loops that spilled from her abdomen and trying to force them back inside her stomach, whimpering all the while.

The blonde woman lunged with a snarl, blood smearing her face and jetting from her nostrils. Jina slashed with her blade, knocking the knife from the woman’s numbed hand before chopping into the stricken whore’s chest. Her flesh ripped wetly and she squealed as her right breast was split like an overripe fruit. Cradling the butchered mammary, she sank slowly, then gurgled and fell back spread-eagled as Jina slashed open her throat. Blood hosed from the rip in her neck, and her limbs jerked spasmodically as she died.

Jina had thought that the sight of her colleagues being slaughtered in such short order would make the third woman bolt for her life, but the dark haired whore snarled and rummaged in the mud until she found her lost knife, then approached Jina with hate in her eyes. Then, the woman tossed her knife into the air, catching it by the blade and throwing it skilfully at Jina, who gasped as the blade scythed through the air towards her chest. Her arm moved seemingly of its own accord, years of honed reflexes springing into action as she automatically brought her sword up defensively. Through more luck than judgement, the knife clanged off the sword’s blade and fell into the mud once more. The whore had a second to gape in dismayed astonishment before Jina lunged forward, sliding her bloody blade between her foe’s ribs. The woman’s body shuddered as the steel ripped through her body to split amidst a spray of crimson from between her shoulderblades. She sagged on the weapon, her hands gripping Jina’s forearm as she looked into the eyes of the woman who had just killed her. Jina stared right back, used to the look of fading hopes and dreams in the eyes of those she killed, then twisted and yanked the blade, ripping it free of the woman’s body. With a final grunt, the whore crumpled into the bloody mud, legs twitching.

Jina let out a breath, sagging against the alley wall as she surveyed the three bodies. The pointy nosed brunette was still moving, gripping her spilled guts and moaning softly. Jina stabbed her through the heart swiftly to cease her suffering, then cleaned her blade on the woman’s body. She was desperately tired, close to collapse, and fighting the three amateur assassins had taken more of her strength than she had to spare. Knowing that she would have to find a place to rest, she quickly reclaimed her scabbard and the small, mud soaked pouch of silver coins. She claimed one of the long bladed knives the hapless whores had hoped to kill her with, then searched their butchered corpses, finding only a few pennies and a small pouch of foul smelling weed. Then, she forced her aching muscles to jog down the alley, hoping to be long gone before the bodies were discovered.

Emerging into the side-street, Jina began to walk as casually as she could towards the slum area of the city, thankful that the unrelenting rain had already washed away the splattered gore of her victims. She stopped abruptly as a tall woman blocked her path.

‘You look all in, Jina,’ the woman said with a smile. Although she wore a hooded cloak that obscured most of her face, Jina could see wisps of blonde hair framing the woman’s oval face. Her lips were full, and her smile exposed a row of fine, white teeth. Her voice was crisp and clear, tinged with an accent that Jina could not instantly recognise.

‘Who are you?’ Jina asked brusquely, her fingers dropping to the hilt of her sword.

‘A friend,’ the woman replied simply. ‘My name is Arasha, and my mistress sent me to find you. She has work for you.’

‘No thanks.’ Brushing past the woman, Jina hurried on, but Arasha would not be put off so easily.

‘My mistress was quite insistent you hear her offer. It does entail a fair amount of gold, a new life, and a way out of this city without being hounded every inch of the way.’

‘Not interested,’ Jina growled, aware that the woman was following her.

Arasha sighed. ‘She said you might be like this. I didn’t want to force the issue, but . . .’

Jina whirled around, her blade free from its scabbard and its point angling towards Arasha’s throat. She had intended the gesture to warn the woman away, but to her amazement, Arasha had somehow drawn a blade and blocked her own skilfully, the smile never leaving her lips.

‘This isn’t necessary, you know,’ she said amiably, then was forced to parry as Jina drew back her sword and lunged again.

‘I’ve not had a good day,’ Jina snarled as she jabbed low. Arasha danced back, her cloak whipping aside to reveal long tanned legs and a short hemmed leather tunic. The blonde woman blocked Jina’s blade easily, but made no attempt to attack in return. ‘Why don’t you just leave me alone!’

