WHOOMP

Flames leaped from the fire eater's mouth, igniting a slab of lamb upon a stick and casting light from under the shadow of the great gate. The meat cooked before the onlooker's very eyes, and the street performer handed it to his delighted customer. Children clapped and ran, laughing as they chased one another within the crowds. Music floated through the streets, seducing the mind with a caress of melody. Hard men languished in labor and women fussed over prices, but the very air was alight with celebration, a saturnalia of joy and reverence on this day of adulation. Undulating cries of priests lifted to the skies as sorcerers could be spotted overhead on their carpets of arcane flight. The sun, merciless in its power, smiled upon the land sought, it's light so penetrating it was as if it desired to kiss the skin of even the most sheltered scholar. As the road of the desert transmogrified into the bustling streets of Copher, the shantytown of the outercity was brushed aside by towering apartments and soaring spires of high learning and forbidden sorcery, overlaid with tapestries of every color imaginable.

The further one walked, the grander it became. Structures of timeless architecture dominated the streets, casting shadows that rivaled the World's Edge Mountains. Princes road horses of snowy white fur and bedecked in golden tress while others sat in canopies atop elephants, massive beasts from far to the south, lumbering through the streets without a care on where they stepped. No one of importance would be slinking through the ground on their feet, and those that got too close would be cut to pieces by the mamluk guards, swathed in cloth and mail of burnished steel. In the alleys, men begged and dealt in trades so illicit, even the pirates would curl their lips in disgust. One cloaked figure looked to be helping another leaning against the wall of a shop, only for the slice of meat to be heard, and blood pooling at the prostrate man's feet as the other hurried away. In the distance trumpets sounded, erupting with rapturous echoes that could be heard from the shark-infested sea. A call from the heart of the city itself, beckoning to be heard as if enchanted by witchery.

The plaza before the gates of the palace had not seen so many men and women since the city's founding in a bygone age. Arabyans cried out in their native tongue, their bodies, so tightly packed together, looked as if they formed a sea of shimmering sand. Immigrants from Ind, Nippon, Cathay, Corsairs from Sartosa, men from across the Old World, and even the rare elf or dwarf, were gathered in the crowd that seeped into the side streets and rooftops as if Allah had sprinkled them from the heavens. But at the center of the crowd, a large space was cordoned off as the princes of the tower and emirs of the provinces approached in their finery and golden livery, resplendent in robes and fine jewels, their caravans stuffed with drink, succulent food, and caches of gold to present to their liege. Beside them, dancing women and dervishes with their whirling swords spun like woven spells. Drums thumped and lyres sang, chimes rung and mamluks lifted their voices in rhythmic, roaring unison as they walked, holding standards of coiled serpents and hawks of copper and gold.

It was then, at the crescendo of their chanting, that a keen, clear voice passed over the crowd like a gentle shower of rain. All eyes turned to the balcony, built of marbel and gold high above the walls, overlooking the city, its stones cleverly shaped to amplify any voice that spoke upon it. Out of the silk drapes strode Sultan Muradi Al-Man the Munificent, his full beard as dark as a black opal and his features weathered but sculpted from thorough breeding. He held his hands up, and the murmurs of the crowd went silent as the procession in the streets halted. No one breathed, no one whispered, not even infants dared wail. He watched from his perch, as if daring anyone to break the silence before his consent. The Palace itself was as large as an awakened god, and only one a step below the gods could reside in something so splendid.

"Dae Al'aleab Tabda!" He called to them all. 'Let the games begin.'

And so they did.

---

The blunt force of the punch sent flashes of light through his eyes, he lost his sense of smell and nearly the good sense to duck. The slave moved on impulse, feeling the wind from the next blow brushing his dark locks as it passed over him. He balled his fist and buried it between his opponent's ribs. The twitch from his adversary's upper leg announced his intended knee strike as if he had told him over arak, and Bahadir kicked his shin before the move transpired, cracking the tiny bones in his foot like a blackpowder bomb. The other slave screamed like a caged ape, but even as he fell, he wrapped his powerful arms around Bahadir's shoulders to pull him down to a fight on the arena sands. Bahadir planted his feet to keep himself up and drove fist after fist into the man's stomach, pummeling him until his abdoman was bruised and his ribs were shattered like glass. His opponent let go of him, and when he breathed, blood flecked his lips and stained the dirt like thousands upon thousands of those who died before him. Bahadir stumbled back, glad to breathe air not rank with sweat, to not taste the iron tang of blood.

The crowd lifted in their seats and whooped, crying and hooting for more. The games had begun not an hour ago, but the corpses of seven men and two leopards littered the hard floor of the dusty stadium. Merchants laughed and traded coins, betting on every match in their private circles as the Emirs professed to their many wives they had known who would win all along. In the seat of honor, the Sultan watched with his prized eunuchs and courtiers, his trusted vizier and court sorcerer standing by his side. They watched as Mamluks jogged into the arena, moon-bladed halberds at the ready to escort the final survivor back to his cell while bare chested men ran out and began to dispense with the bodies.

Bahadir wiped his face with his heavy forearm, blinking away the sweat, before he bowed to the Sultan and the Emirs, prostrating himself as all who performed before them were bade to, and then he picked himself up and walked back into the shadows beneath the arena, where his fate would change forever.

The air stank of blood and shit. The sun beat down like a hammer that half boiled your brain. Poverty was everywhere, made all the worse by the incredible opulence of the Sultan. Life was cheap and a murder could be purchased for a handful of coins or a cup of half spoiled wine. Calliope Blackwood loved it.

