Rook watched the ship’s wake as the sun set. The glow from the west shimmered against the waves and he traced its spotlight as it slid farther and farther toward the shore, invisible now on the horizon. They were past Chionos. Far enough off from land to evade the Everblizzard, yet not so far to evade the chill in the breeze. He hoped the tundra was a place he would never see again. Aside from bitter memories of cold the station was serene. He was always the one who pulled the party together; when he wanted rest and quiet, it was funny how easily it came.

Yet something strange happened—or, rather, didn’t happen—as their vessel cut through water ever southward and toward the port of Sam’al. He waited for darkness to overcome the Earth, and it never did.

At first the sun seemed suspended, like time itself was stopped. But then he realized, slowly, as the shimmering against the waves moved in reverse, like a rewound watch, that the daylight was moving backward. The sun went east in the sky. For two days it continued its slow trek to high noon, where finally it settled directly overhead. Then it moved no more.

It was always day in Darom. That would take getting used to.

The party dined together in the guest cabins. This ship, the Windswept, was a trireme transporting Dwarven goods along the southern shores of the continent. Rook and his companions were supercargo, but they were lucky enough to find a captain with room for them to spare. It had cost most of what remained from the take of the bugbears’ lair, but it beat swimming.

Pyraz rested his head on Rook’s feet.

“They say the threshold is a grand plateau that looks over Chionos,” Astera said. “That you can see the snowy forests beneath the sandy desert. That’s the point at which the sun stops.”

“Weird,” Aletheia said.

“All the strange places we’ve visited and you have to wonder how we haven’t stumbled into any sandy forests and snowy deserts,” Rook said.

“They have those in Ganarajya,” Aletheia said.

“I’d bet the snow is easier to cross on an elephant’s back,” Rook said.

“I meant sandy forests. A snowy desert is just a swamp.”

He considered. “Not necessarily, there could be cactuses surrounded by blizzards. I’d better not give the Magisters any ideas. You know I’ve never been to a desert.”

“I came to Darom when I crossed the Hepaz,” Astera said. “It is no ordinary desert.”

Rook felt that went without saying, given that it was always day and it bordered a land where it never ceased to snow. But he smiled. “Hot?”

“Very,” Astera said.

“Verily,” Aletheia said. She chortled at her own joke, and Rook laughed, too—her name meant ‘truth’ in Kathar. She was a stunningly intelligent and self-conscious girl for her age, but there was a kind of uncertainty in her voice even as she quipped. “If it wasn’t an ordinary desert, wouldn’t it be cold?”

“The earth absorbs so much heat from the sun unabated that the ground itself radiates like standing over a volcano,” Astera said. “Even in winter. And the breeze turns the whole land into an oven.”

A pause. “An extraordinary desert, then?” Rook said.

“Everything in Esenia is extraordinary,” Aletheia said. “So Darom is ordinary?”

“Wondering any further might be to wonder too far,” Rook said.

Eating followed, but at length Aletheia added, “I wonder what it would be like. To live someplace there were seasons. For more than a few months.”

“You’ll find out someday. I promise. I’ll show you,” Astera said.

Sam’al was a port where the people spoke a strange language. If Rook recalled his history lessons, unlikely, ‘Darom’ was a principality conquered by the Old Kingdom in the epoch before the Spires and the Magisters. It was given the name Erimaz or Erimos in Kathar and became an Archonate like any other. Yet in the time since the Fall the people had stopped speaking Regal and reverted to their old ways. They rejected their place amongst the Kingdom’s inheritors. Thus only in the far north, where Pyrthos was located along the banks of the Hepaz River and where the days came and went as normal, did the people consider themselves Erimonian. Everywhere else they were Daromese.

No wonder. Whatever curse had befallen this blasted place, it was the doing of the Old Kingdom. Rook would have renounced any associations with those responsible, too.

The Daromese had no princes. They were bound together by language and religion. Beyond that they were a collection of tribes, villages, and towns; one began where the next ended. Most of their political behavior was dedicated to raiding and slaughtering their neighbors, which reminded Rook quite comfortably of his own home. People truly were the same all the world around.

