C H A P T E R I
Year 317 of the Holorian Western Empire
24 years after the plague.

The great wooden roof was gone, its supporting stone arches, once vast and ornate, had long since collapsed into rubble. What remained was a shell, a gaping mouth of stone, but the ruined Arena at Karisum could still manage a roar to defy the onslaught of decay. The Empire might have consigned the place to the backwaters of a forgotten border, but the people still came, and the blood still ran slick and glistening in its slime crusted channels. In torch lit chambers far beneath the audience stalls, their half naked bodies smeared in oil against the cold, the bladesmen - the combatants who were to be fed to the voracious appetite of the excited masses - sat upon their benches, arms upon their laps and shackled each to a metal hoop in the ground between their feet. Their gazes were fixed, flitting occasionally to one or another inanimate item; the wall, the sewer grates greened with streamers of filth, the shackles, at their own feet, anywhere but to the man beside them, for it was considered ill luck to make talk with those who soon might die. Later the survivors would get drunk together and slap each other upon the back, praising technique and ridiculing those who had performed poorly. Then the women would come to them and those who had the energy would make of the night what they could. But for now, no talk, only brooding thought and a private discourse with whichever was their god. From the sewer grates an echo came, a cheer from the sands of the Arena, twisted by the crumbling brick channels into something like the howl of demons. It was a killing call, a euphoric requiem for those who had died, and died well it seemed from the volume of the chorus. Through the slats in the bladesmens benches came the trickle of urine as the bladders of the novices slackened. Someone sobbed whilst others, overcome with fear - men perhaps yet to face the terror and carnage of the sands under the crowds excited glare - tugged uselessly at their chains and begged the guards to let them go back to their cells. Although the guards might scoff at such a shamelessness, not one of them smiled. They were the Myrions, veterans of the sands themselves who, once slave bladesmen had seen out their compulsory fifteen years service to the Arena, and remained now in its employ as free men, and the Myrions had not forgotten their first time; no bladesman ever did. With a clang the bronze studded door to the western fighters tunnel swung in, rebounding from the wall and sending an echo through the room that sounded ominously like some vast sword striking a shield. Those waiting for their turn watched as two armoured Myrions entered, dragging with them the corpse of the last of the Imperial bladesmen to fight. Who the victor of this match was no-one yet knew for the ruined city of Karisum was not within the Empire but upon the edge of it, where civilised south met barbarian north, and where during the winter months the bladesmen of the Empire met those of the barbarian tribes and fought not for the walls of the city but for wager. One thing that was glaringly evident was that the victor had fought well and had fought hard, for the corpse was without its head.
“One more for the dogs,” Dyonus muttered under his breath.
None of the other bladesmen answered him.
“Daft pig never could hold his sword proper anyhow,” Dyonus continued.
Again no-one made any reply.
Three places to Dyonus right Vanin looked up from his scrutiny of the floor tiles. Dyonus was looking down the line, waiting for a response. He nodded towards Vanin. “Daft he was eh?”
Vanin shrugged. He had barely known the dead man, nor could he recall his name without trying. Attius, that was it; a mid term man, seven, no eight years in service and half way to freedom. Pious too, always muttering to some deity or another, which was damned annoying. Vanin frowned. Well Attius was free now wasn’t he. Free of his lot, such as it had been. No more chains for Attius, and thankfully no more muttering. What were prayers anyway but so much wasted breath.
Vanin set his gaze this time on the bricks of the wall opposite. And why waste any more thought on Attius, he decided. In a moment the Sandmaster would enter and call one of them out to fight, or maybe he would call out a pair. Then maybe it would be Vanin being dragged off to feed the hounds.
I only hope I give them an aching belly and the runs, he chuckled to himself, drawing a confused look from one of the Myrions.
A gust of wind groaned along the fighters tunnel making the flames of the torches flicker, some of them winking out. There was the chill of deep winter in it, a taster of the bitter cold outside. It was snowing heavily. The bladesmen sensed the presence of the Sandmaster before his swaggering shape filled the doorway. His unshaven face split into a grin, deformed by two parallel scars across his lips as he nodded to the Myrions to stand back from the bladesmen so that he could walk along the line. The stink of wet fur and sweat followed him like the spirit of the dead wolf whose pelt he wore. What Handars real name was no-one seemed to know, but the Bladesmen had nicknamed him Handar after the legendary beast that was supposed to precede the coming of the god of the dead to help its master choose those who were to be slain. In an unwitting parody of his supernatural namesake, Handar walked slowly along the line, one hand gliding inches over the heads of the bladesmen. It was an affectation he relished and teased out for every self gratifying moment. He would pass over a man, watch from the corner of his eye waiting for the sag of a relieved shoulder, then step back and point the man out for the Myrions to take. As Handar progressed he bent occasionally to look directly into the eyes of those men who were visibly trembling, just long enough to exacerbate their fear, then with a sneer he moved on. Occasionally a bladesman met his gaze and kept it, but they were few and only those who were veterans of the sand and for whom Handar no longer held any terror. They had seen the worst and had lived, so what more could Handar do but give them more of the same. At the end of the row of nineteen men he turned slowly and shook his head.
“When have I seen such cowards and women?” he scoffed in his gravel voice that sounded to Vanin like someone who had been once had his throat squeezed by the hangman’s noose.
“Is this all that the Empire can produce? Pups that piss themselves even before their feet hit the sands? I tell you I am ashamed to stand out there, ashamed.” He took a step forward and shook his head at the men nearest to him in theatrical disgust. Pointing with a coiled Sandmaster’s whip at the fighters tunnel he addressed the entire bench. “Beyond that door wait hundreds who have come here to see the cream of this Empire put red death to the barbarian animals who think that they are better than we. And what do you give them? What kind of a show?” His teeth bared to a snarl, ”A bloody shambles, that’s what.”
Snorting like an angry bull he stormed back towards the door, flicking the handle of the whip first at one of the novices who let out a noise like a yelp, then at Vanin.
“You two. Show these hut dwelling, shit stinking barbarians how to die. And if all they do is wound you, I’ll finish the job myself.”