The crowd below was cheering itself hoarse as the surviving slave prostrated himself and then walked back into the pens beneath the ancient arena. The smell of roasted meat and spices wafted up as vendors carried tray laden with chunks of goat grilled on sticks, or rice mixed with milk and cinnamon to refresh the festival goers. Refresh their stomachs anyway, their bloodlust needed no stoking. Already four men, black skinned giants from the Southlands, were being lead into the arena. Each man was dressed in animal skins, lion, tiger, and two patterns Calliope didn’t recognise, and carried wooden shields and long spears with axe-like blades. Their faces were concealed with strange helmets, which Calliope realized must be the skulls of whatever animals had donated the skin.

The Sultan was laughing as a buxom blonde Imperial girl struggled out of his lap. The girl’s stunning northern figure was too much for the Araybyian silks that tried mightily to contain it. The fat potentate didn’t seem offended by her lack of enthusiasm, nor did he pursue her as she scrambled away from him. Calliope frowned inwardly. She was no patriot, in fact she bore a death mark back in the Empire, but it bothered her to see a fellow Imperial so mistreated.

“Does it disturb you to see a woman in her proper place Pirate?” Azim Abbasi, the Sultan’s vizer asked with the perpetual sneer that covered his skull like face whenever he was talking to anyone other than his master. Calliope’s hand rested on her hip, though her pistol and sword had been taken when she came into the Sultan’s presence. There was always magic, but the few spells she knew were both unreliable and not really applicable. Even if she tried it the court magician Nasir bin Jaffa would swat her like a bug. Instead, she picked up a grape and bit into it, deliberately spraying juice to make Azim start backwards to avoid soiling his fine green and gold robes.

“Does it disturb you to see a woman, you know, with your partiality to camels and all,” she replied in a sweetly reasonable tone. Azim glared at her, then spat onto the floor beside her booted foot.

“Pirate, I would speak with you!” the Sultan called, apparently tiring of grabbing for the Blonde. Calliope bowed and stepped towards the Sultan. She grabbed the other Imperial girl and shoved her aside theatrically. Only a very keen eye would pick out the fact that one of the broaches Calliope wore was gone, palmed to the harem girl as she thrust her aside. It was a thin sliver of metal, an enameled dragon, just the sort of thing an enterprising prisoner might sharpen to a fine edge.

“I have given your words some thought,” the fat ruler of Copher declared portentously. It might have been a little more impressive if his fingers hadn’t been sticky with date preserves. Calliope held herself straight, the pose she would have employed if she were standing behind the wheel of a ship that was going into heavy weather.

“You say that with three ships you will be able to drive the corsair Benaro from our shores?” he asked, a trifle skeptically. Calliope felt the hot coppery taste of hate in her throat. Benaro of Savilla had been her first mate once, before he led a mutiny and marooned her on a Manan benighted sandspit to die. He had spent the past two years raiding the rich shores of Araby and so she had come to the Sultan with an offer to help, for a reasonable price of course.

“Easily my lord,” she replied confidently. The roar of the crowd behind her and the blast of brassy trumpets let her know that games were starting up again. The Sultan’s eyes were already sliding past her and she had to stop herself from grinding her teeth in frustration, the little toad just couldn’t follow a thought from beginning to end.

“Very well, I shall consider the matter and give you an answer after consulting with my advisors,” he said, all but shooing her out of the way.

@POOHEAD189

The shadow under the walls of the arena merely muted the heat, it did not erase it. But to Bahadir, he felt his heart still pulsing, the realness one felt during a life and death struggle palpable, as if his senses were honed to a razor's edge. His eyes adjusted to the darkness swiftly, and mercilessly the tunnel ended in a large stairway that fed into the underbelly of the arena, where the temperature dropped a few precious degrees lower, and where slave-fighters were fed and given small respite, where the beasts lurked in cages ready to be unleashed. Bahadir heard the ringing of metal and the cracking of a whip, the echoes of a cry of pain reverberating off the ancient stone.

The central chamber was large, its immensity barely illuminated by torches, leaving large pockets of shadows where slaves in chains hid for privacy or sleep. Mamluks stood guard as slave masters patrolled the underways, the network of tunnels laced across the underground that led to different gates around the coliseum. The fighters were sequestered in different groups of large numbers, always coming out of the same gate.

At the bottom, a stout figure stood awaiting the survivor of this latest blood bath. He had one eye and a black beard, his burly arms scarred, one ensconced with brass rings. Moredek smiled, showing a mouth full of ivory and gold teeth. "Not bad up there, boy. You performed that right hook like I taught you." He gestured to the guards that had followed in Bahadir's wake. "But you didn't keep your eyes on the norseman. He nearly had your head."

"Can't be perfect all the time," Bahadir said, knowing where the Mamluks escorting him would stop. The silent figures turned about face, and walked back up the stairs. All save four, who noticed a signal from the dwarf and waited. Bahadir noticed it too. "What?"

"Sultan wants to see you." The Dwarf announced, raising his head up and waving over another slave. The lean, shaved man struggling to carry a collection of thick chains in his arms. "Now put yer shackles on, and don't speak unless spoken to. If you insult him, we both lose our heads."

---

The laughter of the Sultan and the simpering snickers of his courtiers were drowned out when the sound of weighty chains clanked against the marble floor. Two Palace Guards opened the doors that led into the upper floors proper, and into the Sultan's resplendent waiting area walked Moredek, who gave a bow at the doors, and then gave an even lower bow when presenting himself before the Sultan. The dawi had been training fighters and serving the sultans for close to a century. Muradi Al-Man clapped when he saw the dwarf, smiling widely.

"My old friend! Good it is to see you!" The Sultan exclaimed in accented reikspeil. "You have done your wonders again, I see."

"I've done me best to aid yer lordship in his wishes." The Dwarf remarked back, knowing they spoke in this manner so all foreign guests may understand. "I present ye with me prized fighter, Bahadir..."

