Martimeos stood, eyes closed, in a small, cold stone room, wearing nothing but his pants and his boots. His bronzed skin pricklled with gooseflesh, and he could feel the scar across his back burning. In his hands he could feel the weight of his longsword, good steel. But more than anything, he could feel the wild fire in his blood, the strange and fickle mirth that filled him, the glee that danced hand in hand with his rage.

"You're a fool," came a soft voice, gentle despite the insult.

Martim opened his eyes. Kells and Elyse stood in the room with him, leaning againt one of the walls. Kells wore a grim expression, his gray eyes like stormclouds, but otherwise unreadable. Elyse, though, tugged fitfully at her long dark hair, and frowned at him, a discontent shadow in her black robes and hat. "A fool," she repeated. murmuring. "I understand if you wanted venegance, Martim. But it might have been purchased smarter. We could have killed Torcull in his sleep. Even made it seem as if it were a natural death. There was not a need to risk yourself like this."`

It had been a full day since the feast, since Martimeos had challenged Torcull to a duel to death. Since then, he had been isolated by the Crosscraw in this room. Not imprisoned - it was custom, it seemed, for any duel to the death to be preceded by a day of isolated contemplation, during which either contestant might back out without a stain to their honor. Martim had expected to hear that Torcull had refused the duel, but no. A day had passed, and no word came. And now, that the fight was about to begin, Kells and Elyse were permitted to visit him.

Martimeos laughed wildly in response to Elyse. He could not help it; it was as if his very heart and soul were lifted by some sweet, bewitching music, as if every inch of him danced to a tune only he could hear. "To kill him in his sleep would be not nearly so satisfying as pushing my sword through him, after a fine dance with blades."

Elyse's frown deepened at that, and she stepped forward to place a warm hand on his forehead. "You are acting very strange," she muttered. "Addled by fever? I will not allow you to fight if you are sick."

She yelped, as suddenly, Martimeos caught her waist by the crook of his arm and dipped her, and then her cry was muffled as the wizard leaned forward and kissed her deeply. "A kiss from a pretty lady, for good luck," Martim told her, as he broke the kiss. "It is no fever. I am healthy as I have ever been."

Elyse dangled limply in his arms for a moment, catching her breath, then realized her hands were twined in Martim's hair. She pushed him away, dark blue eyes wide with shock and pale cheeks stained red with a blush, before pulling her hat down to hide her face in its shadow. "A...madman," she said, turning around to face the wall and shaking slightly, as she fiddled with the dark ring she wore. "A madman to steal a kiss from a witch like that. Hm."

Kells coughed awkwardly into the silence, catching Martim's attention. The soldier's face was stern as he spoke. "I understand as well," he said, plucking a hair from his black coat, "But I cannot say I approve. It is not just your life at stake here, Martim. You are, potentially, the only way we have off this mountain. The Bogge-King and his bogge-men might spare us if we travel with you, but I do not think they would bother to have such mercy if you were dead. You risk our lives as well."

Martimeos swept a hand through his long, shagggy hair and glanced at Kells, and the soldier furrowed his brow curiously. There was something strange about the wizard's dark green eyes, something he just couldn't put his finger on. Some twinkling that was not normally there. "I suppose I'll just have to win," Martim said, shrugging. "Do not worry. He cannot best the likes of me."

Kells raised a dubious eyebrow at this. "You are acting strange. Listen here, wizard. Torc may be a cripple, and old, but he's not so old that you can rely on him being slow, and he makes up for his missing arm with battle cunning. I kept my ear to the ground. Did you know that even after losing his arm, he continued fighting in the Queen's War? He would not have survived that if he were not very clever indeed. Do not rely on his bad side being a weakness; in fact, he might rely on tricking people into thinking it is one."

Martim was about to answer, but was interrupted by a loud scraping sound. All three turned their eyes to the doorway; a stone archway, but unlike others in this place, it contained a pair of doors carved from rock as well. These slowly swung inward, pushed by a pair of burly Crosscraw men; a third stood silhouetted in the light of the exit, his arms crossed. "Time tae go," he said gruffly, but not unkindly. The Crosscraw men, in general, had seemed oddly unsurprised by Martim's challenge of Torc. While many of the women had been upset, the men seemed almost understanding.

