Earlier, a fleeing Haldrych had stumbled from the passage and emerged into what he could only describe as hell. A cacophony of wails, roars, shouts and screams assaulted his ears, overlaying the bedlam within.

Before him writhed a chaotic scene of bronze, flesh and death. The seats of the arena burst with black robed cultists struggling against berserk beasts. Werewolves leapt among them, pulling down the half-starved, panicked creatures and tearing them open with fang and claw.

Yet, there were but few pack-brothers to slay the beasts, and the acolytes proved poor resistance against their fury. The stands flowed crimson with the blood of the fallen, like a river of death rushing into the after-world. Dozens of black robed bodies ‘floated’ in that current, laying in pools of their own gore and exposed viscera.

The smell hit the terrified poet in a wave - a rusty tang of blood combined with the stench of filth released from the dying. No epic battle-poem mentioned such foul smells, and he was overwhelmed, violently doubling over at the stench and sight of entrails steaming in the cold air.

Below, the sea of cultists faced a ragged band of fighters; it took the young poet a few breaths to realize that the latter were the cult’s captives. Though outnumbered at least ten to one, they were better armed and armoured than the acolytes, and dealt terrible losses.

Groaaaar!

Nearby was another sight that defied Haldrych’s understanding: Milos grappled on the sand with his own sabre-toothed tiger, battling to subdue the beast while it sought to skewer his skull with its massive fangs. Its claws tore into the Sacred Alpha’s body again and again, ripping his clothing to tatters, but his wounds knitted shut with a terrifying swiftness.

Deep trenches nearly shearing his body in twain closed into unmarred flesh in heartbeats. Though he was in human form, his eyes burned with the feral savagery of the wolf, yet his conflict with the cat seemed aimed at merely pinning his pet and not slaying it.

But why was it attacking its master?

And why was it free?

Crack!

Stone crumbled from elsewhere in the arena. Haldrych whirled, gaping at the black furred form of Berard crushing a support that braced the statue of Lycundar. Then a sight more personal to Haldrych caught his eye, making the warrior-poet gasp in dread.

The thief.

The rat-woman thief charged across the arena toward Berard - free, armoured and vengeful. In her hand gleamed a familiar silver sword.

A silver sword that he deserved.

With a flash of insight as rare to Haldrych Ameldan as the most precious of black opals, he reasoned out what had occurred. He had sent the beast after the thief. She had somehow overcome it, brought the tiger to her side, and - having regained her weapon from its corpse - led the slaves into full revolt. A fear greater than he had ever experienced clutched his heart, for no matter how this battle played out, his fate would be bleak.

If the slaves were victorious? The thief and captives would take their vengeance upon him and no doubt steal the Eye of Radiin. If the cult were victorious? Even if none learned that it was he who - through no fault of his own - had reunited the rat with her blade, it would not be long until blame fell to him. His last ‘mistake’ had led to his proud steed being slaughtered and eaten like a common goat. What would they do to him now?

He also could not ignore that a third, even grimmer fate lay somewhere in the tunnels. He glanced into the darkness at his back; the red-eyed demon would have finished Adelmar and be seeking him by now.

Adelmar…his oldest friend.

A bitterness welled up in the young patriarch.

This was all Adelmar’s fault! Not his! He had done nothing to deserve this! If that dead fool had not convinced him to slay his mother, he would know nothing of shapeshifting thieves, crimson gazing fiends, and fanatical wolf-men! He would be safe in his manor, composing an ode with a cup of hot wine carried to his room just as he had always ordered. What a fine thing life had been before Adelmar had convinced him against his will to ruin it! He could have remained in comfort and found another way to achieve glory with his poetry! Yes, it was true! Of all the victims in this tragedy, there was none greater than Haldrych Ameldan!

Yet, convincing any victors of this truest of facts would likely prove futile and very fatal.

He needed to make good his escape.

The path to the front passage of the mountain was blocked by rioting slaves; he would need somewhere to hide for now. Somewhere he would be overlooked and safe until the battle was won and the mountain abandoned.

His eyes came to a certain passage on the opposite side of the arena. There! That led to the private balcony where he and Adelmar had conspired shortly after Marctinus’ fate. That place was hardly used, according to his now deceased friend, and no doubt he could wait out all of this unjustness there in safety. The only trouble was that Berard and the thief - locked in battle - stood between him and the passage.

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He slid the Eye of Radiin beneath his robe, pulled his cowl low to obscure his identity, and began to rush toward his salvation. The din of battle faded behind him and though he half-feared that some cultist would mark his retreat, no outcry was raised. He at least had to thank their foes for keeping them occupied. His luck seemed to hold ahead as well. Berard and the thief were utterly focused on attempting to murder each other, and his rush toward them remained unnoticed.

Crack!

Berard struck the thief and sent her sprawling to the stone while another escapee stabbed the werewolf in the flank. Good! He bore down on them now, rushing through the aisle above their struggle.

He would easily slip past and-

“Shit! Rat look out!”

