Viriato and the young champion raised their shields, both taking the vanguard position, allowing the others to take the flanks and rear line. Both vanguards were familiar with the style of combat being employed by the giant, his form although sloppy promised immense power, each arm appearing as if they were carved from stone. Blackened veins crept up and down the man’s shoulders, arms, and legs; likely the rest of his body was in a similar condition.

“Ready… Time… to… Play.” Menos allowed his opponents the few seconds necessary to get into formation. Rather than rushing in and placing himself where they would have little chance to retaliate, he opted to wait.

However, unlike the giant who was acting like a child with a new set of toys, neither Apollonius, nor the champion, or the former arena slaves were treating this like a game. They would not waste such an opportunity though, and just as Menos finished asking his question a hole opened in their center. Viriato and the champion moved their shields to the side, Apollonius and two former slaves stepped forward, twisting their bodies, and launching the item in their right hand. Three javelins that Apollonius had kept in reserve, obscured behind their shield wall.

For once, Menos was caught completely by surprise, it could be seen in the way his eyes widened the moment before the projectiles left the trio’s hands. His cleaver remained slightly out of reach, there was too little time for him to retrieve it. If he charged forward the missiles would just hit him sooner, he had allowed his hubris to get the better of him, and now he would reap what he had sown. His only real option was to attempt to mitigate the damage, allow the missiles to strike, but to limit the damage as much as possible.

Wasting no more time Menos moved fast, faster than one his size should, yet it did not change the reality and he swayed left and right, dipping, and dodging to limit his exposed surface area as much as possible. It was sloppy and amateurish, but his sheer physicality and natural reflexes made up the difference.

Two of the javelins struck, with one missing by a hair’s length. Of the other two, one penetrated Menos’s forearm, the tip burrowing halfway but not penetrating all the way through. With the last javelin impaling his thigh, the wound was not too bad, the muscles closed around the wound, the shaft shattering under pressure. Countless shards of wood ripped into the surrounding flesh, a portion of the javelin still within the leg itself, the damage was sure to impact his speed and power to some extent.

“TAKE HIM DOWN NOW!” Not one to waste a prime opportunity, the champion rallied the men and charged forward toward the downed giant. The young champion’s spear thrust forward, its tip aiming for the eyes, one of the few areas the black veins did not reach. Yet Menos would not simply allow himself to be attacked, turning his head at the last second and biting down on the wooden shaft. The veins on his neck bulged to twice their normal width and with an audible crack shattered the shaft of the spear below the tip.

Apollonius appeared to stumble for a second, confused, yet the former slaves showed no change, even if they might have felt the same. The reality was simple, before them stood a dangerous beast, one that could shatter thick wood with a single bite. They knew that should they miss this one chance; they would likely die and the risk for letting the thing in front of them escape was just too high.

Viriato struck hard with his axe, the head stopped by the man as he threw up his impaled arm to defend against the blow. Rather than splitting his skull down the middle, the iron head hacked through his wrist. Dark black blood sprayed in all directions, the axe unable to cut all the way through, with the giant’s hand hanging limply from a few strands of muscles, the bone having been shattered.

That was the first time that any of the defenders had heard the man scream or cry, more similar to a curse and grunt of pain than a cry, but a reaction, nonetheless. A reaction he did not have much time to express as two swords quickly struck his flanks, one from each side. However, the short bronze swords barely managed to perforate the surface of his skin, the blades thrusting about a quarter in before being stopped. Both Spurius and Paulus were also forced to give up their blades, the tips were lodged within as if they had been buried in solid stone.

Last were the remaining two former arena fighters, their spears thrust forward simultaneously, one towards the man’s face, the other towards his gut. At least one was bound to hit, and once again the injured giant chose to avoid the strike to the face, twisting his neck and face at the last second. The spear impacted the left side of his mask, cracking the material and grazing his cheek before digging into his left shoulder. This movement left him open and exposed for the other thrust which impacted at almost the same time, the bronze spear tip penetrating the flesh and digging deep into his gut.

Both men chose not to release their weapons and step back, or attempt to pull them loose, they instead opted to lean in, throwing their body weight forward and pressing the weapon deeper into their enemy. Sweat poured down from under their bronze helms, their forearm and shoulders tensing as the muscles exerted themselves to their fullest extent. The two kept the giant pinned, and that was when Apollonius charged forward, prepared to cut downward on the crown of the man’s skull with his sword. There was nowhere left to go, the giant was still struggling against the two spearmen, his right hand was dangling by a thread, his left thigh was pierced through, and so was his right forearm.

Menos knew that if he continued the struggle the blade would split his skull in two. So instead of struggling he made the only choice he could, he allowed the spear to dig into his gut, leaned forward and then threw his body backwards. This move tore the wounds in his thigh and gut wide open, and he could not stop the scream that left his lips. However, he had created distance and avoided the most dangerous outcome, with a minor silver lining. When he jumped backward, he happened to take one of the spearmen, the one who punctured his gut with him, isolated from the rest of his group.

In those few seconds the former arena slave realized the situation, the look upon his face emphasizing the loss and horror. Seconds before the foot came crashing into his chest, launching him through the air as if he had been hit by a rampaging bull. He did not get to enjoy the luxury of death, as he landed near the massive two-handed cleaver, like an executioner’s axe hanging above his head, a harbinger of what was to come.

Menos was quick to follow, closing the distance in seconds, before the spearman’s comrades could arrive to assist him. Rather than grabbing his blade, he stomped down on the man’s chest in a fit of rage. It was as if his foot met no resistance, the bone and flesh barely a barrier as his heel burst through the other side, covering his sandals in crushed bone and human entrails.

The numerous wounds on his body caused Menos to flinch, a rare feeling, yet rage quickly overshadowed the pain. Recognizing how close he had come to death, and the ones responsible for that feeling of weakness, gone was the earlier arrogance, replaced with a bestial fury. He reached out with his left hand and lifted his massive cleaver from the earth where it had fallen. The swing of his sword was slightly off, as if using it for the first time, his eyes glancing irritatingly at his mangled right hand.

“No… MERCY!” Releasing a terrifying roar that left those in front stunned, Menos charged forward his blade coming down onto the second spearman who had nicked his face. The stun from the roar had just worn off, yet there was no time for that man to escape, he could only stare towards the source of his impending doom.

Rather than the edge, Menos used the flat of the blade, bringing down the slab of metal on top of the man’s skull. The strike not only crushed his skull but continued downward compacting the top half of his body into the lower half. Menos’s eyes burned a brighter crimson, like the flames of a furnace; they promised pain, and death, in that order.

Just as Menos was about to charge toward Apollonius and his group reinforcements appeared, the four horse archers burst onto the scene bowstrings twanging. This was quickly followed by a rain of arrows, this time from the camp onto the blood soaked giant. The situation had once again changed, and this time it was the injured Menos who was on the backfoot. Either way the battle would be ending soon, only the victor would be capable of leaving these grounds alive.