Under the Crimson Sun

have to suffer through the fights, he could at least do it from a distance.

They had gone there that night after a particularly frustrating meeting with the king.

Hamanu sat on his throne, which was unusually drab. One of the things Drahar admired about Hamanu was that the king did not believe in what he referred to as “unnecessary finery.” He wore silks that were well-tailored, of course, and jewelry appropriate to his station, but he saw no need to be ostentatious. His throne was simply a chair, albeit one that was cushioned and apparently comfortable, on a dais that kept the monarch on a higher plane than the others in the throne room.

Drahar was sitting with the other members of the court in uncushioned chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around the throne. The meeting had been to discuss possible methods of raising capital to increase the ranks of the Imperial Guard. Although the king’s army more than served its function to protect the city-state against invaders, many in the court felt that the king’s sights should be set beyond the walls of Urik. But the Guard, as currently situated, would be spread too thin to properly wage a war and also protect the homeland.

Both the mines and the orchards-the two primary sources of income for Urik-had produced low yields of late. It wasn’t enough to cause major difficulties for anyone living there, but it also meant that they had no surplus. On the one hand, it was one reason why raising the capital necessary to expand the Guard would be difficult. On the other, it was all the more reason why Urik needed to conquer more lands-like, say, Tyr.

The meeting was being held because Tharson and Drahar were attempting to convince Hamanu to take the latter position.

“We could always expand the ranks through conscription of civilians into the service,” Tharson said to the king.

Tharson barely finished his sentence before Hamanu replied, “No. We need soldiers, Templar, not knife fodder. More to the point, we need trained soldiers, not random fools taken off the streets.”

One of Drahar’s fellow sirdars said, “Even if we did conscript, we would have to feed and clothe them.”

Tharson made a noise like a fireball. “We’d have to pay them if we wanted them to be any good at it. Unpaid soldiers are poor ones.”

“It does not matter,” the king said. “I do not wish to sully the ranks of the Guard by lowering the standards of service.”

Drahar knew that Hamanu had had experience in that regard, including some campaigns that had been lost due to not recognizing that quantity was not the same as quality. Still, he had hopes that the king might see reason.

“Magnificence, the mines are not going to suddenly improve their yields. In the long term, such gains are always temporary. The only way for us to remain as powerful as we are is to find another resource to exploit- which, sadly, does not exist anywhere in the region, if at all in Athas-or expand our territory.”

“In fact,” the king said witheringly, “the mines have always fluctuated. Next year might see an uptick, and the orchards are certainly likely to bounce back as well. I appreciate the desire to expand my kingdom, but it must wait at least another year. That is all.”

Drahar managed to control his reaction in public with the ease of long practice-he was always mindful, after all, of his predecessor’s fate.

But internally, he was seething.

He and Tharson walked out of the throne room together, Drahar saying, “We must discuss this.”

Tharson nodded. “Tonight, at the arena.”

For once, Drahar didn’t bother to control his reaction. “Must we?”

“Oh, yes, we must.” The templar smiled. “Someone managed to kill Gorbin.”

“So?”

His eyes widening, Tharson said, “What do you mean ‘so?’ This is Gorbin.”

“It’s just people punching people. There’s no art to it. Sooner or later, someone was bound to be able to punch better than Gorbin.”

“Regardless, it’s past time I saw a good fight at the Pit.”

Drahar was still waiting for the first time he would see one, but said nothing.

And so, the pair of them were taken on palanquins to the Pit. Drahar was grateful for the silk curtains that kept him from having to look out onto the streets of Urik as he was carried through-bad enough they couldn’t contain the smell. It wasn’t so bad when they first left, but the Pit was located closer to Urik’s slums. The architecture changed from large, complex buildings with elegant stonework and molding that were sculpted into leonine themes-even the palanquin they rode had bas-relief lions carved into the sides-to ramshackle structures that barely protected their inhabitants from the harshness of the midday sun.

Depressingly, Drahar could track their progress via his nose. He wasn’t sure whether it was due to the poor handling of local sewage or the fact that the populace never bathed. While Drahar knew that water was hard to come by, the very least they could do was try to clean themselves at least once a month, if not the weekly bath Drahar himself always took.

After that, arriving at the royal box at the Pit was something of a relief. Drahar could smell soap and cleaning waxes-obviously the owners kept the place clean for Tharson, which Drahar appreciated in the abstract. Certainly, it made having to sit through such nonsense a great deal easier.

Wine was brought for everyone, and Drahar gulped down most of a tankard in one sip, hoping the alcohol would dull the experience.

It failed in that regard, leading Drahar to suspect that the wine was watered down as a cost-saving endeavor. Either that or the owners saw the value in their customers not being too drunk.

Any hope that the experience might have improved in the years since the king lost interest in the arena were dashed when Drahar saw that Jago-or was it Calbit? he could never keep the arena’s owners’ names straight-was still doing the same tired barker routine at the top of each fight. Even more pathetic: the crowd was eating it up.

The first few fights were of little interest even to Tharson, as they were lesser bouts between contestants whom Jago claimed were all “among the finest brawlers in Urik.” Drahar finished his third tankard by the end of the second fight, having endeavored to pay as little attention as possible to the events on the stage, endeavoring to engage Tharson in conversation about how they would go about convincing Hamanu that he was wrong to put off invading Tyr for a year.

At first, Drahar was successful, but then Jago came out and announced that “the moment you all came here to see” had arrived.

Only then did Drahar notice that the crowd had expanded considerably. Therefore the reception to Jago’s request to welcome the new champion, whose name was apparently Rol Mandred, was much, much louder than their previous reactions.

Then the fighter came out, and Drahar nearly dropped his tankard.

This Rol Mandred was a creature of magic. What’s more, he had a taint that was, quite simply, impossible.

Tharson was staring at him. “What’s wrong, Drahar?”

Drahar shook his head. “I’m sorry? What makes you think anything is wrong?”

“You’re actually watching the arena,” Tharson said with a grin. “Usually you only pay that level of attention to something that relates to magic.”

Quietly, Drahar said, “Very observant, Templar.”

Now the grin fell. “There’s magic on the arena floor?”

“The new fighter-Mandred, is it?”

“He’s the reason we’re here.” Tharson gulped down whatever he was drinking from his tankard. “That’s the one who killed Gorbin.”

“I doubt it took him much effort,” Drahar muttered. “He appears human, but he’s a creature of magic.”

“He barely appears human,” Tharson said with a snort. “Look at those poxes all over him. And I’ve never seen a human that size.”

Looking more closely, Drahar saw that the clothes Mandred was wearing were tight against his pockmarked skin. In particular, they were pulling on his shoulders. The clothes were also well-worn and had desert sand on