THE SUN SEARED the sky, and the dust, swept up out of the hot desert, leeched the blue from it it, leaving a sickly greenish cast that seemed to Ulrem a reflection of the rot that filled the city. Beyond the walls of the arena, and underneath the gaudy veneer of civilization, of well cut stones piled high and proud, was a rough hewn matchstick ache, as if all the city were yearning for a spark to land among the human tinder.

The second day of the festival of Maarthua had come. Tonight, the ghosts of the city’s ancestors would walk the streets, parading and cavorting alongside the men who prowled naked but for white masks, seeking women. All the city would become a great game of cat and mouse: men would be made of boys tonight, and women of girls, for when the spirits tread openly and the walls of the world wore thin, what were the laws of men but fragmented whispers? The thrill of the coming debauchery hung in the air as surely as the sun would set.

Until then, they had the arena to tide them over. Already drunk on wine and bloodsport, they roared as Ulrem stood on the white sands. A rusty stain marked where one soul had been cut from its flesh. The patter trail of another, making its unsteady way towards the exit gate, promised his opponent would join him in the halls of the dead before long.

He wore a shield on his left arm, but it was smaller than those he’d become accustomed to during his years with the Golden Company. Those were made to overlap, forming the impenetrable phalanx lines the Imidian generals had used to conquer the Ymid valley and beyond. This thing was little more than a buckler, a bronze oval shaped much like an egg, with the narrower end jutting out beyond his fist by a few fingers. It was something, at least. In the other hand he held the twin of the sword he had used to slay the Sandsnake: a Collanian short blade with its cramped hilt and broad pommel.

Shiara had left in the deep of night. The only thing to mark her passing was a small sack, set against the wall in the corner. In it Ulrem had found a helmet. It was a wonder of a thing, a hardened bronze helm tooled to resemble a lion’s head. Its face shield, when lowered, bore the snarling face of a the great king of beasts. He wore it now as he stared up at Dardano’s balcony, ignoring the cheering, jeering crowd. Sweat trickled down his scalp and over his shoulders, tracing lines down the smooth muscles of his naked back. The sand seemed to reflect the heat, and the air all around him shimmered with silver as if in a dream.

The Lord of the Games appeared, swathed in a great black toga, with a violet tunic chased in gold. He wore a slim jeweled circlet about his head, a flashy show of his royal blood. Behind him came the two slave girls. Ulrem caught Shiara’s green eyes with his own, raising his chin slightly. She was wrapped in white today, a filmy gown so thin he could see straight through it. Sweat made it cling in places that got Ulrem’s heart pumping. Her collar was connected to a slender golden chain that the prince held in one fist. Smirking, he he raised his free hand, preparing to address the mob.

Twelve slaves bearing huge horns fashioned to look like snakes marched into the arena. They arranged themselves in a circle, and blew a long, sinuous note that stilled the crowd. Into the silence, the icy-eyed prince spoke.

“Friends. Brothers! Sisters! This morning you have seen the great apes of the east. You saw Strong Barab slay the Spear Sisters! You saw the Priest of Fire banish Kalejek the Widower to the black hells!” At each name, they cheered. Ulrem saw the adoration on their faces as they rose to salute Prince Dardano. In his balcony, the dark-skinned man smiled patiently, letting the noise roll over him. “But today is the Day of the Dead. Tonight, our ancestors will slip through the shadows. Already, they wait at the edge of the world! They peer into our mortal realm, eager to taste the delights of life once more!”

At this, the crowd cheered, thrusting fists into air, whistling shrilly, and calling out all manner of blasphemy. So accustomed to the foot upon their throat, they seized any excuse to act as they would, if even for a single night. To them, that was a treasure invaluable. What would his fathers make of such a sight?

“I give you the Lionborn!” Dardano roared, gesturing at Ulrem. “Though he be just a man, he has the heart of a beast. In the shadows, he plotted to kill me!” The crowd’s buzzing stopped all at once as they absorbed the prince’s words. Ulrem frowned, looking to Shiara. Now he saw the fear and disgust in her eyes. She grew pale and backed away a step, but Dardano had her chain in a tyrant’s fist, and he jerked her forward brutally. The crowd began to hum, a thousand hornets deadly buzz. Curses were hurled at him from on high, the righteous indignation of worms thrown at his feet.