Martimeos, Kells and Elyse stepped out of the small stone room, and traveled down a short hallway, flanked by the Crosscraw men, leading into the fighting pit of the Crosscraw, the large, circular theater with layered benches carved into the rock, lit by flickering torches, filled in the middle by a pit of sand. When Martim had seen this place before, on the way up to the Great Hall of Dun Cairn, it had been largely empty. Now though, it was packed with hundreds of Crosscraw, though even this number was not nearly enough to occupy all the seats. Mostly women, of course, though the few Crosscraw men that still lived were there as well. The women stared down at him with stony, scowling faces, but the men, while they could not be said to be happy, merely watched him, arms crossed; some gave him curt nods.

Before he stepped into the pit, Kells and Elyse left his side, to take their place among the benches. Martim was glad to see that whatever hostility the Crosscraw women might have for them, it did not extend to those two, at least not yet. "Good luck," Kells said simply, before he left. "Don't die."

Elyse, on the other hand, simply stared at him, still red-faced, mysterious dark-blue eyes boring into him. Anger and a more mischievous look seemed to battle each other across her face, and she opened and closed her mouth several times, as if thinking of what to say. Finally, it seemed, she settled on anger. "I'll kill you if you lose and leave me stranded here," she snapped, dashing away before Martim could point out how little sense that made.

Martimeos stepped into the pit, waving gaily to the Crosscraw women who sneered and jeered at him. He spun around slowly, taking it all in. This place, he realized, was oddly less decorated than the rest of Dun Cairn, and more crudely carved. No great statues of warriors past here; nothing but rough stone benches and a pit. He spotted Aela, among the benches, her face hidden in the shadows of a wolf-head cloak, red hair spilling down her shoulders, expression unreadable. Maol-Manos, Chief of the Crosscraw, was there as well, sitting well apart from the rest, at the highest benches, his white silks drifting around him, expression stern beneath his fuzzy cloud of a beard, surrounded by his retinue of grayhaired old Crosscraw women. And Grizel, the crooked old witch, was there by the Chief's side as well, seeming oddly excited, constantly plucking at her colorful shawl. She had a small red blob in her long silver hair that Martimeos eventually realized was Flit, nesting on the witch's scalp.

And there, across the sand pit, was Torcull. The man was shirtless, as Martim was; in fact, he wore nothing but a deerhide wrapped around his waist that left most of his legs bare, one of which was painted white from foot to knee. His body spoke of something once well-muscled that had since fallen into disrepair, paunch and flab where there might have once been tight muscle. His right shoulder, where his missing arm should be, was a whorl of shiny and puckered flesh. In his good arm, he carried a bearded axe with a long, well-worn wooden shaft, nocked and pitted with scratches from old battles. He nodded to Martimeos, grimly, stringy red hair falling down to around his shoulders, eyes deep-set and tired.

The Crosscraw crowded here muttered and jeered amongst themselves for a few moments, creating a small din, until a loud voice boomed across the theater. "HEAR ME, CROSSCRAW," Maol-Manos cried, and swiftly, all noise died down. Stroking his long white beard, the Chief of the Crosscraw continued speaking in a more measured tone. "Ah want ye tae ken," he began, "Tha' this takes place witout mah approval. Ah dinnae like honor-battles tae th' death, especially amongst th' men, such as we are right now. An' this one should nae be happening."

He shifted, leaning forward, to pin Martimeos with a hard stare from across the arena, cloudy eyes narrowing. "This lowlander," he said, pointing to Martim, "Has grief aginst Torcull. Fer, from what' Ah understand, durin' th' Queen's War, as et turns out, ol' Torc here was involved en a raid on th' lowlander's village. Naow, Ah can understand th' lowlander's anger. War can be a bitter thing." He leaned back, tapping his fingers along the stone bench beside him. "But th' way et es among Crosscraw - th' way et should be - es tha' once et's done, et's done. Killin' done durin a war es nae murder. Ye dinnae seek out blood debt fer et. Else evry war fought would start a hundred more."