Vanin cursed, first at his luck, then at Handars choice of pairing. He had occasionally been paired with the same novice in training sessions, and every time and within seconds he had broken through the lads guard to paint a death wound somewhere on his flesh with the sponge tipped sticks that they used as practice swords. This was the lads first real match and likely to be the only one he ever made for he was by Vanins reckoning useless with any weapon, be it a sword, spear, dagger or axe. And now here the lad was, guarding Vanins back. Not for the first time he cursed whichever god or gods had set him on the path of misfortune that had made him bladeborn. There were many ways in which a man could find himself fighting on the sands. Most were captives taken in battle or during the Empires conquest of some foreign land. Some even volunteered, though their ranks extended mainly to the psychopathic or the stupid, and neither lasted very long. A few were criminals; murderers, thieves or rapers of women, for once under the Arenas protection a man was a citizen no more and could not be prosecuted, unless of course he stepped beyond the Arenas confines. The lot of these bladesmen was a double edged sword, for though they could not be sent to tour, as the men now sitting in the Imperial chamber at Karisum had been, they could be killed at will if they were found abroad. There was even a gallows outside the gates of the Hithorion Arena for that very purpose, and it was well used. But amongst them all there were none considered more unfortunate as those that were bladeborn. They were the street children, the Empires orphans, who abandoned by their parents or sold into the Arenas employ found themselves through no fault of their own adopted by it, fed by it, clothed by it, and owned by it until they came of age and the debts incurred were called. Then for fifteen years they would fight, if they lived that long, for more men died in the Arena than ever saw beyond their term.
The novice, a tanned Torvanician with wide, staring eyes, had to be dragged towards the door, his toes scraping against the tiles through his sandals and leaving behind streaks of fresh blood. A Myrion appeared in the doorway and looking the lad up and down in utter disgust thrust one of the two short swords he was holding behind the lads belt, then moved to do the same to Vanin. Quicker than the Myrion could step back Vanin swung his shoulder at the man knocking him into the wall with a grunt. The other guards seized him, pinning his arms.
“When I take a sword it is by the hilt,” Vanin snarled, nodding towards the shackles on his wrists.
“I like that one. Unlock him now before his anger goes off the boil.” Handars voice echoed along the tunnel and a key was thrust into the shackles. Grasping the short sword Vanin weighted it, checked its edges with his fingers and touched the point. It was a Mundatha, a steel military blade though long since beyond battle worth, but good enough to smash bone and with a bit of force go right through a mans ribcage. It was too heavy at the hilt, and the grip was faded and slippery. No wonder the barbarians were grabbing victory at just about every bout if their blades were good enough to take off a mans head when the Imperial armoury consisted of trash like this. What a contradiction the Empire was, he thought. The Holorians had discovered the secret of steel, of how to turn iron into a substance ten times the use and worth of bronze, and how the barbarians envied that knowledge, yet their bladesmen were hacking down one Imperial bladesman after another today. It all went to show that a weapon was only as good as the man bearing it and for once he understood some of the shame that pure blooded Holorians like Handar felt when the barbarians had a victory on the sands. Maybe they would have another soon, and maybe they would not. After all, thirteen years had taught Vanin one thing well; how to kill and to stay alive.
The Myrion he had thrust against the wall nodded respectfully and said something under his breath that Vanin surmised to be a prayer of luck. If the man had said anything else positive then Vanin would have thanked him for it, but so far the gods had not done him any favours and so he kept his silence and began the always long walk along the short stretch of tunnel that would spit him out onto the Arena floor. Just ahead of him the struggles of the novice Torvanician were getting weaker, futilely and stupidly tiring himself out.
“Do me one favour,” Vanin said to the two Myrions as he drew level with them. “Put a knife in him now.”
The lad gaped, then seeming to finally accept that one way or another he was going out onto the sands settled into a reluctant walk.
Maybe he is feeding off my courage, Vanin wondered. Or maybe he has found a little of his own. Ah, he might as well have accepted a knife in the guts anyway. I have his measure, I have seen him fight. He will not live beyond the first melee.
Side by side, their shoulders brushing as the novice pressed as close as he could to Vanin, they covered the last few yards up to the reinforced wooden portcullis through which snowflakes were blowing driven by the wind. They could see the circle of stone seats now, stacked back layer upon layer from the high wall surrounding the fighting sands almost to the roof. There were not hundreds of spectators Vanin reckoned, but tens of hundreds, faces illuminated by the great bronze fire dishes that surrounded the wall in whose flickering ruddy light the combat would be played out. Slow, heavy snowflakes danced on the eddying wind that shrieked in over the jagged edges of the missing roof, but despite the intense cold Vanins brow prickled with sweat and the blade hilt felt slippery in his hand. From a pouch on his belt he took a handful of fire ash and rubbed it over hilt and both palms. He offered some to the novice but the boys gaze was fixed on the gate as if he could already see his death beyond its wide slats. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and Vanin looked away, though this time he could not help but feel deep inside himself a twinge of compassion.
Poor swine. Poor stupid swine.
To Vanins right an iron bound door creaked slowly open. Without looking at the two bladesmen Handar stepped through it and it clanged shut. A few moments passed and then the Sandmasters voice echoed across the Arena sands.
“Hear me scum of a thousand hovels, beasts of the fields and whelps of the barbarian north.“
A great roar erupted from the west facing stalls, bouncing off the stone walls and rising beyond the yawning maw of the empty roof.
“You who dare come to Karisum, once mighty bastion of Holoria against which your ancestors butted their heads and ran weeping in terror back to their caves.”
Again the roar, that despite the insults showed that the crowd both barbarian and Imperial were lapping up the theatre of it all.
“Hear me good citizens, mighty lords, great people of the Holorian Empire, both west and east.”
The cry from the Holorian seats was almost drowned out by the cacophony of boos and insults from the barbarian side.
“For the barbaricum, who thus far have been victorious by mere luck and the chance of the sands, Burvath of the tribes of Kolebria and Skeld of Gellion.”
Rising from their seats the barbarian spectators cheered the entrance of the barbarian champions and the Torvanician novice stepped back, shaking his head in utter refusal at the Myrions who seizing him by both arms prepared to throw him bodily out through the gate as soon as it opened.
“What do I do?” the lad begged Vanin, his breath hot on Vanins face.
Vanin closed his eyes and almost prayed.
“You stay alive. Oh, and you do the other bastard before he gets a chance to do you.”
Despite the beheading earlier it was not the intention of any fighter to kill his opponent but to render him incapable of winning, either by wound or by knocking him senseless. Of course this did not account for sloppiness, rage, accident, or a simple desire to murder no matter what the rules. Vanin had already decided that if he could kill with a blow then he would. He had seen too many victories turned to defeat when an opponent after feigning submission had stuck his blade into the victors chest or throat; and from that cheat there was no appeal.
It took a few moments for the crowd to quieten enough for Handar to continue his histrionics.