The houses in Sam’al were built of a sort of mud brick painted white. Humble, but cool in the summer. Over much of the town stretched a tall awning with posts constructed from the ribs of cactuses. What the awning itself was made of Rook couldn’t say, but beneath the shade he found it surprisingly cool. Almost chilly.

They acquainted themselves with the lay of the town before proceeding to the local ‘inn.’ Aside from commerce Sam’al dealt in fishing, mining, and a small amount of agriculture, for there were some local crops that thrived under endless sunlight and enjoyed foreign markets. All this was to say that the Daromese were an inward people accustomed to a harsh environment. Unlike the halflings of Rytus, they did not indulge in excesses of comfort. Or cheese.

The rooms they rented were separate, independent cabins, extremely small, by the town’s edge. No windows. No locks. Beds of straw. Pillows of wood. At least it was cheap. They took two.

However little delight the people of Sam’al took in nice things, they managed to find it elsewhere. They worshipped at an ancient temple, a pyramid built before even the Regizar first visited this place; they smoked a pungent plant that grew amidst cactuses and dunes; and they loved gladiatorial combat. A small arena with room for a few hundred spectators was always clogged beyond capacity on one of the three hills that overlooked the town.

Rook’s curiosity ignited. He paid a visit. For an hour he stood between two jeering young men and watched the show. There were three rounds: a volunteer’s spar to first blood between gladiators looking to make a name for themselves in the arena; a duel to the death between a seasoned swordsman and two goblins; and finally the bloody celebration in summary, where a viper the size of a horse was let forth from a cage and set upon an unarmed man accused of adultery. If he killed the snake he was innocent in the eyes of the gods.

Rook was raised in the Cult of the Aether, like most Kathars, but he was sympathetic to the parochial polytheism found on the peninsula’s fringes. At times like this he wondered why. It seemed most everyone tried in this particular manner was found guilty. The snake made short work of its victim before slithering back into its cage. The display was inhumane and despicable.

…and intoxicating, and as exciting as anything he’d ever seen before in his life. As he returned to his hut, he realized: he liked the idea of being a gladiator.

He relayed what he saw to the party.

“I’m enlisting,” he said.

“Don’t!” Aletheia said.

“It seems dangerous,” Astera said.

“We’re adventurers,” he said. “We kill things for copper coins.”

“We won’t be there to keep you safe,” Astera said.

“Yes you will, you’ll be cheering from the stands. You can bet on me! It’ll be fun!”

“Do they fight to the death?”

“Depends on the crowd’s mood.”

Astera frowned. Aletheia seemed terrified. “Please don’t,” she said, “you still need to teach me to use a sword.”

He reached out to reassure her. “We need the work we can find. I promise I’ll be careful.”

But really he was thinking thoughts of grandeur. Standing in the center of a ring, sword in his hand, cheering audience all around, girls fawning over him—well, he wasn’t an especially vain young man, and he was usually immune to flights of fancy, but in this particular case…

The noble houses of Katharos had duels. They held tournaments. They sparred. Rook won often, in a different life. He missed it. This was a chance to reclaim something long lost.

Also, gladiatorial combat was awesome.

Time felt different in Darom. Rook slept when he could stay awake no longer and when he awoke it was with no notion of how long he’d rested. He found himself doubting the decision to come to this place. But it would be safe for Aletheia, for now, and there would be places to explore, once they found the right leads. A gladiatorial interlude was a chance to earn guaranteed income. It was much safer than most of what they did, truth be told—and it didn’t require him to put his friends in danger.

He pulled his hair back into a short tail. Dog, jacket, and sword were all left with Astera. He jogged up the hill, to the arena, the largest and most impressive structure in the town. There a man with skin covered in patches of green-teal scales greeted him.

“You are new arrival in town?” he said. “Mercenary? Adventurer, hm? Hmph. You are lucky with timing. New Year Tournament in four tides starts; crowd will like a Kathar knight in competition. Not too late for entry.”

“What’s the prize?” Rook said.

“Vast riches, beyond compare. Gold, yes, silver, yes, fame, and more.”

“What’s the manner of the melee?”