Maol-Manos paused once more, shaking his head, his long white hair drifting around him. "Fer that, Ah considered bannin' this fight. An' Torc could hae refused. He doesnae owe th' lowlander a fight fer what was done durin' wartime. But et were Torc hisself who insisted - nae, begged - tha' th' fight be allowed tae happen. Ah cannae say Ah ken his reasons. But he felt strongly enough about et tae tell me tae mah face that, whether Ah approved or nae, et were going tae happen - en secret ef Ah didnae allow et en th' open."

The Chief leaned back with a disgruntled sigh, his scarred face wrinkling in a disconcerting scowl. He waved a dismissive hand, white silks fluttering as he did so. "So, let the bloody business be done." He focused his cloudy eyes on Martimeos once more. "Yer a wizard," he said, "An' so Ah will tell ye, while use of th'Art es nae forbidden, et es nae considered honorable." With a final frustrated growl, he crossed his arms, and looked up at the ceiling, as if so disgusted with the whole affair he would not even watch. "That's et. Kill yerselves, fools. Let this pointless fight begin."

And that, it seemed, was that. There was nothing further, no opportunity given for either Martimeos or Torc to speak. Just the expectant silence of the onlooking crowd, watching the two of them, there in the sands. Martimeos held his sword out in front of him, steady and straight-backed, concentrating on what was before him until his awareness of the surrounding Crosscraw fell away. Nothing mattered, here, except for himself, the sand, and Torcull, the pale, dour butcher.

When it became clear that Martimeos did not intend to move, Torc crept forward cautiously, bare feet padding noiselessly through the sand, holding his bearded axe in front of him. He circled around the wizard, always out of the reach of Martim's sword. His armless side presented a tempting target, but Martim restrained himself from leaping forward to take the bait. Instead, he gave Torc a wild, crooked smile. To the hells with their honor, he thought, and concentrated.

After a few moments, Torc's matted red hair began to smoke. The Crosscraw did not notice this yet, as he continued to circle around Martim, looking for an opportune angle to strike at the wizard. Did not notice, that was, until Martimeos snapped his fingers, and suddenly Torc's hair burst into orange flame.

As the man's green eyes widened and he shouted in pain and alarm, stumbling backwards, Martimeos leapt forward, aiming a strike with his sword at Torc's armless side. But, caught off-guard as the Crosscraw was, Torc was still no fool. He gritted his teeth, ignoring his burning scalp, and more nimbly than Martim would have thought possible, spun and swung his bearded axe, hooking the beard around the hilt of Martim's sword. And with a fierce yank, Martim found his blade torn from his grasp, buried in the sands.

Torc swung once more, in a wide arc. Martimeos danced backwards to avoid it, but it seemed almost as if Torc predicted his movements. He cursed as the axe bit into the flesh of his upper left leg, and a sheet of blood began to pour down his pants. He fell backwards into the sands, scrambling back to avoid the next blow, green eyes wide and wild, doing his best to ignore the burning pain.

But it seemed that Torc's plan had just been to purchase himself some time with that blow. The Crosscraw man could no longer ignore his flaming hair, which had begun to blister his scalp. With a growl of pain, he launched himself backwards from Martimeos and sank to his knees, rolling his head in the sand, smothering the fires.

Martim took the opportunity to cast his eyes about the arena. He was dimly aware of howls of outrage from the Crosscraw in the audience, cursing him for using the Art. He saw the hilt of his sword, the rest of the blade buried in the sand, and scrambled forward on hands and knees to grasp it. But before he could make it, Torc had recovered, much of his long red hair now a stinking black mass, still smoking, and he dashed forward to kick the sword further out of Martim's reach.

Martimeos rolled onto his back, trying to scramble backwards quickly once more, as Torc stood above him, raising his axe for a deadly blow. But just before the man could bring the axe down, Martimeos pretended to reach into his boot, and then flinging his arm forward, conjured a glamor of a dagger thrown directly between Torc's eyes. The Crosscraw man shouted in alarm and stumbled back, waving his axe to deflect it, quickly recovering when he realized that no such dagger had been thrown.