The sound of clanking chains began again, and the pit fighter strode into the light. He wore simple tan trousers, his waist wrapped in a red sash. His legs were hidden, but his upper body looked like sculpted bronze, herculean, and yet marred by scars from swords and whips. His skin was baked and dark, and his mane of black hair reached his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the floor until he reached his trainer, and fell to a knee before the Sultan.

"Rise," the Vizier commanded in Arabyan, bumping the bottom of his oaken staff against the floor. Some spell caused his voice to sound more clearly, though he did not raise his voice.

"Rise, slave!" The Sultan prompted in the same tongue, before realizing he had forgotten his own theater and spoke again in reikspeil. "Rise and be proud. You have survived the first day of the games!"

Bahadir did not know the speech, but he rose all the same. The Sultan spoke again, but the slave did not understand. Luckily for him, he saw the Sultan speaking to everyone around him rather than to him. He elbowed the Vizier and said something, and the Vizier feigned a small laugh. It was then the Sultan pointed at one of the foreigners, a few of the courtiers moving out of the way to give them space. Bahadir saw it was a woman, darkly beautiful, but wearing the trousers and attire of a corsair, with calculating eyes. Her skin would have been fair if not for the kiss of the sun from long hours at sea. She seemed to entertain the Sultan, speaking back in the same tongue and giving a tight lipped smile. Bahadir had to keep a grin from his face. Tolerating the Sultan was something foreigners would have to get used to, not that he had ever been this close to the ruler of Copher. But as a child, running through the streets and nabbing pieces of bread and lamb to survive, everyone saw the Sultan every few months. The rulers liked to show everyone in Copher they were alive and ready to cast their eyes on the unworthy at their leisure. The Sultan raised his hands forward, indicating Bahadir, before he waved dismissively.

Bahadir and Moredek bowed again, their heads so low Moredek's beard brushed the floor and Bahadir almost felt the chains would make him fall forward, but the two were then escorted out, the doors of the room slowly closing behind them like a portcullis.

"That was not so bad," Moredek said. "Walk you around like a horse, let people look at the blood as if they got their hands dirty themselves! We'll put some food in you and send you to the hall of trials."

Calliope looked out over the harbor of Copher. At night, and from the Sultan's palace it was a dazzling spectacle. the waterfront was illuminated by hundreds of lanterns, running for a mile and a half around the semicircular anchorage. The lanterns ran down the jetties to merge with lights aboard the ships, making them look like shining fruit sketched out but not filled in. The water shone in rippling blue gold as moonlight and lantern light converged on the soft lapping waves. She could make out sleek corsair xebecs, tubby merchantmen from the Empire, even a few Brettonian ships with their massive fore and aft castles and simple square sails painted with their ludicrous heraldry. The most common of course were the Araybian dhows, single sailed vessels with a bank of oars, hauling spices, slaves, brass, salt and every other commodity from here to Marienburg. It made Calliope literally hungry to look at and she imagined the ships she would take once the Sultan put her afloat once more.

The apartment was a fine one, built into the side of the palace with thick braided rugs and colorful mosaics of court and hunting scenes. The balcony was shielded from the main rooms by a lattice of fragrant teak wood wrought into an elaborate arabesque. Potted lemon trees grew along the walls, attracting a few insects but handsomely repaying it with their citrus scent. Earthenware pots filled with water hung in nets from the ceiling, radiating cool that was the only refuge from the heat even for the Sultan. Calliope ran a jeweled brush through her hair, combing it out. She had let it grow past her shoulders in these months on land, but she still kept it bound up much of the time to keep it from her eyes. Strangely the thought of all the slaves in the city came to her. The Imperial harem girl, the strong fighter, the countless rowers shackled to oars out in the harbor. Slave uprisings weren't common, little wonder when they were put down with such unrestrained savagery, but she wondered if a day would come when the slaves would over whelm their masters in an orgy of blood and destruction. Part of her hoped so, slavery offended her, even though as the bastard daughter of an Averland noble she had never shared those kind of privations. Rise up and burn it all, she thought grimly, just do it when I'm somewhere else.

The door flew open under the booted kick of a Mamluk soldier. Calliope spun, leaping to her feet with the instincts of a mariner who had spent years on ships where seconds counted. Three soldiers rushed into the room, long scimitars drawn. They saw her silhouetted against the moon and moved in, weapons low.

"Throw down your weapons!" Azim commanded, trailing the guards by what he probably thought was a safe distance. Calliope had produced a knife that she kept in her boot and was judging a run for her pistol and sword. They were in her weapons belt, hanging uselessly from a chair in the main room. The guards were already passed them.

"What in the Seven Hells is going on?" Calliope demanded, backing a few steps towards the balcony. The Vizier grinned, his teeth very white in the semi darkness. He plucked her pistol from her weapons belt and turned it over in his hands idly. Calliope willed it to misfire but he merely set the weapon down on the table.

"The Sultan found you amusing, but at the end of the day he is a wise man... when properly advised," Azim smirked. Calliope backed another step and felt the railing of the balcony behind her. No escape there, it was thirty feet down to the next balcony even if she timed the jump right.

"And you advised him..." Calliope prompted.

"It seems Bernaro of Sartosa is happy to leave the lands of the Sultan in peace.... provided that we get rid of you," Azim explained. Calliope wanted to feel rage, but she had been a fool to trust these Arabs, of course they would rather backstab than fight.

"He will never keep his word," Calliope tried, eyes darting around. Azim chuckled.