The little man spotted him as the Rat dragged herself to her feet. Quick as a striking cobra, she whirled on him. The beautiful silver sword he had coveted cut a blurring silver arc through the air. He screamed. Desperately twisting his body, he felt the buffet of the thin blade striking his robe.

Yet no pain followed.

And then he had passed them.

Awash with relief and the rush of survival, sensation faded away as he sprinted more desperately than he ever had in his life. The pain in his lungs and legs subsided. The sting of exertion in his belly vanished and even the heat of wet sweat drenching his side disappeared.

Slipping past the sliding statue of Lycundar, Haldrych dove into the passage that marked his salvation. Sobbing with relief, he rushed into the tunnel as though all the hounds of hell sought his throat. And so, before the moon could even change its position in the sky, the great warrior-poet had fled two battles in a single night.

In this flight, he did not notice what dripped from his soaking robe in his wake.

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Wurhi brandished her blade, ignoring the unnamed fleeing cultist.

Berard swept his weapon about him, driving Merrick back, and the three combatants paused, measuring each other.

They tensed for terrible violence.

Boom!

The statue of Lycundar ended its measured descent, catching securely on the reinforced brackets lining the arena wall. In its wake yawned a chasm in the arena’s side that opened upon a stone staircase reaching deep into the mountain’s heart. The stairs were vast, far too large simply for man or even an ogre to mount, and Wurhi could hear water’s muffled roar from the opening. It seemed the colossal steps were carved from a wall that adjoined the underground river which flowed freely beneath the arena floor. From within the cavern that yawned ahead of the stair emanated a powerful musk, one she had never smelt before, but one that made her instincts scream.

As though in response, a roar shook the arena, far louder than even that of the tiger.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Some truly mammoth form of life moved through the dark beneath the mountain. Berard gave a snort and retreated, leaping past the stunned Merrick and loping through the seats away from the chasm.

Thm. Thm. Thm.

What sounded to be hooves ground against stone as a creature ascended the steps. The ground shuddered as though cringing from every colossal footfall, and the din of battle grew muted as warriors turned toward the sound of thunder stalking the earth.

“Rat….Raaaaat!” Merrick backed away, his face pale and jaw clenched. “If the big wolf’s running then maybe we should too!”

If his words did not convince her-

Brooooooooooaar!

-then the bellow that followed did.

The Rat and the Hawk sprinted away as thunderous footfalls grew upon stone steps. The ground shook. Titanic breathing filled their ears. The hairs on her neck and back stood up, but she risked a backward glance.

Wurhi nearly stumbled at what she saw.

What emerged from below was a barbaric hulk of a titan; a creature whose utter purpose was to rend all life asunder. It was another mockery of humanity akin to the ogres of the Forest of Giants, but with a brutish, ruddy face far craggier. Tusks jutted from a bottom jaw that consumed most of its head and a waterfall of stringy spittle poured from the sides of rubbery lips.

It drenched a mountainous chest and the wooly fur of two ponderous, goat-like legs that ended in dense, ebony hooves. A single horn rose from the top of its bald, misshapen skull that could have served as the deformed mast of a ship. Gargantuan in stature and dripping cruelty, it glared at the world from a single, alien eye that swallowed most of its brow.

With a roar, it raised its weapon with an arm that could have strangled a whale.

Wurhi blinked in disbelief.

A tree.

It clutched a vast, dead oak in a brutal grip. The branches had been torn free, but the roots remained as though they were the spikes on a titanic mace.

“What now?!” Merrick’s voice was shrill.

Even if Wurhi could speak, she had no name to put to this one-eyed giant, except to call it a tower. Never in her life had she witnessed a living creature so large - perhaps a full ten times her height and bearing the bulk of four Mabatian war elephants.

Boom.

It stepped down into the arena, and its footfall killed the battle before it. Slaves and cultists felt both weapons and jaws hang as the titan swept them all with its evil gaze. The panicked beasts took one frightened look at the creature and quit the arena, tearing their way through the cultist’s ranks as they fled into the passages. Even the sabre-toothed tiger had broken off its contest with its master, snarling at the titan in anger and trepidation.

“Cyclops!” Gannicus’ shrill voice cried from among the escapees. “Run! Run for your lives!”

“Stop them!” Milos roared, his wounds healing quickly beneath his shredded robe. “Block the exits, Lycundar’s children!” He stepped forward and addressed the cyclops. “My pet! Strike our enemies! Feast!”

His voice was the crack of a whip over the one-eyed giant’s back, and the creature stiffened at its sound. Even as werewolves and acolytes spread over the arena, the cyclops’ broad nostrils flared wider and its lips trembled over protruding fangs.

BANG! SCRRR! BANG! SCRRRR! BANG! SCRRRRRRR!

The titan shook and pawed the earth with one broad, cloven hoof. A cloud of sand swept into the air as though caught in a desert gale. It roared a syllable in a grinding language of which Wurhi had no knowledge.

It lowered itself.

Gave one final snort.

And charged with titanic oaken cudgel held high.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The mountain shook. The escapees shrieked and tried to flee.

Milos roared in triumph and the cult roared with him.

Lycundar’s image watched them all. In the moonlight, its snarls seemed silent howls of victory.