So saying, Jina launched a devastating deluge of jabs and lunges, none aimed at vital areas of the body but all intended to warn the woman away. Arasha simply blocked, parried and twirled away from each blow. Cursing under her breath, Jina finally dropped to her knees, her strength a memory. She looked up through swirling vision as Arasha scabbarded her sword and knelt beside her. The blonde woman placed a cool hand on the gladiator’s brow, and her smile slipped as she felt the heat of a fever.

‘Rest easy, Jina,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve got to get you inside and properly cared for.’

Jina was vaguely aware that more figures appeared around her, and she was hoisted aloft and carried swiftly through the streets of Kafara. She slipped in and out of consciousness several times, her body finally giving in to the damage it had sustained since the fight in the arena this afternoon. Her last memory was of briefly stirring in a warm, comfortable bed, surrounded by aromatically perfumed candles and hooded, whispering figures, then she slipped finally into a long, healing slumber.

xxxxx

Although the arena offered the people of Kafara the chance to whet their bloodthirsty appetites every month, there were other places to go to witness brutal bloodshed, with the added attraction of gambling. The battle-pits in the slum districts were illegal, but mostly ignored by the authorities.

The Bloodpit was situated under one of the larger taverns in the slum district. Lit moodily by guttering braziers and wall-mounted torches, the pit was nothing more than a massive cavern hollowed out under the tavern itself, supported by thick wooden pillars. A circular wooden ring formed the centrepiece, and patrons thronged around this ring as they roared their approval and encouragement at the two women battling within.

The two warriors wore nothing save studded leather thongs and gloves. Their oiled bodies gleamed under the flickering light, and their eyes flashed as they circled each other carefully. Their gloves reached almost to the elbow, and while both were wound around with strips of plate to allow for defence, the right glove was little more than a mitten, thick leather studded with inch long spikes. The bodies of both women already wore the scars from these vicious weapons, and the crowd were becoming more and more aroused by the sight of blood slicking the fighters’ taut, tanned flesh.

Laisha of Kafara was the favourite, a pit-fighter of some renown, while her opponent was Joa of Carador, a city port several days to the east. Both women were statuesque brunettes, although Laisha wore studs in her nose, lips and nipples that gave her a savage appearance. Joa was young and relatively inexperienced, but she was quick on her feet and so far had given a good account of herself. She stepped forwards and jabbed her spiked glove at Laisha’s groin, blocking the older woman’s attack with her armoured left glove as she did so. Laisha dodged aside to avoid the razor sharp spikes, ramming her left fist into Joa’s belly. Winded by the blow, Joa stepped back, ducking under a follow up attack aimed at her face. The two fighters circled again, each respecting the other, unwilling to open themselves to an attack that might cause yet another painful wound.

The crowd roared for action. Most were sweating, red-faced men eager for the sight of blood and death. Several had hired the services of ring-girls, whores who teased and sucked their members in tune with the unfolding battle. Men groaned as blows were struck, as in response their whores would suck or tug, squeeze or twist their penises accordingly. The most skilful ring girls were able to manipulate their clients to such an extent that they only came when the death blow fell.

A few women watched the fights also, and among their number was Gehrak of Lirona. Blessed with a coppery mane of tangled red hair, she took many admiring looks as she sat quietly at a wall-side table, watching the fight as she sipped at a cup of wine. She was a tall woman - taller than nearly all of the men in the pit, and although she was muscular, she had a figure to die for. She wore a simple white blouse that clung to her body and strained over her huge breasts, and as the heat in the pit was extreme the sweat-soaked fabric did nothing to hide her excitement. Her nipples ached as they strained against the blouse, and she longed to rip the garment open and squeeze the engorged buds painfully. She doubted that many of the patrons of the Bloodpit would object, but she was here for a purpose other than enjoyment. She settled for rubbing her moist clitoris through her breeches, her eyes never straying from the magnificent women fighting for their lives in the ring a short distance away.