“And for the Empire, representing the masters of the civilised world, an odd pairing I grant,” he forced a laugh. “Semillius of Torvanicia and Vanin the Sarach.”
The cheer from the Imperial seats was more subdued, the mouths that uttered it somewhat stripped of their vigour after watching three of their own bladesmen laid low in so many fights.
Vanin forced himself to relax, working through the muscles from ankles to neck in a practiced, fluid motion, to loosen them out.
A chain clattered in an unseen channel and slowly the gate opened.
Now the sands were revealed to him Vanin moved forward, sword held loosely at his side and taking in the lay of the place in one quick glance. It was larger than he had expected, a good bowshot from one to another fringe wall. There were square pillars dotted about the rim, about twenty of them, hung with chains and shackles showing that the Arena was much older than the ones he was used to. Not for more than a hundred and fifty years had the Empire used these places to chain up and execute lawbreakers, not since the Arenas had passed from the ownership of the state to private concerns, hence them being the criminal havens they were now. There were four identical entrances, gated, guarded and flush against the wall and in the centre lay a smaller circle, a raised stone plinth with a central pillar to which wild beasts could be tied so that they could be taunted for the amusement of the crowd. The crowd was as nothing, a mere distraction, something to be thrust firmly into the background and to remain there until the last blow was struck. Only a novice concerned himself with the fickle mood of onlookers, listening to who they cheered and who they booed. They could yell what they wanted, it was not their head on the chopping block. He listened for the footfalls of Semillius the novice, checking to see that his flank was at least covered, if not protected. The snow, a good three fingers thick, would muffle them but even so he could hear nothing. He chanced a look and saw the two Myrions dragging the lad beyond the gate, then kick him in the back sending him sprawling. Vanins teeth grated. So much for lasting one melee, he thought. I might as well be alone.
A dark shape in the snow drew his eye and he veered towards it, keeping his gaze fixed on his two opponents who were crouched and waiting for him to come to them. Neither were archers, which gave him some breathing space, seeing as they were coaxing him to commit to the attack. The black shape turned out to be half a wooden shield with the hand straps broken away. There would be other objects left on the sand, weapons, shields and the like, there for any combatant to pick up and use as chance allowed, but because of the snow he could not see anything that could give him a bit of an advantage. A thud of clumsy footsteps told him that Semillius was finally with him. Indeed he could smell the lads breath again. Too close.
“Keep out of my arc or I’m likely to get your blood on my blade as anyone else’s,“ Vanin snapped, thrusting an elbow out and connecting with Semillius chest. The boy whined like a frightened puppy. Better still, go and hide behind one of the pillars and out of my way, Vanin thought.
The two barbarians began to move. The larger of the two, his hair spiked out with dried blood to make himself appear even more terrifying and part armoured with fur and bronze greaves and a breastplate sidestepped to his left as the second, blonde and pale skinned, naked but for a loincloth went right, tapping his shortspear on the buckler shield strapped to his wrist. They were opening the gap wide, teasing the two Imperial fighters to break apart where the novice could be despatched much easier leaving two against one. Vanin checked Semillius, for once glad of the lads fear. He wasn’t taking the bait.
“Defend,” Vanin ordered. “We close on them, but let them do the swinging.”
Semillius nodded eagerly.
A sudden urge came over Vanin, to take a glance over his shoulder at the crowd. Most of them would be strangers but amongst them would also be the swabs, the slave women and girls who tended to the bladesmens’ wounds, and other needs. One in particular he both wanted and did not want to see. Lynsa had been his love since before he could fight, and if he was to die this evening then he desired only to look upon her, even if it was from some distance away. And yet, if he knew she was watching it might be just the distraction he did not need. Probably mistaking his rearward glance as a sign of fear the two barbarians finally advanced, working like two mountain lions bracketing a wounded sheep and its lamb. The tall barbarian nodded at his spearman companion who returned it though less confidently.
They do not trust one another to watch the others flanks, Vanin noted. A good pair would act in unison but without the need for signs. Flicking the spear to an over arm hold ready for a throw, blond-hair shifted his feet from side to side, stirring the sand into the snow to make for solid footing. Instinctively Vanin tensed, but could not stop from smiling. Either blond-hair was a clot who was about to throw away his weapon, or he had something hidden. Odd that he wasn’t leaning back to get more strength behind the spear throw. Vanin forced the smile from his lips. Of course he couldn’t lean back, he had a short sword secreted down the crease of his back. But he had to be rid of the spear to make any use of it.
Not so much the novice as you would like me to think eh?
Breaking into a sprint Vanin closed the distance with blond hair and purposefully leaving himself wide open for a spear thrust, or better still a throw. Panicked, blond-hair flung the spear but Vanin had fought too many spearmen not to be able to predict the line of flight and he dodged it easily, though the time wasted gave blond-hair time enough to slip his hand up behind his back and draw out the sword he had hidden there. Vanins first assault struck the buckler shield and blond-hair skilfully stabbed out though Vanin was already well out of the way of the blade. The two drew back, opening a reaction space and Vanin advanced again, sword arm across his body, then with a tight swing at his opponents abdomen. Again the shield was there, only Vanins sword did not strike it but continued low as Vanin dropped his knees. The beaten old short sword did not have the edge on it to sever a limb or cut very deeply, but it was many times more solid than the complex cartilage, bone and sinew that made up the barbarians left knee that cracked like brittle wood spitting blood and tissue out of the jagged hole from which splinters of bone suddenly appeared and the barbarian went down, shrieking hideously and clawing at the ruined leg. Stepping wide Vanin followed through with a second blow this time to the back of the mans neck and killing him. The barbarian crowd howled in fury, not understanding that Vanin had finished the man off not through hatred, but from pity. He was crippled and suffering. Better to die now with honour than as a beggar, rotting on the streets of some hovel town, his name already forgotten.
Realising that Semillius had not followed him Vanin prepared to defend, then cursed. Stupidly the Torvanician was watching him, not the other barbarian and all Vanin could do was shout a warning that was too late anyway. Astonishingly Semillius managed to get his sword up in time to block what would have been a killing blow aimed at his head. The two swords rang and Semillius cried out as the shock of the strike jarred all the way along his arm. Nerves already threadbare and his sword arm numbed, Semillius leapt back, feet slipping on the snow but just managing to keep his balance. Again the barbarian swung at him, missing the Torvanicians face by a hair, but the third attack was a stab, sharp and accurate, with no attempt by Semillius to defend. A full breath burst from Semillius mouth and he staggered away, clutching at his stomach, the blood spilling between his fingers. Smiling grimly, the barbarian sliced the back of Semillius legs, hamstringing him then turned to face Vanin.
