SLAVES WITH THEIR faces painted gold hauled at a chain that lifted a heavy iron gate. Beyond lay the arena itself: a wide, low pit of sand and blood. Sunlight glared down, and Ulrem held his broad hand up to shield his eyes as he strode out into the open air. He could feel the sand beneath his sandals, radiating fierce heat. Were he to spit, he expected it would hiss and jump. The wall of the arena was littered with more gates: six in total, each rusted and battered from long years’ service.

“The condemned shall go to the center,” hissed one of the eunuchs behind him. The man’s throaty voice was soft and giddy. “He shall stand in the center and salute the prince before he dies!”

The crowd quieted as Ulrem marched across the pit. They were packed together above him, shoulder by shoulder, one riser on top of another.

Thousands of Collanians in their white and rosy togas and sheer tunics, and bright holiday garlands. Behind them were thin bodies draped in the black tunics of slaves. They brayed too, the animal excitement hot even in their blood. Ulrem grit his teeth and whirled the sword he carried, a short thing favored by the city’s army. He might have wished for a shield, but they hadn’t seen fit to give him one. He rolled his shoulders as he came to a stop.

Several tiers up, opposite where Ulrem stood under the beating sun, was a wide balcony of white marble draped in orange and violet banners.

Leaning over the rail idly, like a cat watching its prey, was the Lord of the Games himself: Prince Dardano of House Manahati. Like most of the Collanian nobility, Dardano had char-dark skin, but what marked him out from the rest were his icy blue eyes: the sure-tell sign of the sprawling royal blood. If Ulrem had learned anything about Collane during his two months in the city, it was that were as many princes and princesses as there were flea-bitten curs. He was not awed by this peacock anymore than of the others.

Two women in heavy silver chains stood beside Dardano, their breasts bared, sheer silk wraps coiled about their waists. One of them was rubbing the prince’s chest, her eyes hooded with the drug haze of the kala chew the Collanian nobility favored. The other woman held a goblet on a polished tray, her burnished copper hair falling to frame her pointed face. She gazed down at Ulrem with keen interest in her green eyes.

Sword in hand, Ulrem stared boldly back up at her. The crowd waited, swatting at the incessant bloatflies that hummed lazily in the air, always seeking sweet blood. The winter rains brought the pests, and with them would surely come plague and disease. How many of those who came today for the killing would themselves be dead in a month’s time?

The prince’s hard eyes leered down at the big man in the pit, one slim hand rising slowly as if playing at the breeze. When the crowd’s silence had stretched to the breaking point, Dardano said at last, “Fighters salute their lord.”

“I am no one’s man,” Ulrem said. “But I will kill if I must.”

“Bravely spoken, westerner! Very well.” Prince Dardano pitched his voice for the mob now, gesturing around grandly, taking them all in like a man gathering strings in his hands. “Behold, brothers and sisters, Ulrem the Slayer!” A murmur of appreciation ran through the tiered benches, and they sat forward eagerly, trying to get a better look at the lone man in the arena. Dardano continued, his voice almost a song, perfectly tuned for riling them up: “Before you stands a known rogue, and a killer! He claims to be a man of the Oron Isles. You know what they say of those sea-wolves, eh? Well, today we shall show him the king’s justice! This outland savage slew a meduan man selling his rightful chattel!” Prince Dardano smiled as they booed and hooted. Then: “He tried to bring his foreign foolishness to our beautiful city! But are we degenerates? Are we evil? No! We will show this western dog-man the mercy of Collane: I say let he who would kill be tested by iron himself! Let High Zol render judgment! What say you to that, brothers and sisters?”

They cheered, racking the stands around him, stamping and shaking fists. Some threw pebbles which landed in the sand in little puffs. Some of the slaves clapped their hands above their heads, but Ulrem saw a few more reserved now, their sunken eyes weighing him.