Laisha feigned a lunge that successfully caused Joa to duck, then lanced out an oiled leg to slam her bare foot into the other girl’s face. Her nose spraying blood, Joa groaned and reeled, slamming against the chest-high railing that formed the ring. Her breasts jiggled as she folded over the bloodstained wood, but Laisha grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing the stricken warrior to arch her back with a scream. Men watching the fight from the other side of the rail gaped as Joa’s breasts seemed to swell and judder, and the girl shrieked in pain as Laisha rammed her spiked glove into her lower back. Blood sprayed from the wounds, which were not deep but bled freely, and Laisha threw her wounded opponent to one side. Joa landed with her back against the rail, her left hand groping her wounded back as she moaned in pain. She struggled to get to her feet, and Laisha grabbed her hair again, dragging her upright and folding her back across the top of the rail.

Those watching shouted encouragement to their chosen warrior, but those who had placed money on Joa were now sounding desperate. Laisha laughed as she raised her right gauntlet high before swinging it down into Joa’s left breast. As the vicious weapon slammed into flesh, Joa yelled again as her breast popped under the force of the blow. Blood and fat squirted from around Laisha’s intruding fist, and as the grinning warrior ripped her weapon free of Joa’s moaning body gobbets of flesh and gore clung to the spikes on her gauntlet.

Joa sagged, and men around the ring groaned in ecstasy as their ring girls nibbled and plied, kneaded and sucked with increasing intensity. Laisha let Joa drop to the blood spattered floor of the ring, where the hideously wounded warrior stayed on hands and knees, gaping in disbelief at the minced flesh that had once been a full, ripe breast. Watching intently, Gehrak’s own breasts swelled as her breathing quickened, and her fingers rubbed urgently at her swollen womanhood through the fabric of her breeches. She dimly grew aware that someone was now sitting next to her, but could not rip her eyes from the culmination of the brutal fight.

Laisha moved to stand behind Joa’s prostrate form, then swung underarm to ram her centre spike between the wounded girl’s buttocks. Joa’s eyes popped wide and she screamed again, rolling to one side and clutching at her backside with her left hand. She flailed with her right, trying vainly to keep Laisha back as the other girl swooped to cement her victory. Laisha took a second to take in the sight before her. Lying sprawled on the arena floor, her chest bloody and her breast butchered, blood belching from between her thighs and running from a dozen other superficial wounds, Joa was humiliated and shamed, and her eyes were shocked as she thought of her approaching death. She could be in no doubt that Laisha would rip her life from her in the next few seconds, and the victorious warrior smiled down at her prey as she relished seeing the defeat in her opponent’s eyes. She stepped forward, pinning Joa’s right arm to the floor with her foot as she let her eyes wander over the dying girls oiled and bloody body. Perhaps a slash across the throat? Or a spike through the eyeball? Perhaps those watching would prefer the kill to be prolonged.

This thought in mind, Laisha drew back her right fist and plunged her spike deep into Joa’s muscular stomach. The woman beneath her grunted, and her hips bucked upwards as the spike ripped free from her toned abdomen. Laisha laughed as she stabbed again and again into the girl’s belly, each time causing Joa’s lower torso to buck as the spike was sucked free of her yielding flesh. The mass groan from around the ring increased in intensity, and more than one ring girl gasped as her man loosed his load into her face or mouth, unable to contain himself any longer. With a chuckle, Laisha deliberately rammed her fist into Joa’s groin, and the stricken warrior let out a high pitched squeal that reverberated around the pit deafeningly. Her body quivered and tensed, then flopped back against the arena floor, her limbs moving weakly as her eyes became unfocussed.

Laisha ripped her spike free of the dying girl’s crotch, freeing a torrent of dark gore, and ceased her foes suffering by slamming her offal-caked weapon into her right eyeball. Viscous matter sprayed from around the glove, and Joa’s body shuddered as it died, signalling simultaneous moans of satisfaction from the men watching, as their ring girls finally, violently, brought them to orgasm.

Gehrak felt herself coming as her fingers kneaded harder still, and her eyes closed as an unbidden moan issued from between her full, parted lips. At that moment, the stranger sat beside her leant forwards to grab both her swollen nipples between thumbs and forefingers and twist them painfully. Gehrak grunted as she came violently, her thrusting hips nearly knocking her table aside. She sagged in her chair, panting as she watched Joa’s body being manhandled from the bloody ring, Laisha standing erect and proud to receive the praise of the satisfied crowd. Only when the butchered body was out of sight did she turn to face the woman beside her.