The snow was falling less thickly now though wind driven it slashed horizontally across the Arena. The barbarian crowd, now at Vanins back began to chant the name of their surviving champion, Skeld, Skeld, Skeld. If the Imperial crowd was chanting, or if they could see much of the fight through the blizzard Vanin did not know. He kept his gaze firmly on his opponent, taking steady, measured breaths and watching every twitch of every muscle, sizing up the mans skill, and he hoped, any lack of it. Skeld did much the same, though only the barbarian was smiling. Gradually they closed on each other as if they were drawn by some power beyond their own. Skeld’s sword glistened red as he moved it like a snakes tongue, sometimes raising it to the overhand then back to the under, trying always to draw Vanins gaze away from his own.
Confident, careful and measured, Vanin thought. As good an opponent as many I have faced, indeed better than many. A hard fight to walk from this place today.
Now they halted, stepping both to their right and circling, each manoeuvring for an advantage. Feigning a lunge Vanin forced Skeld to react momentarily then noted how smoothly Skeld switched to a defensive stance. But any feigned attack was a risk and Skeld took the opportunity well, flinging up an elbow and battering Vanin in the chest. Vanin fell back, lost his footing and went down. Skeld was on him at once but Vanin was already rolling to his feet and the barbarians hasty assault carried through empty air, the mans weight propelling him away from Vanin and presenting an unguarded back that Vanin only wished he could put his blade into. The two circled again, one goading the other to commit to attack, but neither taking the bait. A sudden jerk of the barbarians elbow took his blade from overhand swing tight into his waist for a thrust and Vanin stabbed out, unsurprised that Skeld was again ready for it and parried well. Skeld roared at the crowd, evidently pleased with himself and confident that his blade would again be wetted with Imperial blood. The barbarian host echoed him, a deafening sound that should have drowned out all thought, but Vanin was a better man than to let it and chewed the inside of his cheek, appraising his opponent. man had a powerful strike and an even better defence, but he had his faults, no man could possibly be so perfect as to be without them. It only took a skilled eye to work them out, and a little time. Again they circled, maintaining the stalemate, then suddenly Skeld attacked, going for Vanins abdomen with a thrust. Skeld grunted as his thrust went satisfyingly deep, meeting no resistance whatsoever, then grinned into Vanins face that was only inches from his own. His expression fixed for a second then changed as his eyes asked questions. Why was the Imperial not sagging to his knees or coughing up blood, and why was the man embracing him like a father might his dying son? Confused, Skeld stepped back, the move becoming a stagger, and dropping his sword folded his hands around the large wooden splinter that jutted out from just beneath his ribs. He sucked a breath, felt the sharpness in his lung and the hot blood that was coming up his throat, then nodded respectfully towards Vanin. Moving forward with the same litheness that had enabled Vanin to turn out of his opponents angry thrust, Vanin stabbed directly into Skelds neck and the barbarian collapsed, body twitching as it got on with the business of dying, and completed as Vanin drove the blade straight through the mans heart. Stepping away Vanin shook his head at yet another pointless loss of life, though thankfully not his own. The man had been good, almost too good, but not good enough to see that Vanin had picked up a splinter of broken shield the size of a good dagger and tucked it down the back of his loincloth.
For a few seconds the crowd was silent, then what sounded like a riot erupted across the stalls. Inclining his face to the snowfall Vanin accepted the flakes onto his skin, their cold prickle telling him he was very much alive. His only thought now was for Lynsa, he would see her again and today life was good. The bulky, swaggering shape of the Sandmaster appeared through the blizzard, flanked by several Myrions, helmeted and bearing shields. Making a wall of wood and steel they moved to protect their victorious bladesman as Handar beckoned him off the sand. Sparing a glance at Semillius Vanin felt a twinge of sadness that he immediately thrust away.
“I would feel sorry for you boy, but regret is the slow blade that pierces a mans courage,” he said under his breath.
“Move your idiotic arse,“ Handar ordered. “Unless you want that bunch of pig stinking hut dwellers to string you from one of the beams.“ The Sandmaster rubbed at his neck as if it was sore and Vanin understood how the gravel had got into Handars voice.
Handar signalled to the Myrions and they began to withdraw, Vanin walking before them and towards the applauding Imperial crowd. Hundreds of voices called his name and some of the crowd were dancing, punching the air and beating their chests. Away to Vanins right he saw the bookmakers at their desks, coins passing to and fro as the gamblers that still gave the ruined Arena at Karisum its purpose collected their winnings, but they were of no interest to him. He wanted to see Lynsa, but the crowd was too energetic and he could see only a few of the swabs, sitting quietly and probably he surmised, praying to their goddess Deonna that they would not be too busy this day. The fighters tunnel loomed and the portcullis creaked open to allow them inside. The tunnel seemed shorter now, nor so dark and as he entered the chamber the remaining bladesmen stood and bowed their heads in silent honour of the victorious and the dead. They owed him much for there were two less barbarians to face on the sands and for some of them that meant they would live a while longer. The Myrions guided him out and he climbed the stairs to the cells where he would be locked away, nevertheless his step was light for it was at his cell that Lynsa would tend to him.
“I watched the fight. You did well,” one of the two Myrions said. “And made me fifty coins the richer.”
Vanin did not respond. When he fought he did so to win time with Lynsa, but the way he fought was down to his father, or the man who he had come to know as his father, for his parents had died before he had chance to remember their faces. As the footsteps of he and his guards echoed in the stairwell Vanin thought of the man who had been kind enough to adopt him and keep him alive, and yet cruel enough to consign him to a life on the Arena sands. How he had come to be in the care of the man who called himself Mitellos, begging and scraping a living by night in the gutters of Hithorion he did not know, only that Mitellos feared the daylight and the crowds that came with it. It was inevitable that they would go to the Arena sooner or later. The streets were diseased and dangerous for those whose diet consisted of scraps thrown from windows and what could be cadged or stolen from the innumerable traders, marketers and store-holders that made Hithorion eternally noisy. If Mitellos had intended Vanin to become a bladesmen he had never said, though in becoming one himself he had ensured two things: that they would survive, and that they would be beholden to the place for fifteen years. Whatever Mitellos had hoped for the future, he did not live long enough to see it, nor had he died on the sands, but at the hands of the Army, for it turned out that Mitellos had lied about his name, and he had been a deserter.