But by the time Torc had recovered, Martim already had hatched his next plan. The wizard reached out with the Art to touch the sand they fought in, and when Torc took a step forward, he suddenly found himself sinking into the sand up to his knees. Thrown off-balance, he toppled backward with a yell, his one arm windmilling as he struggled in vain to maintain balance.

And then, Martim, who had scrambled to his feet, dashed forward, and kicked Torc in the side of the head as hard as he could. He smiled with sadistic satisfaction as his boot connected with the Crosscraw man's head and it rocked backward, and Torc's eyes became unfocused. He kicked again, and again, watching as the man's nose became a squashed red smear beneath his boots, and his lips bloody, open gashes.

Torc still held onto his axe, but was now in no state to wield it. He flailed, unseeing, with his arm, waving it weakly in the wizard's direction. Martim aimed a kick at the man's wrist, and was rewarded with a sharp snap. Torc's grip went slack, and he dropped his axe, which immediately buried itself into the loose sand.

Martimeos stalked around Torcull, who now lay on his back, staring unfocused up at the ceiling, struggling to breathe through a bloody and broken nose, his beard now coated with blood. Wild fire flared within Martim's blood, a song of wicked glee, and he kicked at Torc's torso, again and again, kicked until he heard the crack of bone. And when Torc doubled over in pain, wheezing, he kicked at the man's face, hard enough that the Crosscraw spit out the fragments of broken teeth.

Dark thoughts took hold of Martim's mind, even as his heart sang with triumph and freedom. This man - no, he was not worthy of the name, this pig - how many friends had he lost to Torc and his fellow butchers? How much of his childhood had gone up in corpse-stinking flame and ash? Wasn't it just serendipitous - wasn't the world so wonderful - to grant him such an opportunity for revenge? Weren't the fickle whims of fate so sweet and beautiful?

He kicked, and kicked, and kicked again, not so much kicks any more as simply stomping on the man, shouting curses as he did so. Bringing hs boot down forcefully on Torc's torso, his hands, his legs, wildly, and Martim's mind was torn between the bitter memory of all his lost and slaughtered friends and folk, and some wild and strange part of him that simply wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. For what had the Crosscraw committed all these awful crimes? To, in tne end, be slaughtered and stalked, and hunted and annihilated. Torc had damned himself for nothing, in the end. For no gain at all. And that seemed darkly amusing, to Martimeos, to the wild shadow in his blood.

Finally, he stopped, his long, shaggy hair wet with sweat, panting for breath. Torc's body was a mass of bruises and blood. While the man still breathed, raggedly, he made no attempt to move. Martimeos staggered away, feeling the scar on his back burn, and plucked up his sword from the sands. With a feral smile, he turned back towards the broken and shattered Crosscraw man, stumbling with his wounded leg across the sands. "So, Torc," he said, bearing down on him, "How would you like to die? Perhaps I should burn you to death. That would be fitting. Or maybe I will simply take your head. Or-"

Suddenly, the air was driven out of him as someone tackled him from the side, sending him sprawling in the sands, though he managed to maintain his grip on his sword. Struggling to his feet, he glared at the one who had tackled him.

It was Aela. She knelt by her brother's side, hunched protectively over him, his blood already staining the wolf-head cloak she wore. She looked up at Martimeos with bright green eyes nearly spilling over with tears, but her expression was one of fury, like a cornered fox ready to bite. "Stop et," she cried, "Stop. Please, Ah beg ye tae stop." She blinked, and now the tears did flow, carving twin furrows down her cheeks. "Dinnae take him from me," she gasped, nearly choking on the words. "He's all Ah hae left."

Martimeos stared down at her, wild green eyes unblinking, for a long moment, his sword gripped in his hand. Slowly, as he stared, the world came back to him. The world beyond these bloody sands. He looked around, aware now of the din the Crosscraw crowd around him was making. Many of the women were on their feet, yelling and jeering at him, hundreds of faces contorted with outrage and fury. Only the Crosscraw men looked on, unmoved, their faces still as stone.