Anya sat looking at the redhead dispassionately, no sign of emotion or humour on her delicate features. Gehrak took in her plain clothing, sufficient to conceal her form from those in the pit, but not disguise enough to conceal her full lithe body to those who took the time to look properly. She knew who the Ippanese girl was, but bridled all the same as she thought of the assassin’s presumptuous touch. Her nipples throbbed painfully, and her face darkened as she leaned closer to the other girl.

‘I’ve killed for much less,’ she whispered dangerously, but Anya’s expression did not change. Her liquid eyes held on Gehrak’s own unflinchingly, and Gehrak felt herself shudder at the lack of humanity in those dark orbs.

‘Forgive my sister,’ a silky voice sounded from nearby, and Gehrak turned to see the chair on her other side now held the other Ippanese girl. Truly these two were nearly identical, save that Koto spoke while her sister remained for the most part silent. ‘She relishes seeing those taking enjoyment from death,’ Koto went on, taking a sip of watery wine as she glanced towards the ring, seeing that a new fight was quickly being prepared. Six freshly oiled girls in leather halters and thongs were being blindfolded and armed with short bladed knives.

Gehrak shifted in her seat, feeling the need to threaten the impudent woman to her right, but knowing that either of the two Ippanese sisters could kill her in a second. On balance, it would be better to forget the incident and get down to business.

‘I take it you are ready to leave?’ she asked Koto, and the assassin shook her head.

‘You will leave tonight and get to Carador within a week. Ready your crew as you see fit. My sister and I will be along a day or two thereafter.’

Gehrak frowned. ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going?’

Koto did not answer for long seconds, as her attention was diverted by the start of the six way battle in the ring. The blindfolded women lunged and crouched, quickly clashing together in the small ring. Two pairs began to wrestle, and one woman keened shrilly as a knife split her belly and sent her innards spilling across the blood-splattered floor. A slight smile slid across Koto’s face.

‘You do not need to know where we are going.’

‘But I need to get provisions . . .’

Koto’s eyes did not shift from the unfolding melee. Another of the women shrieked as her opponent stabbed her repeatedly in the chest and breasts, and yet another clutched a ripped throat and reeled to the side of the ring, spraying the crowd with sticky gore before she collapsed across the rail with a gurgling sigh.

‘Provision yourself for sixty days, mild weather,’ Koto allowed. ‘Your girls can fight?’

Gehrak frowned. ‘My crew are the best warriors in the eastern seas, but fighting was not part of the deal. That will cost more than . . .’

‘A hundred gold pieces,’ Koto interrupted the pirate captain, revealing a pouch from under her cloak that she passed to Gehrak under the table. ‘Twenty now, the rest on our safe return to Carador.’

Gehrak gaped at the Ippanese girl, who was watching with a smile as another warrior in the ring died, clutching at a spurting wound under her left breast. A hundred gold? That was twice what they had originally agreed. She thought for a second, wondering whether the price could be bargained yet higher, but Koto turned to peer at her with an expression that invited no haggling.

‘Do we have a deal or not, Captain Gehrak?’

‘We do.’ Gehrak gulped, quickly checking the pouch before secreting it in her belt. ‘We do.’

Koto smiled with something resembling genuine warmth. She turned back to the fight in time to see the remaining two women clash. One managed to grip the right forearm of the other and hold her bloody weapon away while she ripped open the squealing girl’s breast. As the girl sagged groaning, and the last of the six women still standing ripped off her mask to receive the applause of the crowd and her winnings, Koto shifted in her seat, obviously intending to leave. Gehrak cleared her throat.

‘I was at the arena three days ago,’ she said, and Koto stared at her. ‘I couldn’t help but notice . . .’ She paused, feeling the assassin’s gaze upon her. ‘On second thought, never mind. I’d probably regret asking.’

Without speaking - but with perhaps a hint of the faintest smile - Koto stood. Gehrak watched the two Ippanese girls sweep through the crowded room, and touched her nipples gingerly. She was still rubbing the bruised teats when Laisha stalked up to the table and flopped into the seat recently vacated by Anya, sweat still running down her body and a jug of ale clenched in one fist. She rubbed herself with a filthy towel as she nodded after the disappearing twins.

‘Those our new employers?’

‘Yep.’

‘What do you think?’

Gehrak glanced at her second seriously. ‘I think we’d better watch out step.’