Free GIRL GLADIATOR by Graeme Farmer

rose quickly and followed him.
    “Stay here! I don’t need your help for what I’m going to do,” Sharn shouted back over his shoulder as he sped off. Fritha waited a second and gave chase.
    As Sharn ran through the night, he did something he hadn’t done for a long time – in fact since his mother died. He called on Taranis, the god of thunder, to help him make sense of all the dreadful things that had happened. He stopped on the dark forest path, looking to the heavens and waited for an answer. But the night remained quiet. Silence. Nothing. Sharn nodded grimly … just as he thought. There was nobody out there who cared.
    “This life you gave me, God, I don’t want it any more,” Sharn shouted into the emptiness.
    And that is why on this hopeless night, he ran towards the Roman wall.

CHAPTER 21
WALLS OF MIST
    F ritha loped behind Sharn, far enough back for him not to know she was shadowing him. Once or twice she thought she had lost him in the thick mist; and she was getting more and more worried as she realised where he was heading. What was Sharn up to? He knew he could not enter Damnonium after dark unless he had business approved by the military.
    She became even more alarmed when he did not slow his steps as he drew near the wall. He was almost within archery range and if it was a clear night, he might have already been brought down by an arrow.
    If only Fritha could cry out at Sharn to halt. She turned on a spurt of speed to try to head him off but what she saw next stopped her in her tracks. A javelin arced out from the ramparts. She saw it catch Sharn high up on his body and he spilled down into the ditch. She cried out as if she felt the pain herself and took off again like an unleashed hunting dog.
    She jumped into the ditch without breaking her stride. The javelin struck out point first through his shoulder, blood welling through his cloak and steaming in the chill. Fritha did not know what to do. Some women are good at the healing arts, but she never had been. She was a fighter, making wounds not mending them.
    As she knelt and tried to comfort him, she heard the nailed sandals of a Roman soldier ring on the stones and then the slit gate open. Fritha was almost relieved – now she was under attack, she knew what to do. She pulled the spear out of Sharn’s shoulder. It was easier than she had expected because the wound was so big from his tumble into the ditch.
    Fritha waited for the soldier to rush her, taking deep breaths to calm herself. A familiar stillness settled on her as she waited, her heart starting to thud slower as she took charge of her body, time stretching out like catgut. She even had a moment to wish she’d snatched up a shawl because the wind was blowing colder. When the legionnaire made his run towards her, it was like she could predict his every move and soon he was bleeding to death at her feet.
    But then she heard the gate open again. Sharn ordered her to run away but she would never leave him to die alone. If it was his time, then it was her time too.
    She was surprised how easily she dealt with her next assailant, noticing that he had shaved carelessly that morning, as she gutted him with his friend’s spear. She tried to assist Sharn to stand but, besides the wound in his shoulder, his leg was broken. She could see the bone sticking out through his leggings.
    And then three men materialised out of the gloom, carrying torches. She lay Sharn gently back down and gathered the spear again. Fritha looked for the eyes of the leader of the three men, as Bredan had taught her to do. The two soldiers she had just killed had shallow eyes – fighting spirit, but not much else. The centurion who arrived now had clever eyes and had brought an archer to pick her off from a distance. That was smart, Fritha thought.
    For a moment, she contemplated throwing the spear but her special skill was fighting in close – and besides, she would only hit one, so she turned her back on the men who