That's all this was, Morne realized.
Others dictating how Morne should act, what he should do, whether or not he would be allowed to see the next sunrise.
That was all he had dealt with for nearly a third of his twenty-eight years of life. Orders and scorn from those who thought them better than him.
That's what his masters had done, that was what the priestess had done, that's what Bobby had done, and that was what these metal-tongued bastards were doing right now.
Morne's fingers suddenly itched for the next fight. He wanted nothing more than to tear these people limb from limb.
Who were they to determine his actions? Who were they to play with his life like he was some cheap ragdoll?
Why should he have to fear death? Why should it not be his enemies instead who cowered and begged for their lives as everything they held near and dear was torn to shreds?
That thought Morne had had after first meeting the Coltha echoed in his mind once again.
What mouse would dare to speak ill of a lion?
These Knife-Tongues thought themselves to be the lions and him to be the mouse trapped beneath their paw, and perhaps right now that was true.
But Morne would leave this place, thanks to the "graciousness" of his hosts, and he wouldn't forget what had happened here. And when the tables were turned, when he was the one in control, he would show no mercy.
The announcer thought Morne going to the guards was an issue before the latter had exposed his Necromancy, but that wasn't the case.
From the beginning, Morne had planned to kill each and every one of them. He had just had subconscious inhibitions ingrained in him from a young age, inhibitions that would've made the task difficult.
"Murder is wrong. All life is precious." These were things every decent parent would tell their children, and Morne's were no different.
But Morne's parents had died from a cold that struck without rhyme or reason, and bandits had massacred his village with the same twisted joy and callousness of a boy plucking the wings of an insect.
Where was the value of life then?
Now he was to kill or die for the entertainment of others, two years after he had clawed his way to freedom, though it felt like but a month ago.
Where is the value of life now?
These Knife-Tongues had unintentionally allowed Morne to shrug off what little guilt he felt over Bobby's demise, and any inhibitions he felt toward murder.
His enemies had no regard for his life, so why should he care for theirs?
As for death… why would he fear such a thing once all his enemies were buried?
Before the gate had even opened, Morne dashed forward, looking for an outlet to vent his frustration. The announcer's words fell on deaf ears as he rushed across the arena's dirt floor.
Morne's competitor, a lanky Ondethalian, dashed out as the gate opened, bringing a mace around toward the former's head.
Morne deflected it with his newly acquired buckler, sending his opponent's mace-wielding arm flying to the side and leaving him wide open.
Morne lunged forward, smashing his fist into the man's throat.
"Ack!"
The man staggered backward, dropping his mace and instinctively reaching for his neck as he struggled to breathe.
But Morne wasn't in the mood to let him recover, and pressed his attack.
A fist collided with the man's face, followed by the buckler, then the fist again.
Before he even knew what hit him, Morne's opponent had his back pressed against the wall, trying miserably to shield himself from Morne's blows.
Morne was relentless, more savage than he had been with Bobby.
He used no Spells, no trickery, only his body. He punched until his knuckles were covered in blood and his lungs were screaming for air, until his opponent's cries of pain died down to mere whimpers.
One last punch connected, and the Ondethalian slumped to the ground.
Morne bent over and hauled him up by his shirt, gripping the side of the Ondethalian's face with his free hand.
"Wither away."
In a few minutes, the torn skin of Morne's knuckles was whole once more and the Ondethalian looked to have lost thirty pounds.
Morne dropped the man and snatched the fallen mace off the ground, inspecting it with narrowed eyes.
It was a sorry-looking thing, missing two of its eight flanges arranged in a circle around the head, and the metal was chipped and rusted in parts. The wooden shaft was rough and carried the risk of splinters, and the head wobbled with every movement, threatening to come off.
He shook it around, tilting his wrist this way and that to get a feel for the balance. He didn't have much experience with maces, but it was better than no weapon at all.
He doubted the last three rounds would be so easy, and his Chimh was still very much a limited, if renewable, resource.
Only now did he notice the crowd's cheers. None of them were dense enough to vote against Morne after his display in the last round, and that skinny buffoon he fought this time was too cocky for their liking.
They were hungry for the next match, for more blood, but the announcer made no move to declare Morne's victory.
Said announcer tapped his cube. "A fine display, but it isn't over yet," he told the crowd. "The round isn't over until someone is dead."
The crowd quieted as one of the nobles in the crowd rushed to his feet. He was the only one who hadn't been cheering and in fact wore quite an ugly expression. He also bore a great resemblance to Morne's opponent.
"Ridiculous! I won't have my son butchered by this animal!"
"These have been the rules since the beginning," the announcer replied calmly. "Your son agreed to the terms when he signed up. Did you think he'd be allowed to kill whoever he wants without risk to himself? You nobles truly do expect the entire world to be handed to you, don't you?"
"You don't want to make an enemy of me, Knife-Tongue," growled the noble. "If this slave of yours cuts down my son, I'll bring the entire city guard down on you. Need I remind you that the only reason you can even stand here is because of my good graces?!"