Wurhi startled as the sack was ripped from her head.

“What in the gods?” she exclaimed.

Never had she seen a chamber like this. The closest she could liken it to was the foyer at Paradise: an area to hang one’s cloak and shed one’s shoes before entering someplace. Yet - while this had benches for seating as well - there was no doorkeeper, hook or welcome.

Instead, there was weaponry.

Dozens of arms and pieces of armour hung from the walls or stood on racks that ran through the centre of the room. The bronze had dulled and some pieces sported the beginnings of verdigris, yet a group of eight men and women pawed through them as though they were the most precious of gems.

Some, hesitant, picked up items with trembling hands before quickly discarding them and seeking something else. Others carefully eyed the equipment, examining it with an expert eye before confidently choosing what they would wield.

A pair of men simply took down spears from the wall without hesitation, gripping them as though they were old friends.

“What is this?” Merrick demanded.

Thoom.

The bronze-shod door slammed behind them with a heavy bar sliding into place on the outside. Berard grinned through a grate near the door’s top. “I said you’d get a chance. Here’s your chance. Fight or die. Or fight and die.”

With a jaunty knock on the wood, he disappeared down the hall.

“There goes ‘our moment’,” Wurhi grunted.

"They gave us a pair of runts this time,” a heavy baritone remarked in accented Laexondaelic.

A tall man approached the two thieves with an appraising look, eyeing each as a horse trader might examine new stock. Old scars formed a canopy on his pale scalp and a black moustache drooped below his chin. “You two look quick of hand, at least. You stand with good balance.”

“What in the name of every damned god is happening?” Wurhi demanded, her eyes darting across the room for some avenue of escape. The only other door rose higher than a gallows pole and was immense enough to fit a set of oxen through, yet it sported no handle.

“You’ve been given a chance to fight.” The moustached man gestured to the seven folk strapping on belts and dented pieces of armour. “We all have.”

“Hey, I saw this first!”

A squat man tried to drag a warped breastplate from a reedy youth. “Get your own!”

“I had my hand on it, and I used it last time!” the thin young man snarled. “Shove off!”

“Hey!” the bald warrior jabbed a finger toward them. “Save all that for whatever beast they’ve brought out! I’m not going out there with two of my men already bruised!” He pointed to the squat man. “Agron, you get the plate. You’re slower. Gannicus.” He pointed to the thin man. “Take a helm, those pauldrons over there, and that shield. You’re quick on your feet.”

Both men glared at each other, but Gannicus dropped his grip and trudged toward a shield on the rack.

“What in all hells is this?” Merrick demanded.

“The armoury for the arena.” The bald warrior turned back with a grim look.

“Wait…” Wurhi blinked. “Arena? Like a fighting pit in Salik?”

Her heartbeat quickened.

“I’ve never heard of a ‘Salik’, but if they’ve got fighting pits, then you got the right idea.” He looked them up and down. “You two as quick as I think you are?”

Merrick and Wurhi looked at each other. “Yes, I-” the Hawk started.

“Good.” The warrior jabbed a thumb toward the racks. “Armour’s rare here, so you won’t get that until I see you’re not just gonna die as soon as the gates go up. Try to take any and I’ll thump you good,” he warned. “You’ve got short reach so fetch a couple of spears and whatever hand weapon you got experience with. If that’s none, take a club.” He pointed to a set of cudgels piled in a corner of the room. “Keep your head straight, follow my commands and you might live through this.”

“Who in the hells are you?” Merrick demanded.

“Crixus of Garumna,” the moustached man gazed down at him levelly. Corded muscle filled his bare chest, shifting with every movement. “I was bodyguard to Queen Oligara before the Blood-Bearded slew all the clan-chiefs. I know war and battle. You’d be wise to listen to me. Names?”

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“Uh, Merrick of Laexondael.”

“Uh, Wurhi of Zabyalla.”

“What?” A young woman rushed toward them with a bronze helm bouncing on top of a mop of ginger hair. “The Rat and the Hawk?! Here?”

Crixus looked at her sharply.

“You know these runts, Saxa?”

She stared at them with wide, green eyes. “They’re only some of the best thieves ever to trounce the trove guardians!” she cried. “If I had half their skills I’d’a left Tick Bottom years ago! Damn me, these wolves caught you?”

Wurhi looked about, entirely overwhelmed. “I-”

Brooooooooaaaaaam!

A monstrous horn blew, and its blast shuddered her soul.

It shook the handleless door and reverberated through the stone. The pit-fighters froze as one, looking toward the immense door.

Crixus cursed. “Damn it, they’re ready to open the gate! Saxa, save your questions for later! All of you! Get your arms ready!” He looked to Merrick and Wurhi. “That means you too!”

Wurhi looked at Merrick before rushing to grab a spear.

Turning in place, she darted for one of the racks and snatched up a bronze sword as well. She gave it a few test swings. It was heavier than her own and had piss poor balance, but their lengths were similar enough. She felt slightly more confident in wielding it.

