“Gentlemen! I do apologize, but the melee has been delayed once again.”

A loud chorus of groans and curses erupted from the twenty men sitting against the walls of the arena’s holding area. The king’s master of ceremonies, a round, ugly man with an uglier smile who had delivered the bad news, bowed to the aggravated men to demonstrate his contrition and disappeared back into the arena’s hypogeum.

It was now midday, and the hot, stagnant air in the holding area was thick with the smell of sweat and vomit. There was no shelter from the vicious sun hanging directly overhead, and the sweat flowing off of the fighters formed splotchy dark stains in the sand below them.

Gideon shut his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the wall. It was one of the world’s many unexplainable truths that a soldier's life was one of near constant boredom. Whether it was right before a battle or right before chow, a warrior’s primary function was to experience tedium and unnecessary discomfort whilst having their time wasted. War was magnified, sustained boredom, only rarely broken up by bouts of brutality and perfect terror.

When he'd entered the holding area, it had been full of loud masculine bluster and nervous banter. Over time, the fragile façade of male toughness had been worn down by the sun and the waiting. While it briefly threatened to return with the news of even more waiting, the men had finally been reduced to suffering in silence. Sizing one another up was customary for any group of men, but in the arena’s holding area doing so was an important act of anticipatory self preservation.

After sitting down in the sand, Gideon had discreetly watched the other men sitting in the holding area alongside him, trying to get a sense of each man’s strength and skill from their behavior and attitude. There had been few surprises among them, and only a handful seemed like they’d be a genuine threat. But he knew from long experience that the only way to get a true measure of a fighter's ability was to either fight them or see them in one. Seasoned warriors understood that the most dangerous qualities in a fighter were rarely obvious, but they were equally as important as the given qualities of size and strength.

The barrel chested Losoan man sitting on Gideon’s left had been stealing glances at him ever since he'd sat down. Gideon wondered if the man was going to work up the courage to say something before the master of ceremonies returned, and felt somewhat surprised when he actually did just moments later.

“Hey sleepy, what’s that big fucker doing in your lap? You really expect anyone to believe you can swing that thing?”

Gideon pretended to not hear him.

“Hah! A coward? Well, I’m going to make quick work out of you, don’t you worry. I don’t let ‘em suffer, it’s not my way.”

At that, Gideon slowly opened his eyes to look over at him. The Losoan had a wide but brittle smile on his long, sweaty face. The brown shirt he wore underneath his chainmail was soaked, and a scimitar was resting lengthwise across his lap. When he made eye contact with Gideon his face fell for a split second.

“We’ll see,” Gideon said.

“We’ll see!” The Losoan mocked. “We’ll see. Arrogant fucker. Haha! Can’t wait to see you humbled....”

He’s terrified.

Gideon listened with internal amusement as the Losoan began to mutter to himself. Moments later he felt an elbow in his ribs from the opposite side.

“That entrance fucker let in jus’ about anyone.”

Romus had obviously been very surprised to see Gideon walk into the holding area. A fairly awkward conversation had followed, which ended quickly thanks to the nigh-unbearable heat. Gideon had never been close to anyone in the band, and for some of the Singing Blades that fact alone seemed to rub them the wrong way. Romus in particular had taken umbrage with him, for reasons Gideon didn't know or really care about.

After making eye contact, Romus leaned towards Gideon and spoke under his breath. “Y' coulda told me back when you was interested in the tourney. Coulda watched each other’s backs on the way down, right? Woulda been better'n walkin’ alone through the desert fer two whole months, you...young fool.”

Gideon blinked. He knew perfectly well that Romus didn’t like him, and he wondered at his sudden change of tune.

“I guess.”

Romus gave him an insolent grin. “You’n me’r ten times better’n these chumps. Say we have a little truce t‘ween us ‘till they all dealt with, yeah? Then we can settle up. Jus’ me’n you.”

Gideon furrowed his brows. Romus would definitely stab him in the back if given the opportunity, no matter what he said. But then again, even a temporary ally would be useful.

“Sure. Works for me.”

Romus snickered. “Yer decent, boy, but that money’s good as mine. Won’ kill ya though, outta respect fer yer old man.”

In truth, Gideon did not particularly want to kill Romus, but he doubted he would feel much hesitation if it came down to it. He shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall once again.

“Hey, what if this place ain’t got no roof on purpose? To make us weak’n such?”

Gideon processed the idea quietly for a few moments.

“...Yeah. That tracks.”

“Ugh. Man, maybe Jules was right ‘bout this shit....”

The conversation dried up, and Gideon slipped into an uncomfortable half sleep. An indeterminate amount of time passed until the sound of shuffling footsteps from the hypogeum roused him. The master of ceremonies stepped out, already showing his ugly smile.

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“We are ready! Please stand up and follow me.”

Gideon and the other men hauled themselves to their feet and crowded around the hypogeum’s entrance, all terribly impatient to get out of the sun. The narrow passageway was just wide enough to admit one man at a time, forcing the group to follow the master of ceremonies in single file. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Gideon was struck by an overpowering stench emanating from somewhere within the hypogeum—a rank mixture of dust, piss, and blood. The passageway snaked past cramped rooms full of Kenanite men, seemingly immune to the smell, who were unloading boxes of equipment and laying out weapons. None of them looked up as Gideon and the other fighters passed by.

The passageway opened up into a room with a low ceiling lit by wall mounted braziers. A stone brick stairwell on the opposite side of the room led up to the arena proper, and the tremendous noise of thousands of people chanting and stomping blared from it, washing over Gideon like a wave. The reality of what the fighters had signed up for now settled in—mortal danger was just up those steps.

