They led him to a funeral banquet. Escorted by four of the swollen eunuch guards, Ulrem was marched down a long, narrow chamber cut into the rock of the earth. The walls were built of great tawny blocks, but sand spilled through gaps where the masonry was crumbling with age. Lanterns hung sparsely along the walls, drawing between them bleak, isolating shadows. Passing through the dark that separated each lantern’s insubstantial glow felt like a premonition of doom. There were a few dry wells too, but the stars above shed no light down into the tunnel. The prisoners, little more than meat for the mob, were shackled away from even the lights of their ancestors.

There were already men down in the feasting hall: more than a dozen unwashed dogs and sorry souls, tearing into hunks of meat and guzzling strong wine.

Ulrem paused at the door, taking it in. Many of the men wore bandages on their arms or heads. They did not speak, did not even seem to notice one another as they set about their gluttony. Many of them would never sit at a table again, and they ate as if trying to escape the devil. So much food would make them sluggish, or thick headed; all the easier for being led to the slaughter on the morrow. He shook his head, and dropped down the short flight of stairs and into the hall, vowing to keep his wits about him.

When he was very young, no more than a wandering pup, Ulrem had taken ill in one of the coastal towns of Nuadon, the land of the Hundred Halls. The winter had gone hard for him, and starvation forced him down into the valleys where the people kept their towns. He was not long for thieving before he was caught, but the Nuadons took a strange sort of pity on him: they locked the starveling in a cell. Though it shamed him, their unexpected mercy had saved his life, for Ulrem would surely have frozen on the cold gray shores otherwise. A bentback old priest often visited him, who had no more than three teeth to his name, but always bore a plate of food. This priest took it in mind to tame the wild boy who had come over the Wolf Strait as one would train any dog. He gave Ulrem scraps at first, and trusting smiles, and praise. Slowly, over the course of weeks, Ulrem began to understand the priest’s foreign tongue. It was not so different than that of his fathers, though the words had a hurried sort of music, and they repeated themselves as if they were all half-deaf. He learned that the guards called him Black Devil, and Dog Boy, but the priest had a different name for the young, pitiful thing locked in the iron cage, so far from home. The priest called him Lost Cub.

It was true enough. Driven out by the iron law of the Oron Isles, he had been exiled as a boy to cut his name into the world and return victorious, as had his fathers before him. The priest taught that such behavior was unwise and dangerous, but for Ulrem those somber approbations had made the thought of plunder all the more enticing. But one thing the old man told him had stuck with him, had found a way into his heart like a sliver of bone working its way inexorably deeper under his skin: that men who die without comrades must make the last crossing alone. Those who failed to find their way to the bright halls would inevitably be drawn down to eat ashen food and drink cold wine in empty cells of the darkness below. Young as he was, Ulrem had not been able to suppress a shiver at the thought of an eternity spent languishing forgotten and alone in the black hells.

That was what he saw before him at this miserable banquet. These poor fools who had taken the prince’s bargain ate now with heads cast low, each as alone as if a thousand miles separated them. Slaves attended their tables, filling cups and laying out trenchers with heaps of food, but these may well have been invisible.

“Prince Dardano gives you this final meal,” one of the eunuchs murmured, following him as far as the foot of the steps. There was a tone about his high pitched voice. Envy, perhaps? The guards stared at the feast with piggish eyes. “Go on then, eat your fill.”

Ulrem left them to stand with their arms crossed, leaning on their spears. The slaves stopped when they saw him stride across the sandy floor.

The other men looked up, the whites of their eyes shining in the dim light. At the table where a slave stood carving meat, Ulrem paused long enough to tear a bone with his hands from the beast. He eyed the iron collar fitted around the gaunt man’s neck, and then snatched a goblet of wine and sat on the nearest table.

“What are you, a fucking animal? Don’t sit on the table,” one of the men said. His oily hair was curled in unkempt ringlets nearly down to his eyes, doing a poor job of hiding ugly stitching scars. Ulrem tore a hunk of eat off the bone and chewed, watching. The man took up his goblet and looked away.

He heard mutters of “madman” and “western dog,” but none dared speak it to his face. They talked with eyes averted and chins tucked to chests, retreating once again into their private hells. Ulrem watched, gnawing on his bone. The meat was good provender. Prince Dardano had indeed laid a feast.

More men came down the hall, another troop of yellow-wrapped eunuchs with Juban in tow, and another man who limped on a twisted leg, pain scrawled across his face. Ulrem raised a brow. He was impressed that the slender Collanian had survived his brush in the arena. Glimpsing Ulrem from the stairs, the thin man made a bee line towards him. A yellow bruise was spreading across his face, and his lip was torn and swollen. He must have taken a mighty head blow, for Ulrem could see the unmistakable marks of rivets stamped across his forehead. Juban was alive, though, and he was buzzing with energy.

