The ten men were doomed to die. They marched the slope to the gate on high. As they entered the arena, the sun shone bright. For each of them it would be their last light.
The crowd booed at the villains of this bout. They had not a warrior to tout. Across from them, another gate. So this would be their fate.
As it rose, a chariot came, Two men riding in the unfair game. Clad in armor and wielding bows. Then three of the dead men rose.
Cut down in a flash, their blood did splash. Seven left as the chariot rounded the bend, it was coming to rampage and rend.
It barreled through them, arrows flying, more and more men dying. Another round and three did remain. The chariot was their bane.
Then it stopped, the two jumped off, The larger let out a cough. They charged at the three, one who was hurt, His was the first blood to soil the dirt.
Two on two, the fight began fast, the dead men's blades were easy to get past. They fought their best, but the two soul's found rest.
Blood all over the ground, down the fight wound, and the audience saw no plight, as they cheered their champions all that night.