The scaly man waved the question away. “Same as any. Individual duels, team fights, nothing too dangerous, only more rounds. If you endure you face Hasdrubal in pit.”

“Who’s he?”

The scaly man smiled. “Champion of Sam’al. Great warrior.”

“If I’m eliminated before then? What will I earn?”

“Your life.” He laughed. “Earn fans, name recognize, few silvers if into final rounds. Deal?”

He shrugged. The reward was an excuse, and a good one, but it was tertiary to his true interests. ‘Name recognize’ seemed like a decent enough deal to him. “Sign me up.”

No one else spoke Kathar. A huge, sunburnt porter handed him a spear and a helmet, then shoved him into the arena; from the opposite side he saw a boy, similarly armed, stumble out onto the sand. All the stands were covered, but the sun beat oppressively down onto the stage itself. Even in late winter the earth underfoot bubbled with heat through Rook’s sandals.

The man with the scaly skin took to a stand at the arena’s roof and announced both the competitors in Daromese.

The boy leveled his spear in Rook’s direction.

He approached with the courage of a puppy. Besides their helmets they were both unarmored.

This was not the seasoned gladiator Rook imagined facing.

The two young men danced about the arena for a few minutes while the crowd jeered and booed. Rook did not appreciate the feedback, but he was reticent to strike. Without armor on it would be trivially easy to end this child’s life, even inadvertently—

Or make a misstep, and find himself skewered through the stomach.

He decided winning this fight without flair would do nothing for him. He had five years, a foot, and a hundred pounds on his foe, and he couldn’t bring himself to levy his advantage to maim someone so young. So he waited patiently for an opening.

The crowd’s jeering got to the boy. He struck a few times with the point of his spear; each time Rook retreated, parrying with the heft of his own spear. Eventually the boy became frustrated and began to yell insults, and recklessly he struck out—

Rook batted the point of the opposing spear to the ground. He lowered his head, lurched forward, and with his left hand grabbed the shaft from the boy’s grasp and wrenched it away from him, then followed through with a headbutt. With an additional shove from the shoulder the boy toppled over, disarmed, to the ground.

That the crowd enjoyed. Rook quickly picked up the other spear and leveled it at the boy.

It had looked easy, and it was, but his heart pounded. One never grew accustomed to the sight of an incoming blade.

His opponent had no choice but to surrender. So ended Rook’s first round—bloodlessly.

Another five fights took place. Rook waited in the wings. The cacophony of the crowd was deafening beneath the stands. Most ended quickly. Two, maybe three hours passed. He watched as the contestants came and went. A few looked like hardened adventurers. Most were urchins desperate for lucky breaks. Only one fatal injury was received in the fighting. Decent odds for survival. Better than his companions, and with guaranteed income at the end.

He didn’t mind the wait. More time to rest.

But he did have a question.

“What if a man wins a fight but comes away injured?” he asked a tough-seeming mercenary, a figure knotted with tanned muscles. He too had colorful scales across his face.

The mercenary rolled his shoulders. “Fights stops till he heal,” he said slowly. His voice was like a hammer scraped against an anvil in his lungs. Then he glanced to Rook. He gave an evil grin, then an eviler cackle.

A fair enough retort, Rook thought.

The next event was group melee. Two teams of three, with sides displayed by blue or red cloaks worn about the shoulders. This time they were allowed to choose their weapons: one spearman, one swordsman, and one knifeman (with a buckler shield). There was a clear choice for Rook, but his ally, a scrawny young man who was already balding, reached for the sword first. The other, who was only slightly more inspiring in his physique by virtue of a bushy beard, took the spear.

“I’m a practiced fencer,” Rook suggested carefully to the balding man.

The balding man took the sword—a spatha—and pointed it at Rook. “F-o-ook yoo, Qathur. Mine.”

The bearded man followed the gesture, leveling the spear’s point near Rook’s neck. He then nodded toward the knife.

Rook shrugged. Sometimes language was not necessary for communication. So be it. He picked up his weapons and proceeded to the gate into the arena. “Nothing like a deathmatch to make new friends,” he said, smiling to the sunburnt porter.

The sunburnt porter did not smile back.