The stairway ended at an arch leading onto a torchlit corridor full of the clean scent of the outside. It was cold, colder it seemed even than out on the sands and Vanin for the first time shivered. His cell door was already open and a log fire burning in the hearth. Contrary to the beliefs of those who came to watch the slave bladesmen fight, they did not reside like chained wolves in squalid pits, but were treated to, if not sumptuous quarters then at least ones which were comfortable. The bladesmen were the heart of the Arena and in truth its one asset, and they were treated well for it. Medicines, fine food and wines, soft beds, willing women - some of them the wives of the wealthy and powerful seeking to couple with the strongest, most courageous men within the Empire to guarantee their offspring came from the strongest seed - and the best trainers that money could purchase; and yet slaves they remained, though unlike the work slaves of the Empire their freedom would come, only they had to stay alive and kill to earn it.
Without speaking the Myrions watched Vanin into his cell then closed and locked the door behind him. The turning of the key in the lock no longer bothered Vanin and he rested his gaze on the form kneeling before the fire. Lynsa had her back to him but he could tell from her breathing that she was crying. She wiped her face with a corner of the shawl that lay over her shoulders and he heard her draw a trembling breath. He wanted to touch her so much but knew that her mood at this time would be confused. She wanted him, but hated him for every moment he spent on the sands with her heart in her mouth.
“Are you hungry?” he asked crossing to the wash basin and shelf that served as a kitchen. She shook her head, still hiding her face. Why she was ashamed of her tears he could never work out. Every time he fought it was the same. Its predictability annoyed as much as it pleased him to know that she cared.
“Two years Lynsa,” he said as he rinsed the dirt and blood from his hands and arms. He cut a thick slice of bread and smothered it in butter then bit off a mouthful and chewed as he spoke. “Two years and we will be away from all of this.”
She stood and turned to him, the whites of her wide brown eyes glistening wet in the firelight. “In two years you may well be dead.”
He swallowed the bread half chewed, its taste spoiled.
“You forget where we are,” he told her, nodding towards the single narrow window, barred with thick iron. “And that there is no choice in this matter.”
She went to him and lay a hand on his chest then ran a finger along one of the long scars that crossed it. “I could not watch you today. I heard the crowd and I thought the worst. Sometimes I wish for it.“
“You sometimes wish me dead?“
She turned her face away and replied in a whisper. “Yes.“
He tried to thrust her hand away but she held on to his wrist tightly.
“I would wish us both dead, for there are no slaves in Elyria.“
Vanin shook his hand free of her and walked to the fireside. Always he consoled himself with the knowledge that Lynsa would be waiting for him, that her gentleness could salve any hurt, that the hideousness of whatever happened on the sands would always be eclipsed by the love that came after. He could not believe in Elyria, that the place existed and that the gods and the dead resided there. When a man died, he went to nothing but meat for the crows or the worms, and so her words cut him deeper than she knew. No matter where they were, even if they remained in slavery to their last breath, he could be happy if he was with her. And yet for her, he alone was not enough.
“There is no other way than to see out the years,” Vanin grunted, dropping an unnecessary log into the already blazing fire. He looked back at her. He adored her face, never more so than when there was a smile on it, only he did not know now how to make her happy. He wanted to taste her lips, so narrow and soft, and to pull her into him, to show her that in him resided warmth and life, regardless of their surrounds. Be there bars on the window and locks on the doors, there were no bars upon their love for each other.
Her mouth tightened into a scowl. “You think yourself a fighter, but in truth you’re a coward.”
“Never call me that,“ he snarled, rounding on her. “You have no idea what you are saying. You talk like you dream, full of foolishness and wishes that cannot come true.”
He immediately regretted the words, expecting to see tears well up in her eyes but instead her expression hardened, her gaze falling cold and unblinking on the door.
“I am no coward,” he said through gritted teeth.
He had struck a Myrion unconscious once for calling him that, earning ten lashes of the whip and a day tied out in the sun for it. He knew why the word riled him beyond self control for it brought up memories that he wanted to destroy forever. Even now as he looked at Lynsa he could only see Mitellos, his father, hanging from the gallows outside the gates of the Hithorion Arena. Mitellos had left the place, for a few hours only, going into the city for some reason that he had refused to disclose to Vanin before leaving and he had been late returning, so much so that Vanin had gone onto one of the high arches of the Arena wall and was watching the road. He had seen the crowd, the soldiers that were in it, and he had seen Mitellos being dragged along with a rope already around his neck. Confused and afraid Vanin could only gape as the man he adored was strung up, struggling like a snared rabbit whilst the crowd jeered and laughed. They had called him coward and deserter and at the time Vanin had not understood. Then when he was certain that Mitellos was dead he had run and hidden in one of the empty cells until one of the Myrions had come looking for him. Together they had gone to cut Mitellos down and to remove his body to the Arenas tombs and there Vanin had learned that the Myrion and Mitellos had become friends. Indeed the man knew more of Vanins father than his father had ever told Vanin and in that hour Vanin had discovered his fathers identity. He had been an officer of the Imperial Alscoria, and he had deserted from it, somehow saving Vanin from death and yet risking everything himself for the Alscoria never forgot the men who fled their post, and never tired of hunting them. Maybe the soldiers had found his father beyond the safety of the Arena gates by sheer ill chance, and maybe they had waited for him. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered, other than they had murdered him, and for that he detested the army and all who served it.
He let out a drawn breath, the anger passing as swiftly as it had risen and was pleased to see Lynsas features soften. She took a hesitating step towards him and he knew she wanted to hold him but feared his reaction. He took hold of her and pressed her close.
“I wont die here, not on the sands,” he whispered into her ear.
“That decision is not yours to make,” she replied as he felt her move her hand from him to the talisman of her goddess Deonna that that hung from her neck. He held back a scowl. All it was was a lump of bronze, as impotent as Deonna herself. Skill and courage kept a man alive, and having something worth living for. “But there is another way,” she said and he drew an irritated breath, knowing what was coming.
“I have dreamed of it so often,” she whispered, “of our walking from this place free from chains and shackles. I dream that we are alive, breathing clean air and walking through tall grasses with the sun warm on our skin, and there are children running at our side, laughing and playing. You are their father and…”
“No more,” Vanin snapped, holding her at arms length. Her eyes were pleading with him still to listen, to hear what she was saying, but he could not let her go on. She wanted him to run, to escape the Arena and to take her with him. It was an idiotic hope, and dangerous for them both if they were heard even discussing it. At the very least they would be moved apart, possibly she would even be moved to another Arena, and at the worst they could be put to death.
