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against the wooden sword, and brought his own practice weapon down in a smooth arc. If Sergeant had not reacted with stunning speed, Thrall’s sword would have slammed into his helm. And even with that protection, Thrall knew that the power behind his blow was such that Sergeant probably would have been killed.
    But Sergeant was swift, and his shield blocked Thrall’s likely fatal blow. Thrall grunted in surprise as Sergeant landed a blow of his own against Thrall’s bare midsection. He stumbled, thrown briefly off balance.
    Sergeant took the opening and pressed, landing three swift blows that would have killed an unarmored man. Thrall regained his footing and felt a strange, hot emotion surge through him. Suddenly, his world narrowed to the figure before him. All his frustration and helplessness fled, replaced by a deadly focus: Kill Sergeant.
    He screamed aloud, the power of his own voice startling even him, then charged. He lifted his weapon and struck, lifted and struck, raining blows upon the big man. Sergeant tried to retreat and his booted feet slipped on a stone. He fell backward. Thrall cried out again, as a keen desire to smash Sergeant’s head to a pulp swept through him like a white-hot tide. Sergeant managed to get the sword in front of him and deflected most of the blows, but now Thrall had him pinned between his powerful legs. He tossed aside his sword andreached out with his large hands. If he could just fasten them around Blackmoore’s neck —
    Appalled at the image that swam before his eyes, Thrall froze, his fingers inches away from Sergeant’s throat. It was protected with a gorget, of course, but Thrall’s fingers were powerful. If he had managed to clamp down —
    And then several men were on him all at once, shouting at him and hauling him off the prone figure of the fighting instructor. Now it was Thrall who was on his back, his mighty arms lifted to ward off the blows of several swords. He heard a strange sound, a clang , and then saw something metallic catch the bright sunlight.
    “Hold!” screamed Sergeant, his voice as loud and commanding as if he had not just been inches away from death. “Damn you, hold or I’ll cut your bloody arm off! Sheathe your sword this minute, Maridan!”
    Thrall heard a snick . Then two strong arms seized his and he was hauled to his feet. He stared at Sergeant.
    To his utter surprise, Sergeant laughed out loud and clapped a hand on the orc’s shoulder. “Good job, lad. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to having me earring snatched — and in the first match at that. You’re a born warrior, but you forgot the goal, didn’t you?” He pointed to the gold hoop. “This was the goal, not squeezing the life out of me.”
    Thrall struggled to speak. “I am sorry, Sergeant. I don’t know what happened. You attacked, and then. . . .” He was not about to tell of the brief imageof Blackmoore he had had. It was bad enough that he had lost his head.
    “Some foes, you’re going to want to do what you just did,” said Sergeant, surprising him. “Good tactics there. But some opponents, like all the humans you’ll face, you’re going to want to get ’em down and then end it. Stop there. The bloodlust might save your hide in a real battle, but for gladiator fighting, you’ll need to be more here —” he tapped the side of his head “— than here,” and he patted his gut. “I want you to read some books on strategy. You read, don’t you?”
    “A little,” Thrall managed.
    “You need to learn the history of battle campaigns. These pups all know it,” and he waved at the other young soldiers. “For a time, that will be their advantage.” He turned to glare at them. “But only for a time, lads. This one’s got courage and strength, and he’s but a babe yet.”
    The men shot Thrall hostile glances. Thrall felt a sudden warmth, a happiness he had never known. He had nearly killed this man, but had not been reprimanded. Instead, he had been told