Out on the field each man was matched against his opposite. Rook could not escape the impression that the Lioness’ luck was no longer with him. His scrappy companions were up against seasoned soldiers, adventurers, or mercenaries from their looks. As for Rook, standing across from him was the tanned mercenary with knots of muscles so dense they looked like armor.

He smiled and bashed his buckler with his knife’s hilt.

Rook could surrender at any point. But he felt it. The rush of battle. The thrill of the forthcoming fight. And he liked the crowd’s roars. He liked that, in those few moments before battle was joined, he knew they were expecting him to lose. There would be nothing sweeter than proving them wrong.

Except for surviving.

The first strike came from the opposing spearman. No doubt Rook struck the most imposing figure, and he was forced to block the blow on his buckler. The tanned mercenary with the knife charged him down next; he jumped to the side to avoid being hit, then rolled away from another strike from the spear. For the next ten seconds, or maybe ten minutes, he evaded blows, catching the spear’s point on his knife and a down thrusted knife’s blade on his buckler. He landed one lucky slice on the shin of the spearman, but received a glancing cut across his pectoral muscles. By the time he found himself back on his feet he was covered in dirt, exhausted, tasted mud in his mouth—

His two allies stood by idly. They sparred half-heartedly with the enemy’s swordsman; his skill was enough to keep both at bay.

No time to watch. The tanned mercenary brought the knife down on Rook’s head; blocked, then a slice to the stomach; parried, then—Rook’s back hit the sandstone wall of the arena. He ducked to evade a swipe at his neck, but only then did he realize that the spearman had disengaged, and now his two pit-pals were in the thick of melee.

They were losing. There wasn’t much time to think, but he did find a moment to consider that this melee seemed far more lethal than he was expecting. That was the natural thought to have as a spear went clean through the stomach of the balding young man.

The crowd loved it.

Rook’s knees hit the dirt hard again, but he was faster than the top-heavy tanned mercenary, and he tackled him with a pounce. He was dazed momentarily—Rook glanced up, and he saw the spearman and swordsman on approach, murder in their eyes, his final ally nowhere to be seen—

“Forgive me, friend,” he said. He dropped his buckler, pinned the mercenary’s right arm in the sand, raised the knife, and severed his hand at the wrist.

The mercenary screamed. It was a hideous sound.

The crowd loved that, too.

Rook felt a tinge of guilt as a spray of blood hit his chest, but this was no fight to first blood. He was a compassionate man—but he would do anything to protect himself.

The spearman charged at him. Rook swore, grabbed his buckler, stumbled out of the way; he was agile enough to beat the point but not agile enough to dodge the incoming blow from the enemy swordsman. A blade came down on his cloak—

But the alignment was off, and the fabric was thick. It sliced only barely, cutting into the cloth but nothing more, giving Rook the chance he needed to sprint away.

To what end? They would catch him eventually, catch him and kill him, and he couldn’t fight two capable warriors at the same time when armed with nothing but a knife…

But his companion’s spatha now laid in the sand in a pool of blood. With that sword he stood a chance. He dropped his knife and ran. Crunching footsteps behind. He slid in the sand, into the balding man’s viscera, where his fingers found the slick handle of the blade, and he lifted it into the air just in time to block another slash from the swordsman, and then with the buckler, still around his left arm, he caught the spear’s tip and pushed it to the side. He parried another thrust and followed with a riposte that landed near the swordsman’s heart, then turned his attention to the spearman.

They broke apart. Rook was bloodied and panting. He had reached the point where he could no longer believe his own skill, no longer believe that he was still alive. In all his fights to the death over the last year, in the brutal brawl with the bugbears or the clash with the lizardmen or the battle against the goblins in Chionos or the skirmish against the hobgoblins near Swep-Nos, never had he felt so taxed, so drained, so completely exhausted.

He had come closer to death. Much closer. But in every other fight, he’d had friends he could count on. This time he felt alone.

And in that brief moment of clarity, he wondered how it was possible he had come to be in this place. What sequence of events had brought him here? What happened? So much death, so abruptly everywhere? How had he…

The spearman lunged at him. He dodged backward.

They both panted hard.

Rook tried to close…

The spearman kept his distance. He knew how to use his weapon and he had the advantage in length. Rook could win if he got close.