“What you are saying is lunacy,” he said, wanting to shake her to wake her up from her dreams. “We would be outlaws, always hunted, always looking over our shoulders and listening in the shadows. The Arena would never cease searching for us even if we could get away for long enough to disappear. I will not even contemplate it.”
“Then you are a coward,” she said.
“I warned you not to use that word to me.”
“Bladeborn you might be, but that does not mean you must die here, and it does not mean that I must watch it when it happens.”
Bladeborn
It wasn’t a word, it was a shackle, bolted onto his ankle the day his father had died and the Arena owned him.
“I was kind of hoping you were carrying that frown because I had a hard fight of it today, but I see it is because you feel sorry for yourself.”
She didn’t answer.
“You must know that I will not give up this place only to become an outlaw,” Vanin continued. “You are worth more than that kind of life. If I am to die on the sands then I will die there, but if I do not, when we leave this place as free man and woman then…”
“And you are worth more than a bloodstain on already filthy sands,” she said, no longer meeting his gaze as she walked to the door.
He wanted to intercept her, to hold and kiss her but his pride would not let him. He needed her to want him more than she wanted freedom, but it seemed that she did not. She banged angrily with her clenched fist against the door and almost immediately the face of one of the Myrions appeared. Vanin tensed, wondering if the man had overheard what they had been saying.
“Let me out,“ Lynsa demanded and the lock clicked.
The urge to grab hold of Lynsa and to stop her from leaving swelled up inside Vanin but the fetters of pride were locked tight on his limbs now.
She glanced back, but her expression told Vanin that she knew she was right. In two years he would be dead. Might as well end things now and save them both months of suffering.
He could not hold her gaze and he did not see her go, only the door shut behind her and the fading echo of her footsteps as she went to the womens quarters, no doubt to mutter with the others about the stupidity of men.
He hoped that she felt as empty and lonely as he would tonight and toyed with the thought of taking another woman into his bed to teach her a lesson, but the idea passed quickly, ridiculous as it was. She would come around sooner or later. They had argued before and yet every time she had gone to the stalls to watch him fight and she had been in his quarters when the killing was finished with. Though when he thought more about it, this time felt different. There had been something in her eyes that he had never seen, a sincerity when she spoke of running from the Arena that spoke of a fools strength of will that just might take her beyond the gates. He cursed himself for letting her leave. If she ran alone then she would be caught, there was no doubting it. But he would never go with her, would he? He went to the fireside and leaned against the wall, spreading his hands over the stone and staring into the flames.
“Two years. I will not waste it on the whim of a fool of a girl,” he muttered angrily. “What does she think? That we will go to live in a city or become farmers?”
The Arena did not let its bladesmen escape. It hunted them down. And it did not stop until it found them. He would not run. He punched the stone sending a stab of pain through his wrist. For the first time in his life he was beginning to think that in some ways he was a coward.

***************



Larcius Kato belched and looked at his reflection in the heavy wine glass. Still the man you always were, he mused. You always could out drink the best of them. Across from him in her cushion padded seat by the huge red stone fireplace, his wife tutted over the clack of her knitting needles; as she usually did when he looked or sounded as if he was enjoying himself. He raised the vessel higher in mockery of a salute and scrutinised her face as the thick glass and red liquid deformed it. A view of the future, of the haggard old ape she was becoming with her holier than thou scowl and disapproving sneers. His lips curled sourly. When had she stopped loving him? Or more to the point when had he ceased to care? They had everything; land, a beautiful villa, staff and servants, productive fields and a herd of cows that dropped calf at the mere glimpse of one of his bulls; only it wasn’t enough for Corellia, nothing ever was. He reached for the quart jug by the side of his seat and only then noticed that Suba, the ill disciplined mongrel that his wife utterly doted upon, was not lying behind his wifes chair. She glanced at him and he tried to look nonchalant as he gazed out of the window at the snow piling on the sill. Too late.
“Suba.” His wifes voice made him wince and he gritted his teeth as he would with an earache.
“Suba, come girl.”
He already knew it was a waste of time his wife calling. In his minds eye he saw Suba run out of the door when he had gone to stock up on firewood from the store in the rear courtyard, and now he realised that he had not checked to see if the damned animal was back inside when he shut the door.
Before Corellia could order it, he stood up and went into the hall to get his cloak and boots. It was bad enough having to go outside to look for his wifes darling without having to endure even a second of her grizzling and whining.
A glance around the rear courtyard showed a trail of paw prints, now only faint indentations in the deep snow, leading through one of the archways and to the front of the villa. Maybe Suba was lying up on the porch?
He left the rear door off the latch so that she could scratch her way in if need be, and then went out the front. The wind was stronger here, whipping up the snow in a fine spray that had pasted the walls and was busy coating the windows like whitewash. There was no Suba, but the prints were there again, just about visible as they disappeared down to the properties main gate. It took a good ten minutes to reach the cart track to Karisum and by then all signs of the impulsive and stupid mongrel were gone. He decided to turn left and go along the cliff top. His voice would carry further from there and with luck he would only have to call a few times before Suba gave up and came home.
“It really makes my entrails knot,” he grunted to himself as he stomped along, wiping his streaming nose with the back of a sleeve that only made his face wetter. “What a life, what a frittered away and pointless life.” He spat, making a black hole in a snowdrift.
Twenty five years a soldier, twenty five years of blood and sweat and knee deep in muck and slime on so many battlefields he could name barely a few of them, and he had chosen this province to retire to, and Corellia to share his last years with. So many provinces, so many glorious and beautiful places from his beloved Coritanicia with its olive groves and warm sea breeze, to the azure coasts and verdant hills of the Muril Islands; a veteran of the Alscoria could choose wherever and be set up for life. And yet he had picked, correction Corellia had picked, Sarachia. All that had mattered to her was that his pension would be worth ten times more in the north than the south. She had never stopped to listen when everyone had told her that was fine, but there was nothing for a hundred miles worth spending any of it on.