Dardano laughed at their scorn. He hauled on Shiara’s chain again, driving her to her knees. She cried out, and though Ulrem could not hear her over the raging crowd, he could see the pain. The prince leaned over, forcing her head towards his with cruel fingers that dug into her flesh, and locked his mouth over hers. Ulrem snarled in his throat. He knew that she had given none of his words up willingly to that viper.

It was all part of the show. He knew that. Yet, still, he burned. The ring raged on his finger, demanding action. Howling for blood. He had refused to indulge it, thinking himself above these mad dogs, but now he swore a new promise. Blood for blood.

Dardano straightened, his fist still bound up in Shiara’s hair. “Fight well, barbarian!” he shouted over the crowd. “Perhaps you will earn a warrior’s death.”

At that, the iron grates were hauled open, and four men filed out into the arena. Ulrem whirled the short sword in his hand, flexing his wrist, and pulled the face shield down of his lion helm. His stance widened into the unconscious crouch of a predator.

The opponents hung back, though. They were hesitating, waiting for something. The crowd thundered, spurning them to the fight, seething for murder. Dardano, however, had turned his back to Ulrem. He was forcing some new cruelty upon Shiara while the other slave girl watched him, an evil leer on her face.

A fifth gate screeched open. From within issued a mighty roar. It was deep, a profound note that shook the air itself: the sound of fury incarnate. The crowd quieted, waiting. Ulrem saw a paw first, twice the size of his own hand, slide from the shadows. Mighty black claws gripped the naked stone. Then the rest of it bounded out into the arena all at once. A black mane shot with red ran like a crown around the lion’s face. It was sleek, sharp muscles raised for war as it loped forward, head held proudly. Ulrem could see two great yellow fangs in its mouth when it snarled, taking in the sandy pit, the armored men fanned out around the walls. Its turned its amber eyes towards him.

Behind came a team of slaves holding the beast’s chains. Two had whips they used to drive it forward. The doomed wretches holding the chains were, Ulrem saw, themselves chained to the lion. The gate slammed shut behind them.

The men in the arena cried out as they caught sight of the lion. They edged back, trying to put as much distance between the monster and themselves as they could. The crowd exploded with noise, and the lion roared in response, its outrage bouncing off the high stone walls of the pit.

Then it lowered its head and charged.

The slaves tried to drag it around, digging in their sandaled heels, pulling it towards Ulrem. They failed. Far stronger than a few starved men, the beast leaped towards the nearest fighter, driving forward with its mighty legs, tufted tail lashing.

Ulrem sped in the opposite direction, racing over the sand. The two gladiators on that wing of the arena turned to meet him with a shout. One bore a long trident in his hands, the other a sword and shield. The swordsman had on an iron cap with a chainmail veil that hid all but his eyes, but Ulrem could see the fear shining in them. Ulrem slammed into the swordsman at a sprint, driving the man back into the wall and crushing the air from him. Hands slapped at the stone above them, eager to tear a piece the fighters below.

The man flailed at Ulrem: another Collanian short blade, but it was clumsy, panicked. Ulrem deflected it with the shield, an unconscious laugh tearing out of him as he shoved the man further back. The second man flew at him now, a scream in his throat. The tusked helm on his head set his face in a mask of shadows.

Ulrem ducked under the trident trust, letting it bounce harmlessly off the stone above, skittering sparks. The man kicked at him, trying to drive Ulrem’s knee out from under him. He might have succeeded, had he not slid on the sand. He toppled backwards with a squawk.

Ulrem leaped over him as the swordsman got his bearings and slashed at the air where the savage had been only a moment before. He caught a flashing glimpse of the lion, stretched in a leap, one of the other two gladiators sprawled on the ground before it, one arm thrown up as if to stop his coming doom.

Tusk-helm rolled out of the way as Ulrem slammed his heel down. The swordsman followed up, giving his partner helm enough time to get to his feet. They attacked recklessly, unpredictably. He could not use them against one another as he had the Kite and the Sandsnake, for there was nothing but an unthinking resolve to survive about them. Gritting his teeth, a warsong of the misty peaks of his youth in his throat, he waded in when they slowed, panting and exhausted. He hacked at the swordsman, forcing the shield up. That was the man’s final mistake. It cost him his life.

Ulrem hooked the edge of the shield with his own, ignoring the lash of pain as the howling swordsman slashed at his exposed shoulder. He roared, wrenching the shield out of the way, and plunged his sword through the man’s chest just below the base of the throat. Blue eyes popped in surprise behind the chainmail veil as the man’s ghost gave up the flesh.

