"Nice wolf," Magnus called after her. "He'd be magnificent for boardings."

As Eir and Garm strode from the docks, she leaned toward her wolf and said, "You really would be."

He p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

Snaff and Zojja ran to catch up to them.

"What now?" Zojja asked.

Eir looked at the sky, deepening to dusk. "Now, we figure out another plan."

Caithe sat on a wooden bunk propped against a wall of thick-stacked stone. It was the only bunk in the cell, and she shared it with Logan and Rytlock. "We'll have to sleep in s.h.i.+fts."

"Logan better not sleep at all," Rytlock snarled as he leaned against the wall of the cell, "trying to steal my sword."

"You stole it first!" Logan growled, pacing along the bars at the front. "And now neither one of us has it. They confiscated it- stole it first!" Logan growled, pacing along the bars at the front. "And now neither one of us has it. They confiscated it-and my hammer." my hammer."

"Worthless hunk of metal! I can't believe you would compare my sword to your hammer!"

Logan whirled. "I don't. don't. That's the whole That's the whole point point! I'm not carrying a fabled, sacred charr charr weapon." weapon."

"And neither am I, thanks to you!" Rytlock spat back.

"Enough!" shouted Caithe, suddenly standing between them, her slim hands held out to either side. "You're stuck together in a cell, and you're fighting over an empire? Over a sword that neither one of you has?"

The man and the charr snarled one last time before turning away from each other.

Just then, a dark-complected man strode up the cell corridor. He had a stern face beneath long black hair, and he wore embroidered silk robes. Behind the man came an entourage of muscular warriors.

Logan glanced nervously at them. "Those guys aren't Lionguard."

The man stopped, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. "You fight well."

Rytlock nodded. "If you're talking about the bearbaiting den back there, yeah, we sure do."

"I am Sangjo, an agent of Magnus, head of the Lionguard and member of the Captains-"

"The b.l.o.o.d.y Headed," Rytlock interrupted.

"The b.l.o.o.d.y Handed, Handed," Sangjo corrected with a wan smile. "He would like to purchase your billet."

"What are you talking about?" Rytlock snarled.

"Your debt to society-specifically, repairing the portion of the city you burned down," the man said sedately.

"Which is?"

"Five hundred gold."

Rytlock's eyes flew wide. "How are we supposed to get that kind of money?"

"Agree to Magnus's offer," Sangjo said placidly.

"Which is?"

"My boss is prepared to pay for your billet-if you agree to fight in his arena."

"What?"

"Master Magnus has an arena where you could fight for your freedom, earning money to pay him back. Or you could sit here and rot. It's your choice."

Caithe asked, "If we fought, how long would it take to pay him back?"

"Not long," Sangjo said, "perhaps a dozen matches-if you win."

"We can't fight," Rytlock said. "We have no weapons."

"Your weapons will be returned to you before each match and taken from you afterward."

Rytlock huffed, "Well, we can't fight for at least a week, since grawl-boy here broke my wrist."

Sangjo's enigmatic smile only widened. "Then let grawl-boy fix it."

Rytlock glared at Logan. "You could heal me?" could heal me?"

"Not all at once. A little bit now, and then an hour later, a little more."

"Why didn't you try try?" raged Rytlock.

"You'd've taken my head off!" Logan shouted back.

"There's that," Rytlock growled. He sighed. "All right, I won't. Promise. Now, get to it. get to it."

ARENA.

Next morning, Logan, Rytlock, and Caithe walked among stern-looking warriors who led them from the jail to the arena. Rytlock's wrist was fully healed, but the rift between the man and the charr was only partially so. Last night, both fighters had fidgeted and fussed as Logan healed Rytlock. This morning, neither had spoken to the other.

They walked through a narrow set of winding lanes, with half-timber houses leaning over them. At last, they reached a much-trammeled plot of land with the overturned hull of a huge s.h.i.+p in its center. Many people milled outside the wooden hull, and money changed hands. A few of the people there stared with lurid admiration at Logan, Rytlock, and Caithe.

"Fresh meat," one man said darkly.

Rytlock reached for Sohothin but, of course, his sword and scabbard were gone.

The guards marched them toward a wide rectangular entrance cut into one side of the overturned hull. The pa.s.sage was preternaturally dark, s.h.i.+elded by a curtain of magic, but sounds came from within.

Feet pounded. Voices shouted. Swords clanged. Someone screamed.

"Are we making a mistake?" Logan asked.

"Quite possibly," Caithe responded.

Rytlock scowled. "You two got any money?"

"No," they chorused.

Rytlock swept his claws forward. "Then let's go."

The three strode among their guards through the mystic curtain. They emerged into a gigantic s.p.a.ce-a huge arena carved into the ground. Rows of stone benches descended toward a broad, sandy arena. Warriors practiced there. To the right, a man and a centaur faced off. To the left, an ogre battled a charr. In one spot, a team of gorilla-like grawl a.s.saulted a pair of scaly skritt.

"This must be the place," Logan said.

"This is is the place," responded a new voice. Sangjo emerged from one of the nearby archways and glided placidly toward the trio. "Welcome to the arena." the place," responded a new voice. Sangjo emerged from one of the nearby archways and glided placidly toward the trio. "Welcome to the arena."