He stopped at a gap in the pine trees through which he could look down over the half ruined city. There was a glow of fire smoke from a dozen or so chimneys and the usual red gleam of the torches and firepots that were doing their best to keep the crowd in comfort in the damned Arena that brought ten times more trouble in Larcius opinion than it was ever worth. Did he hear the crowd yell in delight or was it the wind? He couldn’t be sure, and when he thought much more about it, he didn’t care either way. Someone was probably dead, but it wasn’t him, so what did it matter. The snow swirled and thickened, blotting out the sight of the city now and making the world feel deserted. And why would anyone else be out on such a night as this, he wondered, other than one old man searching for a mongrel he couldn’t stand the sight of, that had replaced him long ago in his wife’s affections. A bark sounded from the woodlands behind him and he looked angrily towards it, recognising it as Subas. Was the evil little jackal teasing him or something? The pine forests stacking back to the east were nothing but a black smear under a white smother and there was absolutely no way he was going in there to look for a dog. But equally was he willing to stand around here for the next however many minutes or hours it took for Suba to get bored of nosing and yapping at the entrances to rabbit holes? No, he was damned well not.
He shouted again, then cocked his head to listen, but nothing came back to him but the scream of the wind.
Fuming he clenched his fists and swore that he would kick the damn creature so hard that it would limp for a week. He yelled a curse, then stabbed his fingers into his mouth and whistled, puffing his cheeks out and making his face even redder. He had known better behaved camp dogs. A glow of lamplight from one of the many cottages at the base of the cliff shone out and he knew that his shouts and whistles had carried that far. Very far of and roughly the direction of his villa he heard another bark, or thought he did. Was Suba working her way home then? Well that would about put the lid on it wouldn’t it? He standing here freezing to the core whilst Suba lounged before the fire. Maybe it had been a bark and maybe it had been some far off echo of the first. He couldn’t be certain enough to go home just yet, for as cold as it was, it was not half so bad as an hour of Corellias nagging.
Five minutes passed and the snowfall thickened even more so that he could see barely a few dozen yards ahead of him. He stamped his feet and swung his arms across his chest. This was becoming ridiculous; in another quarter of an hour he would be lucky to find his way to the gate, never mind the villa. Come what may, he decided, its time to go to that stack of bricks that aught to feel like home. It took twice the time to retrace his steps and he had been right to worry. If it had not been for a tree he recognised he would have wandered right past the lane to his property and even then it was a struggle to keep to it and reach his front door. There were no more paw prints but he couldn’t care less what Corellia might say anymore. He couldn’t feel his feet, his joints were stiffening up with the pains and his fingers felt like someone had smacked them with a hammer as he tried to get a grip on the door handle. As he opened the door the wind whipped past him and rushed along the hallway with a screaming howl. What on earth was Corellia thinking! The house was bitterly cold and quite evidently she had thrown the back door wide open.
“Corellia,” he yelled, then muttered curses at her under his breath. The floor was wet as if Suba had shaken herself all over the tiles and his wife couldn’t even be bothered to mop it up. Now he would have to build the fire as high as it would go, and get up in the night to check on it, otherwise the water would melt, then ice up and the tiles would crack and - damn the woman - the cost of the repairs!
He forced the door shut against the wind then stormed along the hallway, meaning to slam the rear door so hard as to shake the walls, until he saw that the sitting room was empty. She had gone to bed! She had actually left the door open, left a mess and gone to bed. Larcius Kato fairly flew up the stairs. Twice he slipped on patches of wet and by the time he got to the second floor where the bedrooms were and saw the marble plinth and bust of his father lying shattered where they had been knocked over, he was in such a rage that he could actually picture himself lifting Suba off his side of the bed and tossing her out of the window. And the Gods protect Corellia if she said or did anything else to stir him. Tonight the master of the house was taking back the reigns. No more henpecked, downtrodden, timid Larcius Kato. Those days were over.
The bedroom door was open, which was lucky as he was going to kick it off its hinges, and he entered the room making straight for the bed. His mouth was already open to let out eight years of pent up wrath and it stayed open as his gaze took in the blood and filth spattered across the walls, then the ragged and barely recognisable mess in the middle of the bed that he surmised was his wife. His momentum carried him forward a couple more steps until his feet squelched into something yielding and he looked down at her dog. In revulsion he pulled his foot out as the other slipped in blood and he went down onto his side, cracking his elbow and fouling himself in gore. Madly he kicked out his legs to thrust Suba’s carcass away from him, noticing that there was steam rising out of it, like thin smoke into the now freezing air. He got to his feet and brought his hands up to rub his unbelieving eyes then felt the dogs blood on them that was now all over his face. Then he vomited.
How he got to the bottom of the stairs he barely knew, clinging to the balcony as if he had been wounded himself and with spit and vomit streaming from his chin. His legs gave out as he reached the back door and he went onto his knees, rubbing his hands in the snow to rid himself of the stains of murder, all the time moaning and sobbing to himself like a frightened child.
Murdered. He heard himself saying it over and over, but it was like he was listening from outside his body, watching himself from above and trying to work out what he was seeing. His mind wouldn’t clear, it wouldn’t let him think. With effort he stood up and leaned against the doorframe, holding his head in his hands and pulling at his hair, babbling deliriously, laying the blame at his staff, himself, the damned dog, even his wife.
Murdered, yes, murdered. She had been murdered. Little by little he was taking a grip on himself. Should he go back upstairs and at least throw a sheet over Corellias form? Had he already done that? No, no he had fled the room sobbing like a woman hadn’t he. She was his wife, this was his villa that some beast amongst men had defiled, he had to go and at the very least cover up the corpse. But he just couldn’t bring himself to look at it, the cadaver with steam rising out of it, the gleaming wet organs. He shivered. But it wasn’t just murder was it. Things had been done; evil things only he just hoped that Corellia had been dead before it.
Anger dried his tears and he stood up tall, even though his legs wobbled. He told himself he was Larcius Kato, veteran soldier of the Imperial Alscoria, not some half wit, emotional farmhand. Hearing his own voice somehow gave him courage and strength again. He wiped his eyes and stifled his sobs with a hand, and then he saw the footprints.
Going out into the centre of the courtyard he turned and scrutinised the ground. The snow had been churned as if a crowd had roamed through, back and forth with no reason or pattern to it. As if he was a dog on a scent he ran stooped to the ground, following the tracks until he was sure they had come in over the wall and then by his guess straight for the door that he had left on the latch for them. A chill stroked his spine and instinctively he drew back, staring at the walls crest and wondering had his wife’s murderers watched him go to the wood store earlier? Had Suba sensed something and gone out to investigate? Is that what she had been yapping at? He shook his head. What did it matter now. Oh but it would matter to them, whoever they were, when he got a hold of them. He would show these filth the meaning of pain, then they would do the screaming and dying. A glance about showed him that the footprints, booted feet by the look of it, led away through the wide archway and up the lane towards his staff quarters. And where were his staff? Wasn’t it their job to protect his land and property when he was not around?