He toppled to the ground. His helmet rolled off his head, revealing the fool who had splashed wine on him the night before. He gasped helplessly, bloody bubbles foaming on dying lips.

Ulrem rounded on Tusk-helm, bringing his shield up to protect his face, expecting a trident strike from behind. Instead, he found the man locked in mortal combat with another of the gladiators: the man who had escaped the lion’s rage. They were fighting over the trident, both men gripping it, shoving, pulling, their backs reared straight in deadly contest. Beyond them, the lion was tearing at the flesh of the fourth man, even as the slaves screamed and wailed, unable to escape.

Ulrem glanced up at Dardano’s box. He was raving down with as much venom as the rest of the crowd, shaking his fist. Clearly, this was not what he had bargained for. A vicious grin stretched across Ulrem’s face at the sight.

He strode towards the two struggling men. One saw him coming and dove to the side. Suddenly unburdened, the other man staggered, wheeling his arms. Ulrem’s sword flashed out, striking the man’s head off at the shoulders, casting an arc of dark blood across the sand.

He leaped onto the third man, sprawled now on the sand. His helmet, fashioned to look like an Imidian legionary’s helm, had come loose. The elegant crest of red horsehair was soiled and out of sorts. Shaking fingers pried the helm loose, revealing Juban beneath.

“Akale’s eye, Ulrem!” he said. “It’s me. You know me!”

Ulrem hesitated, his sword raised for a killing strike. “Juban? Did you come to help me?”

“I…” the smaller man hesitated. “If I did, will you spare me?”

Ulrem barked a sharp laugh at that. He held a hand out and hauled Juban to his feet.

Over the din of the crowd’s curdling hatred, Ulrem shouted, “What did they offer you?”

Juban raised his eyes to where Dardano stood screaming in outrage. “Another bad deal.”

Ulrem slapped the man on the shoulder. “Then seize your freedom. That is the highest law of the old kings of the west. Come with me! There’s bloody work to be done.” He started towards the other side of the arena, where the lion had rounded on the slaves. It pounced, deadly claws raking into the wretch unfortunate enough to have been chained up first.

“What are you going to do?” Juban asked, snatching up the fallen trident.

Ulrem bounded across the sand. The lion looked up, its face smeared with crimson. The slave beneath it was already reduced it to a pile of meat that barely resembled a human. Golden eyes watched Ulrem’s approach with the steadiness of a predator that knew its own power. It weighed him, still as a stone, as he reached for the chain. Slowly, he dragged the slack away from the wailing slaves.

Only then did it growl, baring bloody fangs as long and thick as his fingers. He paused, glaring at it as fiercely as it did him, until it looked away.

Then Ulrem brought the edge of his shield down once, twice onto the links with all the might in his great arms, snarling with the effort. They shattered into shards of iron under his relentless force.

“Go!” he shouted to the slaves. “Flee!”

They wasted no time, scrambling back. Though their wrists were still bound to the chain, Ulrem had severed their link to the mankiller. Yet, they did not run for the gates.

“Has the time come?” one of them asked, his accent so thick as to be barely comprehensible.

“The Crow came to us in the night,” another said. “He told us that you are Akale reborn, come again to free us.”

“I’m not here for you,” Ulrem growled at them. Seeing the fury on his face, they fled at last, rushing for the gates that were already screeching open.

“Ulrem!” Juban called.

The lion jerked to his feet. Ulrem spun, seeing a flood of black-garbed bodies sliding across the sand. They carried strange, curved blades. Their veiled faces revealed nothing but dark, empty eyes.

“Kill the savage!” raged Dardano from his balcony, his voice one among thousands. “Bring me his head!”

Ulrem saw one way out.

“Run!” he commanded. Then he flung himself at the wall. Few men could have made the jump, but Ulrem was no ordinary man. He was an Inheritor, forged by the fire of war and trial, and his blood ran with indomitable will of the ancient unbent Oron, exiled to the edge of the world for their pride. The ring on his finger shone as he drew power into himself, flexing his thick legs. He sprang up the wall with the force of a mountain cat, soaring through the air, briefly untethered.

Easily twice the height of a man, the block walls were ancient, and built to keep the fighters in their place: beneath the crowd. But time had widened the cracks between those old blocks. Ulrem’s fingers found purchase at the lip of the wall, and his feet found gaps in the stone. He levered himself up and over the edge, until he stood above the crowd itself, a vision of bloody vengeance.