“They said there was food,” Juban said to him. He was shaking as if ice cold. “They said I could eat whatever I wanted.” He took a trencher from one of the slaves, and then a cup of wine, half of which he managed to dash on the ground before downing the rest in a single gulp. His hands trembled so badly he could hardly keep a grip on his food. “I got him,” Juban said. “He was a big fat fellow, some debtor. Rauvo, I think his name was.”

Ulrem grunted and tore another chunk of meat from the bone. Finding it empty, he threw it aside, and washed his mouthful down with wine.

Juban continued as if he had said something sympathetic. “I didn’t think I could do it. But then he got his hands on me. I think he was going to try and choke me to death… I had a knife, and I cut—I cut him down the side. He screamed, and—”

“Shut up!” One of the men seated nearby threw a goblet at Juban. It struck Ulrem on the back, splashing wine all over him. The slaves yelped, darting back.

Slowly, Ulrem stood. The cold wine dripped down his naked back.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” the man said. He shrank back, terror on his ratty face, his thin mustache twitching. “I swear, friend.”

Ulrem bared his teeth, his fingers itching for his sword.

Show them! The voice of the ring growled at the edge of his mind. Always hungry for conquest, for the blood-thrill of the fight. Let them fear the lion!

Violence hung in the air like thunderclouds. Men who had been lost in waking nightmares were suddenly fully alert, thick fingers clutching forks and knifes. The eunuchs held their spears like priests their magic talismans, and just as uselessly. Juban drew slowly back away from Ulrem, fearing the worst.

“Don’t be too eager for blood, boys,” said a man with a feathered cap on his head. He had just entered the hall now came jauntily down the steps.

He was no eunuch, but a handsome man with a rounded beard and a violet sash across his bronze breastplate: the mark of a royal officer. Ulrem did not know much of the Collanian regalia, but he recognized Prince Dardano’s mark upon that sash. The man kept his voice even, as if speaking to some volatile dog known to bite. “You’ll ruin the prince’s feast! Save that vim for the crowd tomorrow.”

The simpering fool that had thrown the goblet was nodding now. How quick to pretend nothing had happened. Ulrem was not surprised; there was no honor here. These men had been stripped of everything that made them men: the work of their hands, their homes, their identities. Some of them had even given up their freedom, giving into black hopelessness. They had no honor left to lose.

“Who are you?” Ulrem said, turning his fury onto this interloper.

The man’s left hand sank to the hilt of his pretty sword. “I am Siniro, a servant of House Manahati. My lord has sent me to find you, outlander. He bids you come with me.” Around the room, men stiffened. The Lord of the Games, sending for this flea-bitten western butcher? He could see it on their faces. He growled a bitter laugh at them.

“I think there is nothing here but sour wine and dead meat.” Juban choked on his mouthful of food. “I will speak with Dardano.”

Siniro of House Manahati narrowed his eyes at Ulrem. The corner of his mouth drew down, but he stowed whatever he might have voiced. Then, with a flourish of his hand that could only be pompous impatience, the officer turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time. The feather in his cap jounced as his heels thudded along the sandy floor. Ulrem fell in behind, glad to put the stink of fear behind him.

Up they wound through the stone bowels that under-girded the arena. At last they came to a halt outside the narrow cell Ulrem shared with Juban. Siniro clicked his heels with something like authority, and turned to face Ulrem.

“In,” the man ordered, gesturing at the barred door. Suspicion raised Ulrem’s hackles. He glared at Siniro, and then into the cell, daring take his eyes from the man for only a bare moment. A moment too long. Siniro raised a gloved hand and tried to push Ulrem.

Whirling, he caught the officer’s hand and shoved him back against the wall, baring his teeth in a snarl. Ulrem’s other fist drew back like a hammer.

“No! Don’t hit me!” Siniro cried, wincing. The calm confidence had evaporated in a moment, revealing the weakling beneath. He squirmed, trying to free himself, but Ulrem’s grip was the stronger, and he had twisted Siniro’s hand so that it was pinned against the wall. To escape, the man would have had to break his own arm. His cap went tumbling into the sand at their feet. “Release me!”

“Are you some hired blade?” Ulrem snarled. “Dardano insults me, if he sent the likes of you.” Siniro flushed scarlet with rage. He opened his thin-lipped mouth to spit some venom at Ulrem, but he was cut off before he could.

“Enough.” A woman’s voice from within the cell. Ulrem hesitated. He dared not take his eyes off the worm again. “Sir Siniro acted out of turn, but he means you no harm, outlander.”

Ulrem relented and backed off a pace, one arm still raised, ready to strike should the Collanian ‘act out of turn’ again. Instead, the smaller man stooped and swept up his hat. One of them had trampled it in the scuffle. He pointedly refused to look at Ulrem, addressing the wall.

“Will that be all?”

“That will be all, Sir Siniro.”

He cut a quick bow, and hurried up the corridor, opposite the way they had come. Only when Dardano’s scurrying rat was out of sight did Ulrem at last turn and face his cell.