"Please," Aela continued, and Martim looked back down at her. She was gently wiping blood from Torc's face, doing her best to clean the ruin of it. "Martim, Ah ken. War can be a bitter thing. Ah promise ye, Ah ken. But et's as th' Chief says. Once et's done, et's done." She gave up on trying to clean Torc's face with a sob, then looked up once more at Martim. "Mah brother may hae attacked yer home, but can ye hol' him responsible fer doin' what a warrior must do en th' normal course o' battle? Ye may hae done th' same as he, had ye fought in the Queen's War-"

Something inside of Martimeos snapped. "I would have never done the same as he!" he roared, his eyes blazing so fiercely that Aela backed away, shaking in terror, against the stone walls of the arena. "Never! The normal course of battle?! I do not know how you Crosscraw fight, but where I come from, it is not the normal course of battle to deliberately slaughter the innocent - children - babes!" He shook with rage, his fist tightly clenching his sword. "How dare you imply that I would have done the same. How dare you."

He stared at Aela, mind clouded with thick rage, but it slowly drained out of him when he realized that the shouts and the jeers of the crowd had fallen completely silent. It was quiet enough now that the only sound was that of Torc's ragged, pained breathing.

"What...?" Aela asked, still trembling. She looked at him, confused, and then glanced at Torc. "What do ye....what are ye saying...?"

Martim looked at her, and then looked around, at all the Crosscraw staring down at him. He laughed, raggedly. "You don't know," he said, swinging his arms wide. "Of course you don't. Your menfolk would not have told you of the awful things they had done." He let his arms drop limply to his sides, then turned his head, pinning Aela with a hard stare. "'Tis true," he said simply. "Your brother, when he came to my village - he and the other Crosscraw - put innocents, children and babes to blade and torch."

Aela clutched at her furs, with both hands, twisting them fitfully as she shook her head. "Nae," she muttered, "Nae, I dinnae believe et. Yer lyin'."

"He....doesnae lie," came a broken, thick voice, spoken past a swollen tongue. It was Torc. Though he still lay on his back, bruised and broken, and though his face was nothing but a mass of purple, lips split and red benath Martim's boots, with pained gasps, he lifted himself up on his elbows, as far as he could. "Et's the truth."

Silence, across the theater, greeted this. Complete and utter silence. Until one woman's voice called out: "Et's th' wizard - he's - he's usin' th' Art. He's makin' Torc say this!"

The Crosscraw burst into mutters and shouts, until a sudden gust of wind ripped through the chamber, fierce enough that Martim raised his arm to shield his eyes from stinging sand. Even before the wind had died down, Grizel's voice, unnaturally loud, echoed through the room. "There es nae Art at work here," she cried, flinging her gnarled arms wide. She lowered her voice as the Crosscraw grew quiet, and all eyes turned to her. "There es nae Art," she repeated, "Torc speaks of hes own will. And I can tell ye, neither he or the wizard speaks a lie."

"Torc...?" Aela spoke hoarsely, into the ensuing silence. She looked to her brother, her face a mask of confusion. "Et's...mebbe th' others did such terrible things, but ye didnae. Right? Tell me ye didnae." She tried to force a smile to her face, but it just looked mad and broken beneath her wide, fearful eyes. "Ah ken ye didnae. Ye wouldnae ever do such things."

Torc merely stared at her, barely able to see beneath swollen and bruised eyes. "There was a barn," he said, quietly, each word accompanied by a pained breath. "En yon wizard's village. Me an' some others....we rounded up some folk. Tol' them that if they stayed in th' barn, they would be safe."

"See?" Aela interrupted him, almost frantic. "See, Ah knew ye'd - ye'd act honorably-"

"Listen," Torc hissed, and then coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Ah will hide et nae longer. We gathered 'em. Th' weak an' innocent, those who couldnae fight. Women. Children. Mothers," he grimaced, "With babes in their arms."

"Ye saved 'em," Aela cried. "Please. Please tell me ye saved 'em."

Torc was silent for a long moment. He looked away from his sister, unable to look her in the eye. Instead, he stared at Martimeos, as he spoke his next few, hushed words. The theater was quiet enough that, even muted as he was, every word carried across it. "Once we had filled the barn," he continued, "We barricaded et. So none could escape. An' then...we set et ablaze."