Who are they to judge us? The voice came, unbidden. Mournful almost, but angry. A rising fury from the depths of the ring on his finger, awakened by the crowd. They have abandoned their honor. It was a verdict rendered with the cutting edge of a headsman’s axe. Ulrem shoved that thought back. He would not let its revulsion and anger control him. Not now. He refused to look at Dardano, who was basking in the crowd’s enthusiasm.

Rather, Ulrem held the green-eyed slave’s gaze. She smiled at him, no more than a ghost on her fine lips. If he must wait, he might as well look at something interesting.

One of the iron portals screeched as it was drawn upwards by. More slaves trooped through, eight or ten of them with rolled shoulders and battered, naked flesh. At first, Ulrem thought Dardano might have sent them to fight him, but then he saw that they were carrying gear of some sort. Spears and shields and sword belts, all ferried from the depths of the arena. No, this was some new show, a demonstration for the onlookers. The slaves knelt in the sand beside the gate as two figures loomed now out of the dark, swaggering with perfect confidence and howling at the crowd’s cheering.

Both men were dressed in leather vests studded with polished knobs. Both had shaved their heads to the scalps, revealing twisting tattoos picked out along the bulwarks of their heavy skulls. They were sturdy looking, with broad noses and high cheekbones that spoke of the Irunian tribes, or the Ionassi coast. Westerners like himself, though not quite so far removed. Both of them wore long plaited beards that spilled over their chests, and had the battered, thick-fingered hands of men who knew well their bloody business.

“I give you the Sandsnake and the Kite!” Dardano roared. “Thieves! Killers! Brothers in blood, captured by our army, and brought here for your pleasure!” They bared brown teeth in predator’s grins at Ulrem, taking spears and sword belts from the kneeling slaves. They laughed and slapped each other on the arms, congratulating themselves on their victory, and held hands up to the crowd. They had the cocksure nature of experienced fighters. Ulrem wondered how many times these two had fought upon these sands.

When the two were armed, Dardano clapped his hands together, and shouted, “Begin!”

There was no mad rush into battle, though the crowd screamed as if there were. Somewhere, some fool was pounding on a heavy drum that thudded even through the many-throated mass. Ulrem paced the sands, watching the two, getting the weight of them. They spread out to either side, neither closing the distance, sliding like wolves. No fools, these brothers. They eyed him as warily as he did them, for they must have heard those same rumors as Juban. Good. The Sandsnake, the elder of the two, began a careful advance, spear held defensively out before him. Ulrem knew that wide stance, knew the determination in the man’s eyes. He was the anvil.

He whirled as the other man shrieked suddenly and bounded across the hot sand in two or three strides, spear slashing in an overhand killing stroke. Ulrem caught the blow just in time with his own blade, swatting it aside. Chips flew from where his sword connected with the spear’s shaft.

The Kite, smaller than his brother, was undeterred. He came on like a rabid dog, stabbing and slashing. Ulrem retreated, but away from the Sandsnake, measuring the little man’s fire.

“Hagh!” the Kite roared when he realized that Ulrem had led him away from his brother. The man’s eyes watered with the fury of the mad. He tried again to force Ulrem around and towards his waiting brother, but to no avail. He jumped and jabbed, trying to get past the iron wall of Ulrem’s steady defense, and made his lethal mistake.

The short sword the eunuchs had given him was light: a weapon designed for a man to hold in one hand. In Ulrem’s huge hands, it seemed little more than a dagger, but it was of rugged make, and the blade well forged. He brought it down hard against the spear shaft, and sliced down towards the Kite’s unprotected hands. That made the little man lose his footing as he tried to spring back. Ulrem’s free hand shot out, clamping around the Kite’s face. He gave a muffled yelp, clawing at Ulrem’s wrist, drawing blood in rakes. The spear fell to the sand, bounced, and caught up in the Kite’s feet. He slid off balance, held aloft only by Ulrem’s iron arm.