Another clash—

Too dangerous. He disengaged.

There was a technique his mentor taught. A sort of skill for tournaments and emergencies, not often used in reality. Never when fighting in armor. If it worked it could end a fight. But even if it did work, he would be left unarmed…

The spearman stepped back. He intended to make full use of his advantage.

Rook shifted the spatha in his grip. It slid easily; the hilt was bloodied. He lifted it up, trying hard not to give himself away, his fingers tightening around the pommel. Then suddenly he raised it in the air like a javelin: the blade presented forward. He brought his shoulder back, then hurled the sword forward.

The spearman was impaled through the chest. The sword’s guard caught against his sternum.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

The scaly man greeted him beneath the stands.

“Did you know,” he said, “full team was of professional gladiators?”

“No,” Rook replied laconically. He poured a bucket of cool water over his head. Darom was a desert, but all throughout it was blessed with deep watertables. Rook never tasted such delicious hydration.

The dirt and sweat was washed away. The water was tinged red as it ran down his chest. Mostly not his blood. He escaped only partially wounded—the cut to his chest, a bruise on his shoulder, and a few scrapes down his back.

“They were meant to go unwounded into fight with Hasdrubal in two tides. You, I knew you would put up fight—but to win—very impressive show!”

“Is Hasdrubal so great a warrior he can take on three men?” Rook said.

“He has taken on many more than that,” the scaly man smiled. “You have put me into a funny situation, Master Rook. One man, arm removed, very good work—he will likely die. Man you javelined, he is dead already. The other will survive, but cannot fight. Your mates? The one speared died upon removal from the field, the other may or may not survive, though we will not try hard—he is not worth anything to us.”

“So where’s my team.” It wasn’t a question.

“Where is your team indeed. Now…team fight is too much for one tide, you deserve rest. Next tide everyone in Sam’al will be talking of your victory. But in two tides!”

Rook gasped after taking a long drink. He was naked, and he collapsed onto a bench. His hair was still sticky with blood.

“Tell me more about Hasdrubal.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Who is he?”

“He is from Arqa.”

“How does he fight?”

A pause. “Two daggers.”

“Against three men? Is he an elf?” The scaly man didn’t respond at once. Rook was left feeling cautious. There was something in this man’s looks that he couldn’t quite conceal. Already the violence of this tournament had exceeded his expectations. He didn’t mind risking his life in daring or even stupid ways—death meant nothing to him, though more for his relationship with Aletheia—but, all the same, he preferred not to walk straight into his grave. “Can I meet him?”

“He does not take visitors before fights.”

“Why not?”

“When you are champion, you may dictate the rules you see fit.”

“I pray you, let me see him.”

“Impossible.”

“I beseech you.”

The scaly man smiled and shook his head. “Take two tides rest. My slaves will show you to your chambers.”

“My companions and I have accommodations in town.”

“It is part of our tradition. Gladiators must stay here until the tournament is over.”

Now the alarum bell was rung. “Very well, I withdraw from the tournament. I’ll take my winnings hence and be away.”

“Then who will fight Hasdrubal?”

“I'm not overeager to fight the man who takes combatants in threes and wins in a battle that will most likely be to the death. I'll take my leave of you.”

The scaly man gestured with his hand. The sunburnt porter approached with footsteps that shook the earth. “It is too late, you are worth far too much, Master Rook. Fight Hasdrubal, win or lose, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

“Will you pay for my funeral?”

“It will not matter to you, will it?” He was still smiling. “You must fight. You may not leave until the fight is had. So please, rest.”

The porter took an aggressive step toward Rook. It was a message received.

He told Eris something to the effect that ‘there would be plenty of time for prison in the future’ when he visited her in Kaimas’ jail. The future had caught up with him sooner than he anticipated.

The porter led him down a staircase into a dungeon. There it was cold, damp, and dark. He was directed presently to a slave’s cell. The bed made for him within was surprisingly nice. The rest of the amenities, however, were as he anticipated. They left something to be desired.