"Maybe, maybe not, but at least we will be rid of scheming foreign pirates here at court. Of course we aren't wasteful, you might even survive a few days in the pits. Take her." Azim commanded, tiring of the game. Calliope whipped her hand back and threw the knife. It full high, cutting the rope to one of the pukas with a twang. The heavy pot crashed to the ground, scattering the soldiers. Azim screamed as it struck his leg with an audible crack. The Vizier went down in a heap, screaming and clutching at protruding blood slicked bone. She snatched up her sword belt and leaped for the door. It flew open as another guard, responding to the commotion, barged through the door. Stars exploded across Calliope's vision as the edge of the door hit her across the face. A moment later she was somehow on the floor, her hand scrabbling for her sword. The Mamluk soldier put his boot on her wrist and pressed his sword to her throat.

"Take her to the pits," Azim hissed, his voice black with a hatred hotter than the desert sands.

There were more than pits beneath the arena. Thousands of years of erosion and wind had buried forgotten tombs and palatial buildings not seen since the age of nehekara. Once, long ago, the city's first founders had stumbled upon these ruins and had built atop them. The enterprising arabyans had merely carved out around them and utilized them for their own purposes, and now, with the Arena above, they used the forsaken wonders of the ancient world to house their beasts.

One such chamber, now fallen into disarray, was shaped like a senatorial forum, or a council chamber made from unknown hands. Erected pillars shaped like desert wyrms, sinuous and coiling, stood in a ring around forum. Five wide steps in a full circle surrounded the round central floor, where a pale light shone from above. Beyond the light, the shadows grew increasingly darker in all save but a few nooks and crannies above in the rock, where men slept or spoke in hushed tones. None dared step foot off their ledges and onto the ground floor, they merely waited for the next show.

Most slaves slept in their pens, and the most problem ones were locked in there. But the guards had long since given up making such a practice mandatory for the majority. There was no way out, and to go further below only promised starvation or the awakening of deadly monstrosities even the arena fighters had never imagined before. And if violence ever did break out, as far as the masters were concerned, it made for better fighters.

At this time, most of the slaves were asleep. But a few stayed awake, speaking in hushed tones and playing bone dice. Bahadir could never sleep after a day of fighting, at least not early. He played the matches over in his head, thinking on where he could improve, and sometimes wondering who it was he had killed. He tried not to, but his mind inevitably asked the question. As he lay there, propped against the stone in the shadows, he noticed something. At first he didn't realize what exactly, but he sat forward and peered over the side, and realized the pale light at the center of the ruin was marred by a slim shadow from above, and suddenly coarse laughter followed that reverberated through the deep.

The shadow became a woman bound by a rope, slowly lowered in the very middle of the forum, until ten feet above the floor, the rope was cut. She fell heavily to the floor, and Bahadir heard the men below and around him begin to murmur excitedly. Satir the Gambler raised his voice, calling for bets on the newest victim. Bahadir loathed Satir, the crooked man with the sharp nose loved betting on men's lives, so much so that he became a broker for the other slaves. No one killed him because he provided much needed entertainment, and it was not even his callousness that had given Satir his ire. The gambler was dishonest, and lied on the winnings, pocketing more than his share.

"A woman this time! Shall we say the beasts will not even fill their bellies?" He mocked loudly. Bahadir ignored the taunt, and blinked when she woman lifted her head. He recognized her from the Sultan's court! The foreign woman he had been trying to impress. What could have brought her to lose favor so quickly? Even as he watched, a rolling growl carried over the floor, and large, lithe figures began to coalesce from the shadows around the prone woman. Impressively, she didn't even look. Instead, she rolled over, curled her legs up, and slipped her bound hands above her legs with an uncomfortable effort, before finding a fallen scimitar amongst the fallen items upon the ground, shoving her bonds against the iron blade to free her hands. Only then did she bother to glance at her situation.

A striped cat from the jungles of Ind, a dozen feet from nose to tail and heavier than five men, languidly moved into the light, the rippling muscles in its back causing the gorgeous stripes to dance. A maned cat from the lands south of the desert loped into view opposite the other, stalking back and forth, equally large and golden furred, its every breath audible even from the slaves watching. Four more cats of varying variety appeared, each pacing, wary of the other cats, each eager to fill their empty stomach. The Sultan only dropped in those who had truly angered him. Technically, if they were lucky, they would make it out alive and join the others in the arena, but Bahadir had never seen anyone survive the punishment. To her credit, the woman sliced through her bonds and lifted the scimitar, calling for the beasts to stride forward. Allah, she was brave.

And whoever had pissed off the Sultan and his vizier, Bahadir liked.

As she readied herself for battle with the striped beast, the maned one saw its opportunity and charged, moving off the upper steps and reaching her in the span of three seconds. It leaped to bowl her over, only for its powerful maw to be halted by the thick chains that still bound Bahadir's wrists, bronze meeting fangs as the large fighter stubbornly held his ground. Above, men gasped and hooted at the new turn of events, some laughing and others crying out the game was rigged. A claw drew a jagged line across Bahadir's chest, but he held the cat back with all his might, letting the woman keep her eyes on her front.

Calliope had been in some tight places before, there had been that boarding action of Remus, the gallows in Marienburg, and that night in the Drakwald that still woke her up in cold sweats, but this was the worst she could remember. Her face throbbed where the door had struck her, and her ribs ached from the subsequent booting she had taken from the Mamluks, the sword in her hand was crude and poorly balanced. She would have been dead already if it wasn't for the slave she has seen earlier with the Sultan. He was doing his best to grip the beast as it snapped alternately at his face and the chains he had around its neck, its feline spine pivoted and the slave had to twist to match it to avoid its raking claws. A second cat leaped at her and she flung herself sideways, rolling across the dirt and stone floor to the cheers of unseen prisoners. Another one lunged at her, jaws wide and yellowed fangs flashing in the torch light. Calliope kicked it hard in the snot, her boot snapping the jaws shut, she used the momentum to spin towards the fourth cat. It was clumsy to use the edge, Old Heinrick would be ashamed of her, assuming he hadn't drunk himself to death yet. The edge was for cutting, the point was for killing he had told her more times than she could remember. Still you used what you could. The wild slash caught the leaping beast at the top of the thigh. Flesh tore and bones cracked, but not cleanly, the cat yowled like a demon but its weight took the scimitar, too dull to cleanly sever the limb, spinning from her hand.

