IGMS Issue 29 Read Online Free

released it. Its enormous beak, terminating in giant hawk-like hook, was lightening swift; it pecked at first one unarmed man, then another, knocking them down at a blow. With the last man down, it began a series of rapid downward strikes, its giant neck thrusting forward to stab its beak into first one body, then another, ripping each to shreds when it pulled back up.
    Metellus led the other gladiators across the sands towards the giant bird. I looked back up towards Stolo and his sister, but I couldn't see them anymore. When I looked back, the three gladiators were closing in on the terror bird.
    Pictor had peeled off to the left, while Metellus and Thomas circled to the right, banging their spears against their shields to attract the bird's attention. The terror bird's head jerked towards the clanking noise and, with a loud caw, it began advancing on the two men. It seemed only moments before the bird was close enough to lunge, jerking its beak down with lightning speed.
    Metellus barely raised his shield in time to block the bird's downward motion, a crack ringing out as hooked beak met metal shield. He stepped to the side, thrusting his spear forward to ward off the bird's clawed wing as Thomas ducked under the wing, thrusting up in an attempt to disable it. But the bird was too quick. Thomas' spear-head had barely punctured its flesh when the bird spun, the claw on its other wing ripping through Thomas' neck. Blood spurted into the air, onto the bird, and down to the sands as the crowd roared.
    Metellus danced backwards while Pictor advanced on the terror bird from behind as it stabbed its beak down at the fresh corpse at its feet. Pictor lashed out with his whip, the barbed length coiling about the bird's legs, then yanked back violently. The terror bird, its legs tangled, toppled to the ground, crushing Thomas' body beneath it.
    Moving in for the kill, Metellus kept his shield low to protect against the wing-claws. He thrust his spear through the bird's eye, stepped back and lifted his shield high in victory.
    The crowd screamed its appreciation, but the bird, still twitching spasmodically in its death, caught a claw in the meat of Metellus' calf. He screamed, stumbling backward, and the claw tore free, gouging out a thick ribbon of flesh with it. A fresh stream of blood stained the sands.
    Pictor circled round the terror bird's jerking body and grabbed Metellus under the arms, pulling him back towards the exit as the gate ground open and three men rushed out with a stretcher and bandages. When they reached Pictor and Metellus, two of the men quickly transferred him onto the stretcher, while the third wadded the bandage into the wound and held it in place. As the men rushed Metellus off the sands, Pictor stared after them, at me, his expression grim.
    I turned and hurried to my work quarters. I had preparations to make.
    It seemed no time at all before Metellus was sedated on the middle cot. After applying a pressure bandage just above the wound, I pulled off the blood soaked linens from his calf, exposing the shredded flesh and muscle.
    It would be safest to amputate; most surgeons would. But I knew I could save the leg - not as it had been, strong and agile, but enough that he could walk with a cane. Lanista Silus might sell him then, though it was unlikely; generally disabled gladiators were given other work within the Ludus as a show of good faith to those still fit to fight.
    Or I could botch the surgery and let him die, either on the table or by breaking the aseptic operating conditions, allowing infection to enter the wound and turn septic, poisoning his blood until he died in days, or a week. But I knew I'd do neither of these. I've never taken a life simply to make mine easier, and I never will. It was time to get to work.

    In the last month I'd spent more time away from the surgical quarters than in the three that preceded it, because Metellus was still there recuperating under Blaesus' drunken eye and I