further loyalty toward them; he had already paid enough. Praetor Yvoluk had seen to that. Koram’s wife and young son were already dead, worked to death in slave camps.
Emerging into the ruddy afternoon sunlight, Koram turned slowly and raised his bronze-inlaid ivory sword. Metal was extremely scarce, and good blades even scarcer; most of the other fighters considered him lucky to have a strengthened and embellished sword. But Koram would never consider himself lucky; he had earned this with blood.
As praetor in charge of the arena, Yvoluk could have warned him what sort of beast he would be fighting this day, but the evil templar liked to keep his surprises. Koram would defeat the opponent just the same. Otherwise it would be surrender.
The spectators continued to whistle and stomp. Koram stood in the shade of the stretched awning that covered the noble seats and part of the sand-covered fighting ground. In the pits below, handlers would force animals and monsters onto elevating platforms and turn them loose through trapdoors in the sand.
Koram heard the rumble of machinery, felt the sand tremble at his feet, and prepared himself. Since being sentenced to the Criterion, he had faced thri-kreen packs, drays, a raaig soulflame, and numerous warriors-human, mul, goliath, it didn’t matter. Koram had slain them all because it was the only way for him to survive. He was lucky; he was skilled; he was determined. But he knew Praetor Yvoluk would give him no way out. He hadn’t yet figured out how to kill the praetor for what he had done, but he never stopped trying to think of a way.
Koram saw something move beneath the arena floor, stalking him… a burrowing creature that sensed the vibrations of his movements. Koram stood absolutely still. Bored, the spectators in the stands shouted out catcalls, but he didn’t budge.
In his special box, Dictator Andropinis sat on his throne under the awning, picking at his fingernails. He seemed an elderly man with a thin face and an intent expression, but he was not intent on the gladiatorial combat before him. When the dictator addressed his people, he exuded power. The sorcerer-king of Balic claimed to have been duly elected to his position several centuries ago-and who could gainsay him? Andropinis attended gladiatorial combats out of a sense of duty, not any real interest. Over the many years of his reign, the dictator had seen, and caused, enough death. Just then, he merely appeared bored.
Bursting out of the arena sand, a trio of gray-skinned anakores spat dust from mouths filled with needle- sharp teeth. He identified a large female with a hunched back and a line of thick, knobby protrusions, and two smaller, younger males with smoother hides and gleaming eyes. Anakores hunted in packs, and they would be a formidable team.
But he didn’t need any assistance. He fought alone.
The first of the younger males lunged toward Koram, and he slashed with his ivory-and-bronze blade. The anakore swung a clawed hand, blinking its black eyes as if unable to see anything but dust, but its wide flat nose smelled him. As Koram danced away, the vibrations of his footfalls were enough to guide the monster.
The second male circled around and dove in as his companion retreated. Koram spun easily on the loose sand, jabbing again to drive the monster away. Then the older female let out a roar that sounded like an avalanche in a cave. In traditional anakore hunting behavior, one would knock a victim to the ground while others plunged forward to finish him. The female thundered toward him.
But it was a different ploy. Her challenging bellow had distracted Koram long enough for the two males to dart forward, attacking him from both sides.
He easily decapitated the anakore on his left, and the creature’s body slid forward with its own momentum while the head went in a different direction. The other male crashed into him, but Koram slammed his armored shoulder into the monster’s body, knocking it to the sands. With a quick, hard thrust, he skewered it through the chest.
The crowd cheered, but Koram did not acknowledge them. Dictator Andropinis continued to study his cuticles, never even looking at the combat.
The female howled and hurled herself at him like a boulder from a catapult. Koram barely had time to recover his balance and lift his sword. As she lunged forward, he swung hard and the bronze edge of his blade cut the anakore’s shoulder. The creature dove again, burying herself in the sand and leaving only a spot of dark blood on the churned sand.
Koram turned in a slow circle, alert. The two males lay dead on the sand, twitching. He wondered who had caught these creatures in the wild and dragged them here to die in the coliseum. Everything died there, sooner or later.
Some gladiator showmen would have drawn out the battle, making the bloodshed last for most of the afternoon. The people saluted them as heroes, celebrities; those fighters reveled in the attention. Koram, though, didn’t care about anyone watching him. He had killed two of the monsters, and he would dispatch the third just as easily.
The female anakore sprang out of the dust again with barely a ripple. Without a flourish, Koram slashed and cut a deep, painful gash along the monster’s side. The female reeled, bleeding profusely, and staggered back, retreating from the gladiator. She stopped near the two dead bodies of the younger anakores, swayed and moaned.
Koram stalked forward but the female did not fight him. She touched the blood from her deep wound, then looked at her dead companions, letting loose a keening howl. “Merrrrrrrrcy,” she seemed to say as she dropped her head toward the slain males. “My fammmilleeeeee.”
He hesitated, but knew she hadn’t said anything of the sort. Still, anger and sickness rose up in him like bile. No one had given any mercy to his family, but he knew he could do nothing for this monster. The female would die here soon enough.
“The only mercy here is a quick death,” he said, too quietly for the audience to hear. And without further spectacle, he drove the point of his blade through the monster’s chest, ramming it all the way to the hilt to be sure of the kill. He jerked his sword back out, letting the anakore die without more pain. The big female collapsed beside the other two corpses.
The crowd applauded the speedy dispatch of the three enemies, but their response was lukewarm. Without bothering to cut off any of the monsters’ heads as trophies, Koram stalked back toward the gladiators’ gate and out of the sun. He was finished for the day.
The lean, bearded praetor stood under the stone arch, his face dark with anger. As Koram walked into the shadows of the tunnels, Yvoluk struck a hard backhand across his sweaty face. “Fight harder, worm dung! Perform for the people-earn another day of your worthless life! You make our opponents seem weak and passive when you kill them so quickly.” His voice was heavily accented; Yvoluk had come from the east, an exile from another city, but he had made a powerful position for himself here.
Koram just looked at the man who had caused him so much pain. “Why don’t you face me yourself in the arena? Then I would show you how much I want to fight.”
Yvoluk raised his hand, threatening to strike him again, but Koram merely strode past and headed to the large underground complex of cells where the gladiators lived. It was not, and would never be, his home. But it was all he had.
Koram had been optimistic once; he had wanted to help the people of Balic. In the showy democracy espoused by the sorcerer-king, ordinary citizens were supposed to have the freedom to speak; they were allowed to run for the office of praetor, whether or not the Council of Patricians or Andropinis approved. Koram had been so naive, so foolish.
An “unapproved” candidate who managed to be elected praetor typically met with an unfortunate accident before long. In his own case, Koram had asked too many questions in the first months, and Yvoluk had orchestrated his downfall, disgracing him with accusations of graft, turning public opinion against Koram, who had been their favorite only weeks before. Though there was no proof in the charges against him, the people did not believe Koram’s vehement denials. He was arrested and stripped of his rank. His wife and son were sold to slave traders for a long march to work Tyr’s mines, where they died within weeks. Koram was thrown into the gladiator arena, where he did not have the good sense to die. Seven months later, he continued to fight and kill.
His fellow warriors sulked in their rooms, brooding over their fates. Some oiled their muscles or strapped on armor in preparation for upcoming matches in the arena. A pair of dwarves sparred enthusiastically to hone their fighting skills. A newly captured goliath hunkered on a stone seat in his cell, rocking back and forth, holding his knees; his misery was even larger than his body. An insectile thri-kreen tracker, separated from his two psychically