"Shiz," she cursed in Reikspiel and then a great weight hit her from behind. She threw herself forward with it, feeling claws at her back and the feral stink of the beast as it bore her to the ground. If it pinned her, even for a few seconds it was over. Desperately, she grabbed its head with both hands and heaved, using all her might and the momentum of the fall to lever it into a throw. The panther scrabbled almost comically at the air, trying to twist about before it crashed into the low wall that surrounded the old forum with a shower of dust and hissing cries.

By now her eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom. She could see other slaves up in the tiers. She could run for saftey, but there wasn't a woman alive that could outrun a pouncing tiger. The largest of the beasts was at the end of the space, charging towards her with shoulder blades scissoring. Calliope opened her mouth and screamed in wordless rage and charged to meet it. The move through the beast off for a moment but it lunged for her. Calliope threw herself over it, feeling the slap of its tail as she cleared the monster, she hit the ground and rolled as it turned whip quick and lunged again. Scrabbling fingers found the hilt of the scimitar and whipped it up. The beast crashed into her driving its full weight onto the sword point and knocking the pommel back against the stone like an anti-cavalry pike. It impaled the creature up to the hilt. It screamed a spray of blood and saliva into Calliope's face then sagged like a deflated wineskin.

Calliope got to her feet, gripping the blood slicked hilt and trying to drag it free. It was stuck fast, suctioned into the flesh. Something struck her and send her staggering sideways, a rain of rocks and boos from some of the slaves pelting her. She tried to ignore the barrage, gripping the hilt of the sword and planting a foot against the beasts chest to pull it free. There was a crack as the slave with the chains broke the neck of the beast he had been struggling with and threw it to the ground. There was blood on his forearms but he raised his hands and shouted a warning. Calliope spun as the last tiger hit her and sent her spinning to the ground. It was on her instantly, jaws gaping, she slammed her forearm into its mouth, wedging it back far enough that it couldn't snap its jaws. Its rank breath made her queasy as she drove a punch into its ribs. Pain exploded along her arms as it swiped at her with it's claws. She screamed in rage and frustration and felt a jolt of magic. The cat screamed and flinched back, momentarily overcome with unease. She kicked it hard in the snout then bounded to her feet and followed up, it bounded away, leaping up towards the waiting slaves. A half dozen of them were armed and a pale looking man smashed a mace into it's mouth, dropping it bonelessly to the floor. Aching and blowing hard Calliope stumbled over to her sword. With a heave she pulled it free, shaking the blood from it as she turned to the crippled cat, it was on the floor, licking at its wounded leg, it cowered as she approached. She looked down at the beast for a second, then let out a sigh.

"To hell with it," she muttered, and turned and hobbled away, pulling herself up into the relative safety of the seats. The slaves that had thrown things at her gave her a wary look and she felt blood dripping from deep scratches in her left arm.

"Thank you," she said to the slave who had saved her.

The underground was filled with more beasts, but many slumbered or waited as clever scavengers, ready to attack weakened prey or to chew on the bones of those already dead. Already shadows began to appear against the walls of the forum as more cats approached. Bahadir and the woman made it to the wall, and the pit-fighter leaped, looping his shackles around a bronze jackal head, hauling himself up above the walls. He stuck his leg down, and after some hesitation, the woman grabbed his trousers and pulled herself up onto the low ledge for some much needed respite. Five feet above that were the other slaves.

"Infidel!" Satir shrieked in Arabyan, shaking his fist at Bahadir, his large, angular nose casting a shadow across the left half of his face. His breath stunk more than the maw of the great cat's. "Why do you cast such a shadow on my operation? You were a whoreson and a thief before you came here, and now you ruin even this!? And for a worthless woman of all things!"

Bahadir grabbed onto the ledge below Satir, and used his cable-like muscles to yank himself up, placing one knee on the ledge. Satir did not stop his tirade, and below, a dozen cats from across the world lumbered and shrieked, some gazing at their dead comrades for meat, but the others staring above hungrily. Satir continued: "Rogue! Dung! You are no more worthy of freedom than the growth on my foo-"

Bahadir grabbed the front of Satir's ruined shirt, and with a swift tug, yanked him forward. His insult became a scream, and his arms flailed above Calliope for a brief second before he fell headlong over the ledge, falling past her to hit the slope of the wall. The skinny man rolled into the derelict forum, coughing. He lifted his head, and horror dawned on his face as the cats moved in slowly. Calliope could hear his cries of utter terror as Bahadir lowered his chains, letting her take it in her hand. He easily lifted the slim woman up to the ledge as the screams were abruptly silenced, and bones snapped.

"Thank you," she said to the slave who saved her.

"Tasiruni musaeadatuk," the muscled slave said, shaking his head to free his face from his mane of hair. He spoke quickly, but to Calliope's ears, it roughly translated to 'happy to help.' The fighter cleared his throat, and gestured she follow with a nod of his head. She had little choice, considering most everyone else around her had bet on her death, and so the two walked out of the makeshift 'balcony' and into the slave chambers proper. They walked through a large corridor where men huddled along the walls, some sleeping, some speaking, and others likely dead.

The next chamber was large, and obviously made by the Arabyans rather than whatever civilization had been there before. Pillars of standard, sumptuous architecture with inlaid copper serpents held up the curved arches and obtuse shape of the ceiling, but save that and the stairs leading to the gates, everything else seemed squared or shaped for pure utilitarian purposes, from the unlit forges to the pit where they dropped the bones and corpses of the dead, to the area where men typically ate and drank what water was provided daily. Except for the crumbling rocks to the right, and the gaping cavernous wound in the side.