He had needed a shield. Now he had one. Dragging the Kite around, Ulrem staggered back, gritting his teeth to keep the struggling man up. The Kite gave a jerk and a squeal as a spear tip burst through his chest. Ulrem released the dying man and retreated again, bringing his short sword up to ward off another killing thrust. The crowd surged to their feet, their thunder making the air feel thick.

“No! Markios, my brother!” the Sandsnake screamed, fury and pain ripping from his throat. He dropped his spear, clamping a hand over his mouth in horror. Then his eyes flicked to Ulrem. “You damned beast! I’ll gut you for this!”

The Sandsnake yanked the sword from his belt and flew at Ulrem. Blinded by rage, he hacked and chopped, driving Ulrem back one step at a time. For all his strength and bulk, the man was no blademaster, no wind of death. Just a bully and a brute with all the discipline of a child hacking at saplings. Such strength would have crushed the defense of a city man, but against Ulrem, it bought nothing.

In his experience, the sons of civilization were seldom more than starved, sickly creatures. Their ambition amounted to little more than scrabbling to the top of whatever heap they were born on: the sort of places where strongmen of low cunning thrived. This Sandsnake was no better than any number of brutes he had found fighting and killing in such places over the years. And he had slain them, too.

The crowd, though, saw a killer being pressed by an avenging brother. They saw blood on the sand, and the promise of more to come. They screamed for revenge, pleaded for death. They brayed to their southern gods, and wailed in dismay when he did not buckle beneath the Sandsnake’s assault.

But neither did Ulrem deny them. He caught the heavy man by the wrist, twisting with the unthinking, unstoppable force of a man accustomed to survival in the harshest of climes. The Sandsnake reeled, his wrist shattered in an instant, sword dangling back from nerveless fingers. Still, he was not defeated. He punched Ulrem in the face, twice, but that was the price to be paid. Ulrem’s head was harder than the Sandsnake’s fist. He didn’t need his eyes to guide the sword. The pointed tip pierced leather and skin, drove up through ribs. The Sandsnake made a quiet noise, and then the punching stopped. As Ulrem slid the blade up into his heart, the man rose up on his tiptoes, as if trying to outstretch his doom, and then sagged down onto his knees. Ulrem pulled the blade free in one quick motion. The Sandsnake clutched Ulrem’s kilted leather skirt in one hand, and with the other tried to staunch the blood cascading down his belly.

“They said you was just a savage,” the Sandsnake said. “A bit o’ sport.”

Ulrem looked up towards the balcony as the mob bayed around him. The air hummed like a wasp’s nest with their callous thirst. Prince Dardano watched from his balcony, his finely boned face impossible to read. Ulrem glared back, knowing what his role was in this farce. His gray eyes, chips of granite, did not blink, but his teeth were bared around a caged roar. There was no honor here. No glory. This was simple butchery, and he hated how they thrilled to it. They called him a savage?

“Markios?” the Sandsnake said, his voice shaking and frightened. His eyes rolled back and forth. “Where is my brother? Mother is calling him.” His glassy gaze searched the sky, and found Ulrem’s hard eyes. The man’s life measured now in moments; his pale skin had taken on a blue tone, and he was panting like a dog. Yet still, Dardano played the crowd, fingers brushing the side of his mouth as the green-eyed slave girl whispered something in his ear. The Lord of the Games was hesitating, as if on the edge of decision.

“Your brother is dead,” Ulrem said. “Perhaps you will find him.” That seemed to bring the dying man back from the brink.

“Dead?” the Sandsnake wheezed, grasping Ulrem’s bleeding wrist fiercely. A hot wind stirred the sand around them. “Dead? We will haunt you, savage. We will poison—”

Ulrem slid his sword into the Sandsnake’s throat, cutting off the curse and ending the man’s suffering at once. Above, Dardano had retired from his balcony, taking his women, refusing to even render a verdict. The crowd exploded as the corpse flopped aside. Ulrem tossed his bloody sword to the sand in disgust.

It was done. For now.