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But by the end of the second month of rigorous training, Tas looked at Caramon, and the kender had to admit that this was just exactly what the big man had needed. The rolls of fat around the big man’s waist were gone, the flabby thighs were once more hard and muscular, muscles rippled in his arms and across his chest and back. His eyes were bright and alert, the dull, vacant stare gone. The dwarf spirits had been sweated and soaked from his body, the red had gone from his nose, and the puffy look was gone from his face. His body was tanned a deep bronze from being out in the sun. The dwarf decreed that Caramon’s brown hair be allowed to grow long, as this style was currently popular in Istar, and now it curled around his face and down his back.

He was a superbly skilled warrior now, too. Although Caramon had been well-trained before, it had been informal training, his weapons technique picked up mostly from his older half-sister, Kitiara. But Arack imported trainers from all over the world, and now Caramon was learning techniques from the best.

Not only this, but he was forced to hold his own in daily contests between the gladiators themselves. Once proud of his wrestling skill, Caramon had been deeply shamed to find himself flat on his back after only two rounds against the woman, Kiiri. The black man, Pheragas, sent Caramon’s sword flying after one pass, then bashed him over the head with his own shield for good measure.

But Caramon was an apt, attentive pupil. His natural ability made him a quick study, and it wasn’t long before Arack was watching in glee as the big man flipped Kiiri with ease, then coolly wrapped Pheragas up in his own net, pinning the black man to the arena floor with his own trident.

Caramon, himself, was happier than he had been in a long time. He still detested the iron collar, and rarely a day went by at first without his longing to break it and run. But, these feelings lessened as he became interested in his training. Caramon had always enjoyed military life. He liked having someone tell him what to do and when to do it. The only real problem he was having was with his acting abilities.

Always open and honest, even to a fault, the worst part of his training came when he had to pretend to be losing. He was supposed to cry out loudly in mock pain when Rolf stomped on his back. He had to learn how to collapse as though horribly wounded when the Barbarian lunged at him with the fake, collapsible swords.

“No! No! No! you big dummy!” Arack screamed over and over. Swearing at Caramon one day, the dwarf walked over and punched him hard, right in the face.

“Arrgh!” Caramon cried out in real pain, not daring to fight back with Raag watching in glee.

“There—” Arack said, standing back in triumph, his fists clenched, blood on the knuckles. “Remember that yell. The gulls’ll love it.”

But, in acting, Caramon appeared hopeless. Even when he did yell, it sounded “more like some wench getting her behind pinched than like anyone dying,” Arack told Kiiri in disgust. And then, one day, the dwarf had an idea.

It came to him as he was watching the training sessions that afternoon. There happened to be a small audience at the time. Arack occasionally allowed certain members of the public in, having discovered that this was good for business. At this time, he was entertaining a nobleman, who had traveled here with his family from Solamnia. The nobleman had two very charming young daughters and, from the moment they entered the arena, they had never taken their eyes from Caramon.

“Why didn’t we see him fight the other night?” one asked their father.

The nobleman looked inquiringly at the dwarf.

“He’s new,” Arack said gruffly. “He’s still in training. He’s just about ready, mind you. In fact, I was thinking of putting him in—when did you say you were coming back to the Games!”

“We weren’t,” the nobleman began, but his daughters both cried out in dismay. “Well,” he amended, “perhaps—if we can get tickets.”

The girls both clapped their hands, their eyes going back to Caramon, who was practicing his sword work with Pheragas. The young man’s tanned body glistened with sweat, his hair clung in damp curls to his face, he moved with the grace of a well-trained athlete. Seeing the girls’ admiring gaze, it suddenly occurred to the dwarf what a remarkably handsome young man Caramon was.

“He must win,” said one of the girls, sighing. “I could not bear to see him lose!”

“He will win,” said the other. “He was meant to win. He looks like a victor.”

“Of course! That solves all my problems!” said the dwarf suddenly, causing the noblemen and his family to stare at him, puzzled. “The Victor! That’s how I’ll bill ’im. Never defeated! Doesn’t know how to lose! Vowed to take his own life, he did, if anyone ever beat him!”

“Oh, no!” both girls cried in dismay. “Don’t tell us that.”

“It’s true,” the dwarf said solemnly, rubbing his hands.

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