"Beautiful, yes?" He said sarcastically, knowing enough Reikspeil to make a sardonic joke. He gave Calliope a wink, before indicating the way. She looked up and breathed out a curse, more climbing. It was not so high, however, and after grabbing a few handholds, the two made it above the shattered wall and into a smaller cavern just above it. It was difficult to tell what caused the cavity in the stone, but it was not smooth like from water damage. Within, was a small cot and some earthenware jars of water, and a few unlit torches, as well as an axe, the haft sticking out from under the cot. A few shattered bones lay at the cusp of the space. Bahadir breathed a sigh of relief, and dropped to the ground, where a few worn out and weathered cushions lay. He had collected everything he could get his hands on, during his stay here.

"It's not much, but it's home." He said in Arabyan, hoping his inflection gave her the gist of what he was saying. He cleared his throat and opened one of the clay pots, grabbing it with both hands and taking a deep swig. A small stream of water tumbled down his neck and rolling over his large pectoral muscles. He placed the pot down and indicated she could take one. It was clear why he chose this space. One could see the entire chamber of up here, and no one could sneak up upon you. Once she took some water, he started speaking slowly. "What...did you...do... to anger.. the sultan?" He asked in Arabyan, and gestured to help her through it. He shook his hands gently when he said 'anger' and pointed at her and upwards when needed.

Calliope felt a degree of agitation leave her as they entered the chamber. Unfortunately this also tanked her adrenaline and she felt herself sag. The bruises and cuts she had sustained in the fight, previously dull, flared up to demand her attention. Cursing, she tore off most of her left sleeve and began to wind the fabric around the claw marks in her arm, stemming the bleeding.

It took her a moment to fit her few Araybian phrases together with the pigeon of Imperial an Tilean to decipher his meaning. A surge of anger darkened her face, but she made a dismissive gesture to let Bahadir know it was not directed at him. Instead she took hold of his chains and turned them over in her hands as she considered.

"It wasn't really the Sultan," she explained, "It was his bloody... you know bloody? thrice damned? Vizier." She paused in her words and pulled down the front of her tunic exposing the corseted breasts beneath. Bahadir's eyes widened at such immodesty as her hands traveled down to the corseting and began tugging and pulling. A seam came apart and t he wire frame inside pulled free. She pinched it in place and rotated it rapidly till it broke and she held in her hand a length of wire half a foot in length. She snapped that in two and then inserted both pieces into the lock of his cup.

"I had hoped they would give me ships to drive away the pirates that plague the coasts," she explained, her brow furrowed and intent, "Unfortunately... they found a cheaper...way to be ride of... me." The shackles sprang open and fell to the floor with a musical clang.

"There you go," she told him, tucking the wire back into the lining of her corset and pulling the tunic back up to restore her modesty.

Bahadir rubbed his wrists, surprised she had bothered to help him there. It had been a long time since he had spoken to a woman, and he had never fought alongside one. He had shown her some hospitality to spite the Sultan and Vizier, and yes, because she was beautiful. But now he was curious on other matters. He had picked locks like that as a child, but she did it so casually and without feat of any reprisal of the guards if they discovered his manacles had been undone.

"I had expected to be back at sea, not in some thrice-poxed underground prison for the entertainment of the pompous elite that should be paying me, rather." She lamented, a piratical slur in her inflection. The dark woman crossed her arms, glancing at the ceiling. Bahadir had understood a small portion of that, but he felt like he got the gist of it. But her next words, he was not sure he understood. "How do you get out of a place like this?"

Bahadir chortled. He said the word, and even were he fluent in Reikspiel, it would have sounded awkward. "Out?" He asked, and when she merely looked at him, he shook his head. "No out. Fight. Die."

"I'll fight and die on my own terms, with a belly full of wine atop a mound of gold." She said. He was hoping he was interpreting her right.

He decided to reply back in Arabyan, albeit slowly. "They wanted you dead enough to throw you in the cage of beasts. Tomorrow, you'll fight, and they will make you fight until you are dead. And if you live through all twelve days, they will simply kill you after."

She seemed to get the last part, at least. "Not much incentive for me to stay then, is it?" She remarked, flashing a grin and leaning back, placing her palms on the stone floor. She eyed him up and down, her eyes lingering on his forearms. "I'm without a ship and a crew. If you're up to escaping with me, I'll make you first mate."

"Madha?" He asked. She raised a hand to make it more clear, extending it.

"Escape." She said, letting the word fill his mind with possibility. "Partners. Yes?"

"You're crazy," He remarked in his native tongue. They would castrate him, then nail his hands to planks and let him rot in the sun until he was baked unto death. But, there was a glint in her eyes and a promise in her grin that he had never seen before. It had been too long since he had harbored feelings of escape. And so he slowly reached out and took her hand, and she shook it powerfully, needing to in order to move his big arm. Clearly handshaking was not a normal Arabyan custom.

"We have an accord!" She exclaimed, flashing her teeth. "Once we're out of here, we'll celebrate with some rum. _{And once I get some revenge...}"

The boom of the announcer reverberated though the tunnels like distant surf. Whatever words were being said were lost in the roar of the crowd and the refractory echoes of the passageways beneath the arena. Calliope muttered a prayer to Mannan, not for mercy, the Sea God never granted that, but that she might live long enough to take revenge on the every growing list of people who had wronged her. A dozen slaves had been herded into the assembly area, then a bucket of rusted weapons was upended before them. A dwarf was arguing loudly with the overseers and gesturing at Bahadir but whatever he wanted, the overseers were unmoved by his position. Calliope picked up a curved tulwar and a short dagger. Both were rusted and notched with hard use.