He shouted, but his voice was too hoarse and weak to be heard over the howl of the blizzard which chose that moment to increase its fury, so he started to run, through the archway and to summon help, praying that the prints of his quarry were not being obliterated by the snow and wind. The lane lay straight and gleaming white before him, a gentle decline through a channel in the pinewoods with faint at the end of it the black shapes of cottages huddled in a second walled enclosure beside his barns and storehouses. He half expected to find Hindolf and the others making for the villa with weapons in their hands, and he slowed to a brisk walk, sensing something odd that he couldn’t yet put his finger on. The tracks continued along the lane, then scattered going left and right into the trees as if whoever the murderers were had been frightened off or maybe even challenged. But beyond them the snow was virgin and unmarked. A thought struck him and he stopped dead. Maybe his staff had been involved in this, or maybe they had done it themselves? He had heard them muttering together in the fields and casting him looks over their shoulders. Scheming and plotting; counselling rebellion he shouldn’t wonder. But surely not loyal old Hindolf. The man had been Larcius gang master and foreman for as many years as he had been living in this place. But Hindolf was still a Sarach and what love did that bunch of savages really have for their Holorian overlords? Well if his staff were in any way involved then the fields would run red after tonights treachery. He did not count himself a cruel man but by all the Gods they would know his wrath and it wouldn’t end at that. Not until he was standing over their twitching corpses. The more he thought on it the more it made sense. They had come in over the wall, wreaked their hatred, realised that he wasn’t at home and then they had split off into the forest to track him down. Well that had been their mistake. Firstly they had left their cottages and he would start by burning them down, with their children inside if they didn’t get out when he ordered them to. Next he would wait in the trees until they came rushing back, then it would be their turn to be terrified and when they fled screaming it would be his turn to do the hunting. He put a hand to his side suddenly realising he had not brought his sword. It mattered not. There was time to start things off, then time to go back and get it. Oh yes, there was time. Quickening his step he made for the first door, that of Hindolfs cottage, catching a glimpse of the patch of land between each cottage that was again churned and dirty. He hit the door with his shoulder realising as he did so that it was already open and it swung in, struck the wall and bounced back knocking the breath from him, but not the fury. Like a wolf into the sheep pen he leapt into the room, fists raised and then he stopped. The fire still burned in the hearth, the newest logs barely having caught light though the pot beside it had been upturned spilling water and vegetables across the floor. He saw Hindolf first, face down and in a pool of his own blood, with arms stretched out in what had evidently been a vain attempt to protect his son and wife. The other bodies were partly obscured by blankets but there was little doubting the state of them. How many times had he heard Hindolfs wife yelling at her husband for his clumsiness or for forgetting some chore and wondered how a man could tolerate such incessant chiding? Yet here they were, fingers entwined in death and with the body of their son in a vain attempt to protect him, lying underneath them. Larcius closed his gaping mouth and turned away from the corpses, ashamed of himself and feeling like some thief who had defiled a tomb. Dragging a bitter breath through clenched teeth he emerged into the blizzard. The nearest property was that of the brothers Uris and Gram, strong lads the both of them and with wives equally capable of taking care of themselves. He went to it, unsurprised to find the door split by a great crack down its middle and hanging off the hinges. A gust of wind blew through it, whirled about the interior and fled by the rear door that was missing. Blood soaked the walls, the floor, every sheet and blanket of the beds. Gore and innards were strewn about as if someone had purposefully flung them out of the corpses with as much force as they could muster. And yet it was the stink, the smell of cold meat that made Larcius Katos stomach churn. If he had not already emptied his guts on his own stariway he would have done so now. Trembling he rested a hand on the wall to keep from collapsing as his entire body went slack from shock and he backed out of the place. What had been done? And for the sake of all the gods why? These people had nothing worth the taking. The carnage of battle he could understand, but this, this senseless and utterly repellent slaughter! Nor was he fool enough to think that it had ended. Everything was becoming so much clearer now. No, the killing had not ended, not yet, not when it had been done so thoroughly and so hideously. Because Larcius Kato, the master of the villa, he who had been witnessed to leave the door to his property on the latch for the murderers to enter, he who had for these past minutes been hollering and kicking at the doors and drawing attention to himself, he was still alive, and the tracks in the snow weren’t covered over yet. And it was snowing so heavily wasn’t it. He laughed, not because he found anything funny in all of this, oh no there was nothing to find even mildly amusing. No he was laughing to himself because of all the people murdered he should have been the one to get away, veteran soldier of the Alscoria and with twenty plus years of learning how to keep himself alive when the others around him were being slaughtered. He heard the crunch of snow and sensed the presence in the yard behind him, but he didn’t bother to turn around. If nothing else, he had courage enough not to whirl about and shriek like some woman, or one of those timid Sarach peasants cowering in their cottages. It took a brave man, no better than that it took a man of rare courage indeed, to look his own death in the face and to greet it with a mocking nod and a contemptuous smile. He wished he had his sword, the one he had been presented with by his Alscoriate on retirement, but that was hanging over the fireplace, so he might as well have picked up and rolled a snowball as think of the thing. The wind howled and he looked up into it, still resisting the urge to turn to face his soon to be killers. And in any case they were not in any hurry. They were toying with him as much as he was with them, so he decided to watch the snowfall to give him a nice reminder of the world before he left it. He wondered if he should shout again for help, but he shook his head at the thought. What an indignity, and anyway, who would hear on a night like this? Slowly he turned, meaning to spit into the eye of whoever was behind him, but the spittle just dangled on his lip as something burned into his stomach and he looked down to see a blade, a large and beautifully made weapon, with swirls and symbols etched into it that appeared to glow like they were on fire. He was surprised to feel envious of his killers wealth. What a thoroughly lovely thing to be killed by and so much better than the Imperial swords, even those carried by high ranking officers. The wound didn’t hurt as much as he thought it might have, and it was certainly a mortal wound at that. Of all the wounds he could ever have taken on the battlefield, the one he had always dreaded most was one into the gut. What a waste of worry. That he hadn’t cried out even now made him feel good. A tiny victory, something robbed from the hand of his killer, like a thief snatching a ring from the hang mans finger just before he dangled loose. A hand, oddly large and peculiarly clawlike like gripped his shoulder to give leverage as the blade was withdrawn and he looked up at his killer, raising even a smile in defiance. Then, despite all his courage, the obstinate pride that he had gathered in these last seconds of his life he