They screamed in panic, tumbling backwards as his furious eyes swept across them. Their courage shriveled like cloth before flame, but it was not their blood he was after. Ulrem ran along the edge of the pit. Below, the veiled shadows tried to follow him. The prince’s guards were assembling now on the balcony. Dardano had vanished like a snake back into its hole, but in his place, half a dozen guards dressed in the brightly colored surcoats of House Manahati had appeared bearing horn bows.

Ulrem threw his shield up as a wave of arrows rained down around him. They clattered off the bronze, leaving him unscathed. Then he leaped towards the balcony. The guards fell backwards in terror as he scaled the wall like a panther and flung himself over the marble banister. He laid waste to them with ruthless efficiency, slashing at back and hand and face as they fought to unsheathe their swords. A canny few caught the scent of their own death, though, and fled back down the tunnel. Ulrem barreled after them, single-minded fury as sharp as his sword sending him plunging down into the dark tunnel beyond the balcony.

His sandal-shod feet thundered along the low corridor, but not half so loud as the clatter of the men fleeing before him. They burst through a door and into a vaulted chamber brightly lit with mirrored lamps along the walls. Ulrem smashed through a moment later, his thick arms wheeling to keep his balance, gray eyes snatching at details, reading the threats.

A broad table was laid out with heaping food. Slaves in white tunics were serving wine, or carried trays of food, or smoking bowls of drug hash to the guests seated at the long table: men and women, wearing hammered silver masks that bared only mouths: the masked lords of the city, gathered here for a banquet at Dardano’s table. Beside the prince, the blonde slave girl swayed in a haze, the last to notice the intrusion. In a heartbeat, the chamber erupted in shouting and confusion as slaves panicked and the nobles fought to be heard, commanding the guardsmen to kill the intruder.

Dardano stood abruptly, knocking his delicately carved chair to the floor. He slammed his hand down on the table, silencing the lot of them. Fury darkened his face, stretching his features to something demonic. “You were supposed to die!” he shrieked at Ulrem. He still gripped Shiara’s chain in one hand, close to the collar. She was seated beside him, as if she were no more than a common bitch. As he raged, he shook her, yanking her head back and forth. “Why won’t you die?”

Ulrem leveled his sword at the Dardano’s chest. Beside him, the drugged woman moaned. “Your hour has come, slaver,” he said. “Will you meet it as a man?”

“You have no right!” the Lord of the Games shouted. But fear had crept into his cold eyes. “You are a slave! Chattel, to live and die as I command!”

The slaves fell silent. He could feel something pass between them in the air, like the charge before a storm. The guardsmen felt it too, and they dropped their swords. The masked lords stood slowly, as if to make a polite exit.

“I told you,” Ulrem said, leaping up onto the table and taking a step forward. “I am no one’s man.”

“Stay back.”

“Freedom is not given,” Ulrem said.

A violent light sprang into the eyes of the slaves. Then they struck as one. The robed figures screamed as they fell under the crush of fist and heel, of stabbing knives and forks thrust deep into vulnerable flesh. Panicked, Dardnos shoved his other concubine at the slaves who lunged for him, and they descended upon her as viciously as the rest.

Among the carnage, the Lord of the Games stood frozen, his fine, almost feminine features shocked. He staggered back away from Ulrem’s deadly approach.

“No!” Dardano cried. “No! The king will hear of your insolence! He will—!” His cry choked off as Shiara wrapped her chain around Dardano’s throat. His eyes bulged and his fingers clawed at the chain. She wailed, eyes clenched shut, the man’s thrashing weight dragging her to the floor. Still the woman did not let go. His royal heels drummed a mindless tattoo against the stone floor, even as the slaves swept past them, racing out into the corridor, eager for more blood, voices trumpeting eagerly.

“The hour is come!” they cried to answering cheers. “The Lion has broken the chains!”

Ulrem watched until Dardano lay still. His dark face was swollen horribly, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. His fat tongue lolled dead from his mouth. Only then did Shiara let go and cover her face, masking her sobs.

Ulrem turned as a dozen of the black-veiled shadows swept into the room behind him. They saw the masked dead on the ground, butchered. They saw Dardano in Shiara’s arms. A whisper passed among these voiceless men. Their empty eyes turned towards Ulrem. He waited, sword in hand, though the ring blazed, demanding he fight.

These men who had nothing, had lost something more: their masters, their reason to be. One by one, the shadows threw their blades down at Ulrem’s feet. Then they filed past Shiara and out into the corridor, fists and voices raised in wordless fury.