"Do you know how to use those? Bahadir asked. Calliope hefted the weapons and tried to find the balance.

"To be honest, I'd be happier if they gave me a dozen cannon, but I suppose I will have to make do," she replied.

"Listen up scum!" One of the overseer's, a fat man with tiny piggish eyes, bellowed as he stalked back and forth with a curved whip in his hands.

"This is a group bout, work together and you may live," he leered, his teeth blackened where they weren't stained red with the disgusting bettlenut this Aryabs chewed.

"Or not of course," he snickered, then heaved on a lever. A heavy portcullis rose on the squeal of ungreased gears and the slaves moved forward up the tunnel. Overseers followed them with spears, ready to prod the laggards into compliance.

___

The light as they exited the tunnels was shocking. Th Araybian sun burned down, reflecting of the adobe of the arena and the blood stained sands of the fighting pit. All around them the excited crowd bayed for blood. Some threw food and trash at them, others howled encouragement for the sake of bets they were placing. Calliope blinked against the bright sun and glared up at the Sultan's box. The sun was too close to that angle to allow her to see more than shadows, but she could imagine the vizier smirking down at her. The announcer roared on, and then with a brazen flurry of trumpets the portcullis on the opposite side of the arena lifted. There was a moment of silence and then three great beasts burst from the shadows trumpeting primal war cries that almost eclipsed the blood thirsty roar of the crowd.

"Shyalla's tits, they are the size of sloops," Calliope gasped as the beasts charged towards, them literally bouncing sand from the floor of the arena. They were ninefeet to the shoulder and each must have weighed as much as a steam tank. They were curvered in thick curled fur and bore four horns on their massive slavering heads. Even from this range Calliope could see great gouts of saliva spurting from between their thumb length teeth. Atop the monstrous creatures, Rhinoxes if the bestiaries in her fathers library hadn't lied, were curious contraptions, half saddles, half howdahs, in which sat men with short bows. They were making no effort at archery however, as the beasts seemed as enraged at their presence as that of the other gladiators, bucking and stamping to try to dislodge their unwanted riders.

"Scatter!" Calliope shouted, but in Reikspiel as she and Bahadir dashed sideways. She heard the word translated into the Arabyian tongue as the rest of the slaves tired to sprint out of the way. One man, too shocked or scared to move, simply stood still, a rusted spear falling from his limp hand. The lead Rhinox caught him with a sweep of its head, tossing him into the air with a spray of blood and a sound of breaking bone audible even over the thunderous pounding of their feet. By accident or design the broken body flew close enough to another of the beasts that it caught the man in its jaws, shaking its head back and forth like a hound worrying meat. Blood and limbs flew off in alternating directions before the beast spat the mutilated wreck of the corpse against the wall with a wet slap that slid slowly down the adobe. The crowd roared with approval.

The slaves scattered like mice, a few of the newer slaves tossing down their weapons as if that would aid them in any fashion. One man cried to Allah to save him, prostrated on his knees before a rampaging Rhinox slammed its hoof atop him, snapping his body in two for the merest instance before crushing both halves together into a bloody paste. The massive beasts pummeled the floor of the arena, every step causing indentions in the hard ground as they moved. Bahadir had seen them once before, but he had never fought them. He had only watched as one of his few friends had been crushed into the wall.

Bahadir had been granted a moon-bladed axe with a back spike, a privilege granted to one of the most successful fighters. One of the beasts spied him and turned, arcing its head like a mace. He leaped out of the way of one of their swinging horns, his foot catching the ground before pivoting, launching his body at the flank of the turning beast. Bahadir stabbed the spike of his weapon into the meat of its buttocks, causing the big animal to squeal like a boar from the pits of the chaos wastes. A men atop the howdah fired his bow, but the bucking monstrosity caused his aim to swing upward, the arrow loosing into the crowd. A cheering peasant was impaled through the throat, but the crowd did not lower the volume of their screams of adulation.

Bahadir glanced to his left, and saw a neophyte toss his spear at one of the behemoths. It was a weak throw, the spearpoint not even piercing its hide. Across the arena, some of the more experienced men had taken into a skirmish formation, worrying one of the beasts from all sides with tridents and swords. But while it delayed its charge, it wouldn't save them. The Rhinox the spear had been meant for hadn't even noticed it, and it charged into the left line of the slaves, crushing two men immediately and sending a third flying, his broken body landing atop the large statue of glorious Ptra above the eastern wall statue, a tribute to the father god of the sun. As the Rhinox galloped, its undulating body send one of the bowmen to the ground, and out of the dust the black clad woman appeared, slitting his throat with her sword. As the blood spilled on the sand, she took up the bow and slung the quiver, doing her best to nock an arrow as the slaves died around her.

Bahadir saw one of the Rhinoxes scratch the floor, sending dust as it shook its shaggy head, looking for another target. Its howdah emptied from the polearms of the slaves and its own bucking gait. It's eyes fell upon Calliope, but as it snorted, Bahadir's axe hit it square on the snout. It flinched out of sudden fear, before its fear turned to anger and it bellowed into the air as it's eyes fell on Bahadir. The pit-fighter had thrown the axe, and he puffed out his chest and screamed an obscenity at the Rhinox. While the beast obviously could not understand, it took the bait. It charged, barreling at the powerful man with the velocity of a rolling boulder, Bahadir lining himself up and crouching, readying his body. Twelve yards, eight yards, four yards...

Bahadir sprang to the side as the Rhinox crashed into the wall, splintering stone and sending dust into the air dozens of feet. The ancient stone of the wall cracked from the impact, and even Bahadir felt the concussive force of the air. The Rhinox growled in pain and annoyance, but Bahadir was not watching it try and collect itself. His eyes were skyward, and he felt a prayer answered when the large statue of Ptra began to topple forward, its base broken. The poor body of the slave hit the ground in a heap just as the statue fell atop the Rhinox, slamming the dazed beast into the ground. Bahadir wasn't sure if it was dead, but it was not getting up anytime soon, at least.