A long line of water fountains stretched across the far wall, situated next to the stairwell. The master of ceremonies walked up to a knob on the wall by the fountains and twisted it, sending long streams of water arcing out of the spigots. The fighters gravitated towards them, jostling and pressing against each other for what might be the last water they’d ever drink.

The barrel chested Losoan who had been sitting next to Gideon in the holding area reached one of the fountains before him. Gideon watched as he hunched over it and took a very long and greedy drink.

“Don’t drink so much,” Gideon warned him. “If you’re full of water and you get stabbed in the belly you’ll wish they'd just killed you.”

The Losoan leaned up from the fountain with a loud satisfied sigh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“...Shut up, bitch.”

Gideon frowned and shook his head as he looked away. When it was his turn to drink he drank just enough to parch his thirst.

The master of ceremonies stood on the middle step of the stairwell with a tight, patient smile as he watched the men crowd the water fountains. Once the last man had his fill, he shouted over their heads.

“Follow me now up to the arena! Remember, the king himself and the peers of the realm are up there, so acquit yourself well. And if you must die, try to die spectacularly!”

Most of the fighters followed the master of ceremonies up the stairs with exaggerated cocksuredness. Gideon had witnessed how people reacted to imminent danger many times with the Singing Blades, and he understood that the behavior of the men before him was more to convince themselves they felt no fear than it was to convince others. And as he walked up the steps, one of the last to do so, he realized that fear was mixing itself with the water in his belly.

Somehow it never goes away.

The arena’s grandstands could seat at least ten thousand people, and on this day every seat had been filled. At the sight of the men stepping up into the arena the crowd roared at the very top of their lungs, deafening Gideon and the other fighters as the master of ceremonies gesticulated at them to form a large circle around him. They spread out as they got into position, giving each other around fifteen feet of space. Romus was the closest fighter on Gideon’s right, and understanding passed between them when they made eye contact.

As the master of ceremonies wrangled the other men into the right positions, Gideon scanned the cheering crowd and easily spotted the king up on a raised dais protruding out and over the stands like a ship’s prow. He was close enough for Gideon to get a good look at him.

The king was a young man, more or less around Gideon’s age, and he was unmistakably well-built. Gideon was not an ideal judge of male beauty, all things considered, but it was clear that the king had rugged good looks. His short brown hair and tanned skin suited the pure white of his bulky plate armor, and with the plate added to his size he looked like a giant squatting on an undersized throne. From his alert posture, and the cold look in his eye as he watched the fighters spreading out below him, Gideon knew instinctively that he was a killer.

Behind the king sat a group of nobles in their own smaller thrones, all of them far less spry than their monarch. They were a collection of gray haired old men, some thin, some fat, and dressed in flamboyant purple and gold silks. Glittering jewelry adorned their necks, ears, and fingers. While the crowd's cheering continued, the nobles looked around with intense satisfaction, as if they each felt the crowd was cheering for them alone.

Gideon had seen all of the men on the dais before in the camp at Forelia at one point or another, but the woman sitting on the floor a few feet in front of the king was someone new. She was pretty, but not irresistible, and her dark skin made her stand out from the human ocean of pale all around her. Her curly brown hair was well maintained and beautiful, and it fell down to below her shoulders. It seemed downright out of place with the ragged garments she wore, and the heavy slave collar around her neck. A silver chain connected her collar to the king’s throne, and the look of utter disinterest on her face despite the obnoxious noise of the cheering crowd made Gideon think of a feral cat that had been caged and collared.

Something about her was instantly remarkable, and Gideon couldn’t help but wonder who she was.

Something occurred to him as he looked up at the Forelian woman. He scanned the crowd again, slowly this time to get a better look, and soon concluded that there were no women present in the stands. The Forelian up on the dais was the only woman in the entire arena.

Once the master of ceremonies felt satisfied with the circle of fighters around him, he raised both hands up to the crowd for silence. The cheering came to a gradual halt, and after the crowd simmered down the master of ceremonies bowed low in the king’s direction. He raised himself up to his full height and shouted to ensure the entire arena could hear him.

“Sire! These foreigners are ready to play their part!”

The king lifted himself from his throne with the grace appropriate to his station and stepped past the woman. The crowd could no longer contain its excitement, and as the king stopped and raised his right hand in the sign of universal knowledge they began to make a deafening ruckus. They returned the gesture to him, howling feverishly and stomping their feet wildly.

He lowered his right hand and raised his left like lightning for silence. The crowd obeyed at once. His deep baritone rang out and cut through the silence like a knife.

“Before these men refresh our soil with their blood, let us give thanks to omnipotent Kaan for the tremendous victory he has bestowed upon us!”

From the very instant the king stood up he had owned the crowd. Now at his beckoning they switched from silent rapture to solemn silence. En masse, they lowered their heads and pressed their hands together, waiting with quiet obedience to be led in prayer. The king lifted his chin to the sky and raised both arms in supplication to the sun.

“Father of all, we thank thee for thy mighty gifts of strength and knowledge. Our valor and ingenuity we draw from thy perfect wholeness. In thy service, almighty one, the enemy has been laid low. The once proud heretics of the north who stood in opposition to thy all-encompassing power have been conquered and brought into thy desert by thy loyal servants. For five generations we sought to make them yield to the will of the one true God, and finally we have bound their flesh and souls to us, in thy name!”

The king lowered his arms, and Gideon looked on as the master of ceremonies beat a sudden and hasty retreat out of the circle.

“Many of you here lost someone in the war,” the king continued. “Brothers. Sons. Dear friends. Watch now as these foreigners kill one another. For your viewing pleasure.”

The Master of Ceremonies came to a halt at the stairwell to the hypogeum and turned around. He straightened up and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Let the melee commence!”