Silently, she thanked Kyembe for all those lessons he’d forced her through in the cold snows on Paradise’s grounds.

Her belly twisted.

A memory returned: the last lesson he had given her. It had devolved into a snow battle as they chased each other like children. What a pure joy that had been! A first for her as well. Only a few days had passed since, but they now felt like months.

A snarl took her lips, fuelled by a rage toward both herself and her lupine captors. She remembered well the black-coated beast and Berard’s smirk as he left her here. “I’m gonna live through this. I swear I’m gonna live through this and then I’m going to split open that big, hulking mange-ridden bastard.”

Croom.

The gate shifted so loudly that she nearly dropped her spear; it began to rise, lifted by the clink of massive chains buried in the ceiling above.

“This is it!” Crixus barked. “Some of you are new! Some of you are very new! But it’s the same as always! Follow my lead, watch each other’s flanks and stick whatever bastard they’ve brought for us as hard as you can!”

The captives, their nerves taut as bowstrings, nodded.

Merrick took up position behind the group with a spear in hand and a bronze mace strapped to his waist. Wurhi quickly joined him. “How much fighting have you done?” she whispered.

“Enough.” His shrug was casual, but all the colour had abandoned his face. “Sometimes guards see you and you’ve got to cut or crack your way out. You?”

“Enough.” She echoed. “Enough.”

Her heart pounded so fiercely that she thought it would burst. Her mind raced like a terror-stricken horse with starving dogs closing in.

‘You’ve done this,’ she told herself. ‘You fought in alleys most of your life. You fought Cas’ guards. You fought Avernix’s dogs. You survived all this time. And if things get tough, you can transform. You’ve done this. You’ve done this.”

The ear-crushing roar of a beast sounded ahead as the gate continued rising.

A crowd erupted in a deafening din. There must have been hundreds of them.

Wurhi cursed, clutching the spear lest her trembling hands lose their grip. A cold sweat stood on her skin.

“I feel about the same,” Merrick muttered with shaky tones.

Thoom.

The gate completed its rise.

“Here we go! Pray to whatever gods you pray to!” Crixus slapped down the visor on his helm.

He stepped forward.

The other slaves followed.

----------------------------------------

Wurhi flinched as evening sunlight abruptly struck her eyes.

The captives exited a stone passage into an arena within the mountain’s heart. A massive channel opened in the ceiling, illuminating hundreds of black robed figures in the stands above. A line of cultists ringed the arena’s floor from atop the surrounding wall; their spears stood ready to impale any who attempted to climb toward the seats for escape.

“We’re all dead.” Merrick muttered.

“Silence.”

A voice as deep as thunder struck the chamber. It was not raised, yet smote down the crowd to immediate stillness. Squinting, Wurhi rapidly looked toward it.

A man sat in a throne inlaid with black onyx upon a rising dais; the sight of him nearly made her nerves fray in fright. His torso was bare, displaying a powerful build sculpted as a marble statue and crisscrossed with scars. His dark hair was so close-cropped that it seemed chiseled smooth above eyes as hard, cold and dead as diamond. He was slighter than Berard -but only barely - and only in physicality.

Wurhi’s rodent instincts screamed at her to flee. Her body began to tremble violently. This man seated above all others exuded an immense savagery so primal that the air itself seemed to recoil from it.

A titanic statue of a beast rose above him - its multiple lupine heads writhing - and he was framed by several familiar figures. Berard and the hunt-leader gazed down with animalistic excitement that bordered on hunger. Adelmar grinned and whispered excitedly to a masked cultist that seemed to nearly bounce with glee. The Eye of Radiin hanging from his neck left little doubt to his identity.

“I am Milos of Crotonia, Sacred Alpha to this pack.” Their leader’s voice filled the chamber. “And you all have been chosen by Lycundar’s grace.” He pointed toward the statue of the monstrosity. “You will undertake The Struggle. Succeed, and you may live. Perform well and you will please He Who Consumes Himself. You, in turn, shall be fed well. Perform poorly? You shall die, and be our god’s feast in the afterworld.”

“Oh, gods,” Merrick moaned.

“We will perform!” Crixus raised his spear. “We will be fed!”

“We shall see.” Milos casually waved a hand.

Crnk.

A gate began to rise on the opposite side of the arena.

Thoom.

Beyond it yawned a passage in the stone. It appeared immune to light’s touch, for only a consuming blackness lay within. Something moved heavily in that dark.

Wurhi’s nostrils flared.

Her blood chilled.

“Oh no,” she murmured and stepped back trembling. Her hand squeezed the spear like the coils of a serpent. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“What!?” Merrick demanded.

“Steady, I say!” Crixus barked.

Scrrrrrrrp.

Something sharp scraped against stone. A crackling growl reverberated with the low pitch of a war-drum. A shape began to materialize from the darkness, its coming heralded by the flash of scarlet, shining eyes.

“We’re dead.” Wurhi’s breath came rapidly. “We’re all dead.”