"We're here for one reason," Rytlock grumbled, "to get back my sword."

Logan added, "And also to get back our freedom."

"So," Caithe said, "we're here for two two reasons." reasons."

Sangjo's face was a cryptic mask. "The only reason to fight in the arena is to win."

"Right," Rytlock said.

"Let me show you around," Sangjo said coolly. He stepped away, leading them along a concourse among benches. "Below, of course, is the arena proper."

"Ah, the blood-soaked sands," Rytlock said. "How many die here per day?"

"None."

"None?"

"Battles are not lethal. Combat is to exhaustion."

Rytlock snorted. "Nothing to lose?"

"Actually, there's plenty to lose. Those who lose don't get paid. Those who win receive a cut of the total gate receipts."

"Which means . . . ?" Logan prompted.

Sangjo shrugged, descending a ramp that led beneath the stands. "If you're unknowns, as you are, a victory could bring fifty silver. If you're headliners, if you pack the place, well-a hundred times that."

Rytlock's eyes flashed like coins. "When do we get to it?"

Sangjo lifted his index finger. "First, the tour."

He led them down a ramp into a dark, curving corridor. Its ceiling was formed from the underside of the stone seats, and its walls were lined with cells fronted by thick iron bars. The floor of the corridor pitched inward to drain the waste of the things that lived in the cells.

"What've you got in here?" Rytlock asked.

"Everything-krait, dredge, skritt, hylek, human . . ."

"Human?" Logan gasped.

"Murderers, all of them. Convicted and sentenced. Like you, they had the choice of prison or the arena, and they chose the arena. Naturally, you'll have better lodgings, elsewhere. Unless you try to run."

The group walked past a cell where a pair of the giant, frog-headed hylek crouched and glared. One shot its mucous-mantled tongue out between the bars to wrap around Logan's leg. He kicked his foot loose and stomped on the tongue, which withdrew limply. The next cell held three krait-creatures with reptilian heads and human torsos and serpent abdomens. At sight of the group, the krait raised their neck frills and hissed angrily.

"What've you got in the way of grawl?" rumbled Rytlock.

"All in good time," Sangjo replied, "but first-" He gestured into the next cell, in which twenty or thirty rotting bodies shambled around in the darkness. Their rusted cutla.s.ses grated on the ground. "We just got this load of Orrian undead."

"Undead?"

"Real crowd-pleasers. We let them get torn limb from limb since they're already dead. Of course, down here, they're a nuisance. They don't keep. They stink up the place."

"Not much of a challenge, fighting undead," Rytlock put in.

"You'd be surprised. They fight with weapons and with fury, and even after you dismember them, the limbs fight on." Sangjo slid a key from his pocket and fit it into the door of the cell.

Caithe's eyes grew wide. "What are you doing?"

Sangjo smiled. "Giving you a test." With that, he produced their weapons from his robes, handing Caithe her stilettos, Logan his hammer, and Rytlock- "That's mine!" he growled, s.n.a.t.c.hing Sohothin in its scabbard and knocking Logan's hand away.

Just then, the tide of undead hurled back the door of their cell and flooded out.

One monster charged Rytlock, ramming its blade at him. He backhanded the rusted metal and kicked the creature in the groin, crus.h.i.+ng its pelvis. The monster's legs went limp, and it slumped to the ground. Even so, its sword kept swinging. Rytlock stomped on its arm, cracking it in two.

Logan meanwhile ducked beneath another monster's cutla.s.s, grabbed the beast's rotting hand, wrenched the blade out of tumbling finger bones, and impaled the monster on it. He let the creature fall on its own sword while he hoisted his hammer. "You might've given us a chance to prepare."

Sangjo stood beyond the fray, a warding wall glimmering before him. "Gladiators must be ready at a moment's notice."

Rytlock punched another undead creature in the head, breaking its neck, though the body still fumbled toward him. "Enough!" he growled, unsheathing Sohothin and ramming it into the creature's guts. Fire burst between ribs, and the whiff of roasted meat wafted upward. Rytlock kicked the cooked creature off his sword and turned to spit two more. "It's a sad thing when a group of friends can be torn apart by something as simple as undead."

Logan's hammer imploded the chest of another beast, which fell on a pile of two more. "That's three for me."

"Three?" Rytlock roared as he strode over his victims to impale another. "I've got three stuck between my toes, two more smoldering in the corner, and a new one on my blade." He shoved off his latest kill, which fell to the ground like a turkey from a platter. "Where's that d.a.m.ned sylvari?"

"Standing on seven." A monster toppled forward to reveal Caithe drawing her white stiletto out of its brain. The creature lay beside six others like fish on ice. "Pithing is what they call it. Stick in the blade, swish it around, and the brain's no good-even for an undead." She demonstrated on an eighth. "Also works on frogs."

"You mean hylek?" asked Logan. His hammer pounded the creatures around him, leaving broken, heaving forms on the floor. Whenever a figure moved, he whacked it. "That should be about twenty."

"You don't get to count the pieces," Rytlock said.

Still, there wasn't much counting left. Caithe pithed three undead while Logan felled two more, and Rytlock burned the last. In moments, the dark corridor was silent again, hunks of jittering flesh lying all around.