A great, hushed gasp ran through the Crosscraw at this, a long, collective inhalation of breath. But it was broken swiftly by the piercing, keening wail of Aela, who let out a cry like a dying animal. Her breath grew ragged and rapid, as if she could not get enough air, and she clutched at her chest as if trying to hold her broken heart together. "Oh, why," she wailed, unable to stop her frantic sobbing. "Why?! D'ye hae any idea how much Ah looked up tae ye - Ah thought ye so brave - Ah thought ye were winnin' us honor, an' instead - instead ye were killin' children and babes? Why?!"

Torc did not answer his sister. He only hung his head in shame, as she trailed off into broken babble, curling up in the sand and sobbing inconsolably. But he looked up once more, squinting through swollen eyes into the crowd, as Maol-Manos spoke up. The Chief of the Crosscraw wore a grim expression, his hands folded in his lap, eyes hard enough to shatter stone as he looked down at Torc. "Well?" he said, his voice full of a sudden authority that had not been there before. "Answer yer sister. Ah wish tae ken as well. Why did ye do these things?"

Torc remained silent for a long moment, and then took as deep a breath as he could without wincing. The crowd grew hushed so that his weak speech would carry across the room. "Ye all think of the lowlanders as soft," he said. "Well, th' Queen's War taught me that th' Queensmen, at least, wage war harder than we might ever imagine. Clan battles seem like children playin' wit sticks, compared tae what Ah saw en th' service o' th' Queen." He paused for breath, felt around his mouth with his tongue, and spit out another tooth. "En mah first battle wit' them, Ah saw more men die than Ah saw mah entire life en th' mountains. 'Tweren't even close. Ten times more corpses than Ah had seen 'til then. An' when ye see et, over an' over again...all that death, et...does somethin' tae ye. Life seems like...a small thing tae take. Et becomes easier an' easier tae be more an' more brutal. An' that were jest th' way th' White Queen liked et. She liked fer folk tae ken tha' ef they defied her, death fer all was what they could expect." He was quiet for a moment, and then, in a hushed whisper, "Though Ah think at th' end, we jest liked th' killin. All o' us had seen too much death. An' it jest became somethin' wicked en all o' us, Queensmen and Crosscraw alike, tae deal et out."

The Crosscraw reacted strangely to this. The women muttered amongst themselves. But the men...dark-eyed and silent, the men nodded. "Et were th' White Queen, then," a woman's voice cried out, almost plaintitively, as if offering up any explanation that might absolve what had been done. "Th' White Queen, an' Reinhast One-Eye. They made ye do these things."

"Nae!" Torcull roared, with surprising strength, more than Martimeos thought the man still had within him. Though blood dribbled down his chin, he seemed outraged by this. "Reinhast One-Eye may hae been an auld bastard, an grim as death etself - but ef anythin', he would hae been glad tae hang us ef he knew what we had done. Et was me! Et were us! Ah could hae stopped any time - ran away, an' lived off th' land 'til Ah found mah way home - but Ah chose tae murder instead!" And with that sudden outburst, Torc seemed to exhaust what strength he had. Blood bubbled out of his mouth, and settled back into the sand, hacking and wheezing.

The sounds of his coughing were the only ones in the theater, for a time, echoing off the walls.

"Who-who cares," cried out a Crosscraw woman from the benches. As loud as she spoke, her voice trembled as she yelled, uncertain. "Who cares what happens tae th' lowlanders? Why do we need tae treat them th' same as our own? Ah cannae see why we need tae lose one o' our men jest because he killed some lowlander bairns."

As soft mutters of agreement answered this, Aela dragged herself up from where she lay in the sands, and looked at the crowd of Crosscraw in disbelief with eyes red from tears. "How can ye say tha'?" she asked, and her voice was full of so much heartbreak that Martimeos felt some of the rage drain out of him. "How? Yer nae like tha', please - ye cannae mean et. Yer good, Ah know et, yer good folk, Ah...Oh..." she put her hands to the sides of her head, clutching it like she was afraid it might split open. "Oh, why," she whispered. "Why would ye say that."