Rook was very angry. It had been foolishly naïve to think he could enter into an arena to earn a few coins, then leave at his own volition. The moment he won a fight he became a license to mint coins for the master. Now he was imprisoned, almost certain to be killed tomorrow—which was to say, in two ‘tides,’ for apparently they still had tides in Darom-.

He spent his time imprisoned thinking of Aletheia. Was she there, in the stands? Had she seen? Would she hear if she hadn’t? Would she think he was dead? Would she think he abandoned her? Those thoughts bothered him more than his own impending demise.

He distracted himself with rhymes, which he spoke aloud to himself:

“He didn’t know what he’d been sold // He came out like a sitting duck // Thus I spared the twelve-year-old // But no one gave a…damn.”

Two pale fingers wrapped around his cell’s door from the next.

“Nice rhyme.”

It was a man’s voice. A Kathar accent. Young. Rook fell out of his bed. He fumbled over himself, then raised to look at whoever was in the other cell.

Brown hair. Dark eyes. Maybe twenty. Sodden, disgusting, ruined rags across his body. He looked Rook up and down with raised eyebrows.

“What happened to your clothes?” he said.

“Same as should have happened to yours two months past,” Rook said.

“Don’t remind me.” He turned away and leaned his back against the divider between the cells. “I’d say it’s only been a month, but they don’t have months in this shithole, since they don’t ever see the moon. And you’ll have to kill me before I say ‘tides.’"

"That can be arranged."

He chortled. "What’s your name?”

“Rook.”

“Jason. Tell me you’re really Kathar.”

“I think so,” Rook said, “though I account myself a man of the world.”

“I don’t. Take me back there and never let me out. I never wanted to leave anyway.”

“Then how came you hither?”

“Shipwreck off the coast. Got nabbed by slavers. I told them I could pay any ransom they wanted, but they said, ‘no thanks, we’re barbarians, we’d rather sell you to a freak with half a lizard for a face instead for two bottles of wine and a go with his inbred daughter.’”

Rook tried to visualize the sequence. “Could you?”

“Could I what?”

“Pay any ransom.”

“Of course not, but they didn’t know that. What about you?”

“I won the tournament.”

“No shit?”

“The arena master received the impression I wouldn’t come back to fight Hasdrubal if he let me leave for the ni—for the tides.”

“I wonder why,” Jason said. “You signed up to fight here voluntarily?”

“It sounded exciting.”

“Right, you’re new in town. These New Year tournaments? They’re not tournaments. They’re human sacrifices. Just to get the blood flowing on the sand. The promise of vast riches for the winner—well, maybe they’d pay out, I don’t know, but that’s never the plan. It’s just a lure. Makes ScaleFace a few drachs while he’s at it, too. Bet they didn’t tell you all that, though, huh?”

Rook fell silent for a time. “More exciting still. Wouldn't have deterred me. Might have tried harder to cheat.”

“Oh, I get it. You wanted to get laid, didn’t you? You probably could’ve managed without the scars, just saying.”

“There was no such thing in my thoughts.”

“No need to lie. Who is she? A guy like you, she probably makes mirrors melt. In a good way I mean.”

He had been imprisoned for a month—although who knew how he kept the time—and he wanted to talk about girls, so Rook indulged him. Rook also wanted to talk about girls. He told her about Eris and their time together, and how it was he’d come to Darom. It kept his mind off more pressing topics. As a general rule he admired anyone who could maintain good nature in the face of absolute misery and suffering, and Jason, though resolutely cynical, was at no lack for mirth. He repaid Rook with what little remained of his own story, which was that the scale-faced arena master had wanted him as a scholar and a scribe for writing in Kathar. He had not responded kindly when he realized his books were filled with sketches of phalluses in place of notes on transactions.

“Doesn’t really compare to your story,” he said, “but it’s good for a laugh. Not that it matters now. Either way, we’re both going to end up dead in a few days.”

“I haven’t yet seen this Hasdrubal. I might still win.”

“Alone? Please.”

“Why not?”

A brief silence. “You mean you don’t know?”

“How could I? Know what?”

“You signed up without knowing?”

“Tell me.”

Jason fell quiet. Then he clicked his tongue. “Friend. Hasdrubal isn’t a man. Hasdrubal is the snake.”