"Aela es right," Maol-Manos cried, glaring over the crowd, a look of disgust written plain across his features. "Ye shame yer ancestors with that thinkin'." He slammed a fist down upon the stone bench on which he sat. "Ah dinnae care ef they're lowlanders, ye dinnae kill children." He pursed his lips and spat on the ground to emphasize his contempt. "An if ye think ye can, yer worth less'n that." Maol-Manos looked down into the sands, down at Martimeos, who stared up at him. And then, to Martim's surprise, the Chief of the Crosscraw buried his face in his hands in shame. "Ah suppose that explains, wizard," he said, "Why ye were so intent on fightin' Torc. And ye hae the right o' et. The slaughter o' innocents cannae be forgotten as an act o' war." He sighed, and looked up, his cloudy eyes full of a sad exhaustion. "Do as ye must."

Martimeos was quiet for a long, long time, as he stared up at the Chief. Not a single Crosscraw made a sound as they watched on, now. And then, sword in hand, he limped quietly across the sands, until he stood over Torc.

He looked down at the bruised and broken Crosscraw, thoughtfully, expression unreadable. Blood bubbled from Torc's nose, and every breath the man drew came with a pained wince. His hair was a mass of burnt and blackened char matted to his head. But still, as he lay in the blood-stained sand, Torc managed to speak. "Nae a day has passed, wizard," he whispered painfully, "Nae a day since th' war ended, tha' Ah hae nae felt th' shame o' what Ah had done. Ah thought, ef there were any justice en th' world, that someday, someone would make me pay fer et." His split lips turned up in the closest thing to a smile he could manage at the moment. "Ah deserve this. Ah hae waited fer et."

Martimeos digested this for a moment, quietly. He turned his head to look at Aela, who lay leaning up against the stone walls of the arena, the lights behind her eyes gone. She barely seemed aware of her surroundings. She merely sat in the sand, silent tears streaming down her face. But eventually, she noticed Martim staring at her. She stared back, looking at the wizard, holding the sword and standing above Torc. Her breath caught in her throat, and she hung her head, her long red hair falling over her face as she did so. "Ah cannae ask et of ye," she whispered hoarsely, "But...he's still mah brother. Mah only family left. Oh, damn me, all Ah hae left. Please understand, Ah...Ah dinnae excuse what he's done, but...he's still mah brother."

Martimeos did not answer her. He slowly lifted his head to stare out over the crowd of watching Crosscraw. The women, many of whom still seemed angry, though they kept it contained. And the men, who though they stood with folded arms, seemed weary and resigned. Maol-Manos, who watched with a hand to his forehead, white silks spilling all around him, shaking his head with shame. And Grizel, who stood beside him, who did not seem upset at all by any of this, leaning forward and watching eagerly to see what he would do, keen eyes almost hungry. Kells there, in the crowd, the soldier straight-backed and cutting a sharp figure in his slim black coat, who seemed more releived than anything that Martimeos had won. And Elyse, beside him, her dark blue eyes wide with shock at what she had seen, but whose expression was otherwise unreadable.

"Wizard," came a soft voice. Martimeos turned to face the source, to find that a Crosscraw woman, smaller than most, had pushed her way to the lowest benches. Her hair was shorter than most of the wild manes the Crosscraw women wore, as well, coming down only to her shoulders. She seemed young, but she was nevertheless clearly with child, her stomach a round bump beneath her furs. She trembled as she looked at Torc's bloody body by Martim's feet, but her eyes were dry as she steeled herself and stared the wizard in the eye. "We hae nae met," she mumured, "But Ah am Sile, Torcull's wife." She paused, considering, and then with a wavering voice, continued. "Ah will nae tell ye that Torc es a good man these days. Ye would nae care, Ah think. An Ah cannae say ye'd be wrong fer tha'. An' Ah will nae swear venegance on ye ef ye kill him, fer Ah think ye'd kill me right quick ef Ah tried. Ah will jest say...that Ah ask fer mercy fer him." She lowered her eyes, placing a hand on her stomach. "Ah carry his child, an...ef nae fer Torc's sake, fer the child's, Ah would like et tae have a Da'."

She seemed as if she was ready to say more, but Martimeos interrupted her. "For the child's sake," he said, coldly. "Do not lie to me. For the child's sake, you could marry another man, one who is not such a monster, and raise it with him. If you wish to beg for my mercy, do it honestly." He waved a hand towards Torc, as the man wheezed and sputtered blood. "You do this for him."

Sile seemed taken aback, but then she raised her chin high, eyes clear and proud. "Et wouldnae be such an easy thing fer me tae find another man here," she said harshly. "So Ah dinnae lie to ye. Et es fer th' child's sake. But yes, wizard, Ah do et fer Torc as well. Ah willnae lie. Even after all I hae heard, Ah love him still. Ef ye wish tae hear me beg, then yes. Ah beg o' ye. Spare Torcull. Fer both mah child an' me."

She stared defiantly at Martimeos, maintaining her pride. But so wild and fierce were the wizard's eyes that she began to tremble, and then finally broke, staring down at the ground.

Martimeos turned away from her, turned away from everyone, to stare down at Torc's bloody face once more. A wild music still ran through him, a tune that pulsed in his veins, gleeful and feral, as he looked down at the man. Think of it, it whispered to him. Think of what he said. This man probably personally ushered some of your friends to their deaths. Take his head. Of all the Crosscraw, he deserves it. Or would that be enough? He wants death, after all. What could you do to him to make him suffer more?

Martimeos closed his eyes, listening to this wild, dark voice in his head.

Then he opened them, and lashed out with his sword.

Another great gasp ran through the crowd of Crosscraw as Martimeos severed Torcull's hand. The bruised and broken man hissed in pain as blood spurted from the stump, drunken up greedily by the thirsty sands. Martimeos looked about the crowd, and then back down at Torcull, and spoke loud enough for all to hear. "You," he said, "Will never again take up weapons, for any reason. You will never again hold one, even in defense of your people."

And as the crowd broke out into mutters and babble, as Maol-Manos roared for quiet, Martimeos leaned down, far down, until his hair brushed against Torcull's face, and placed his lips next to the man's ear. "And lest you think this is my mercy, Torc," he whispered, "I curse you. I am a wizard, after all. That shame you feel for what you have done will haunt you for the rest of your days, but tenfold. You will never be able to look into the eyes of your child without thinking of how it was that which you took away from others. And the more you love it, the more precisely you will understand exactly what it was you have done. Never will it be far from your mind. You will carry the guilt of it until the day you die. And it will stain your every...single...thought. So do I curse you."

And then he rose, smiling wildly down at Torc, who stared up at him with frantic eyes. "Nae," the Crosscraw man whispered, "Nae. Kill me. Kill me."

Satisfied that the man had believed him, Martimeos calmly wiped his blade clean on Torc's chest, and then spat in his face. He staggered away, as Crosscraw leapt into the pit, rushing to Torc's side. Suddenly, the wild, dark music within him seemed to stop, and his head filled with a dimming fog. His leg, he realized, throbbed with pain. He looked down to it, to realize that his pants were soaked through with blood, and his left boot squelched with it. That, he thought, was a lot of blood.

He stumbled, and then found himself supported by a pair of strong arms. He looked up to see the gray eyes of Kells staring down at him. "Had me worried, there," the soldier muttered, as he propped Martim up. "Didn't I tell you not to assume his unarmed side was weak?"

Martimeos wanted to answer, but his mind was having trouble forming the words. His thoughts felt as if they were stuck in jelly. Elyse's face swam up before him, now, his vision so blurred that she seemed almost to be simply a pale face floating in darkness. "Martim," she asked, her voice seeming to echo in his ears, "What tongue was that you were shouting? When you were kicking Torc."

"What?" he tried to say, but his lips seemed unable to move.

He felt Elyse's warm hand against the side of his face. It felt nice. "He's cold," she said, her voice warbling as if it were reaching him through a long tunnel. "Where is Grizel? Get her. She knows more of healing than I. If she thinks she's treating Torc first, I'll push that old biddy down the mountain. GRIZEL!"

"Not so loud," Martim muttered, or tried to. "So irritating." But he was no longer with Elyse, anyway. He had already slipped into a dream of a dark forest where the shadows danced and spoke to him, and told him that he had done a fine job indeed.