He got to his feet, only for an arrow to clattering between his feet, a missile from the last man atop a howdah. He coughed dust and squinted from the sun, peering at the otherside of the arena to see how Calliope and the others fared.

All was Dust gusted around Calliope's feet like mist as the chaos whirled around her like fog on a moor. Maybe not quite like that, no moorland ever shook like the floor of the arena as the massive Rhinoxes charged and stamped. She kept clear of the action as best she could, her eyes darting around the arena as she tried to measure it from the vantage point of a slave, survival was important, but if she wanted to survive more than a few days she needed information.

"Allah have merc...aieeee!" a trembling slave screamed as an arrow from one of the howdahs caught him in the belly, he dropped his sword and fell to the ground, black blood jetting between dirty fingers. Calliope put her dagger between her teeth and picked up his sword, it didn't balance quite right with her falchion but needs must when the Daemon's called the tune. It was clear to her that the battle wouldn't last too much longer, the surviving slaves were simply trying to keep out of the way of the rampaging beast, their occasional slashes doing little more than enraging the great herbivores. Calliope turned in a slow circle, catching sight of Bahaadir by his fallen beast.

Calliope lifted her black silk scarf and wrapped it around her face like a highwayman, shielding her already parched throat from the dust. One of the rhinoxes crashed into a slave, the sheer force of the impact sending the man flying into the wall of the arena with a wet crash of cracking bone. One of his companions struck the beast across the head, but the thick bony horn deflected the blow and the great beast swung with impressive speed to catch the man in its jaws. The great flat teeth, designed for grinding tough tundra grasses, rasped together in a spray of blood and splintering ribs. Calliope tucked her sword under her arm, pulled the knife from between her teeth and hurled it at the rhinox. Poorly weighted it tumbled awkwardly and struck the blood mad beast in the eye with the blunt hilt. The creature roared in pain, locked calliope in its rolling black eyes, and charged. She bolted, racing across the arena to the fallen animal.

Bahadir was shouting something at her, but there was no time now to second guess herself, she reached the fallen Rhinox and jumped onto its head, running up the bony plates of its neck with the shore footedness of a deep water sailor. The second beast shied at the last minute, unwilling and unable to trample a pack mate, its great bulk turning side on like a ship caught in stays. Calliope leaped into the air a moment before the massive beast sideswiped its fallen comrade. She hit the side of the howdah, stabbing one sword down into the wood to anchor herself. Two archers still clung to their posts, eyes wide with terror. One of them grabbed for Calliope in an instinctive attempt to dislodge her. She caught his wrist and yanked, tearing him from his seat using the momentum to lift herself up over the lip of the platform even as he tumbled to the dusty floor below. The second slave had dropped his bow and came at her with a curved knife. Calliope knocked his wrist aside but she hadn't yet had time to find her balance, the slave's rush smashed her back against the edge of the howdah and sent her sword spinning out of her grip. He screamed in her face, inarticulate and halitotic as he tried to drive his knife into her neck. Calliope snapped her head forward and smashed his nose to a pulp with her forehead. The slave spat blood and staggered back and Calliope tried to repeat her trick of a moment before and pitch him to his death. More skillful, or luckier, this one managed to grab her leg as he fell and she felt her bones and tendons strain as she caught the side of the howdah, the slave clinging onto her for dear life. The rhinox was wild now, mad with pain and charging across the arena. Calliope could catch only glimpses of the screaming crowd as her world spun drunkenly. She twisted and kicked with her free leg, feeling teeth break as the despairing slave let go and fell, vanishing beneath the feet of the great beast.

"Shyalla's tits," she gasped as she pulled herself back into the howdah, holding on for dear life. The bow was gone, flung aside during the fracas. She pulled her sword free and glanced around, then slashed at the first of two ropes that secured the platform. The tough hemp took two strokes and then parted, the weight of it sliding drunkenly to the side. The rhinox bellowed in fury and went into a paroxysm of bucking and stamping as it wheeled drunkenly under the weight of several hundred pounds of wood and leather. Calliope braced herself and gripped her sword with both hands. The second rhinox filled her view as the two out of control creatures rushed towards each other in an inevitable collision that woke a gasp from the crowd audible even over the screaming. Calliope drove her blade down into the beasts spine with all her might, the great beast spasmed as its back legs stopped responding and collapsed, its hind quarters skidding in a tidal wave of dust and pebbles as it crashed into its companion, its four horns ripping a great rent into the flank as thousands of pounds of meat, muscle and bone, collided with a sound like two tidal waves hitting. Calliope was thrown into the air, her sword ripped from her hands. She turned drunkenly her vision flashing with snatches of sky, crowd, and dust filled arena. She tried to curl herself into a ball to minimize the inevitable broken bones and squeezed her eyes shut. Strong arms grabbed her from the air as Bahadir, against all odds, managed to catch her. It wasn't clean, she had too much momentum and she drove him to the ground, but it traded a falls worth of broken bones for an equivalence of scrapes and bruises as they sprawled out in the dust.

The crowd was screaming, some in outrage and some in delight. The surviving slaves, less than half a dozen, were closing in on the striken animals, one paralyzed and the other on its side, thick blood gouting from the great gash torn in its side. The slaves drove in, dealing crippling blows to tendon and neck as they strove to kill the great beasts.

"I guess," Calliope gasped, "it wont just be goat on the menu tonight."

"Not bad." Bahadir said to her with a satisfied grin. He gave a shrug as if considering his compliment. "A bit rough, but not bad."

She gave the smile a crocodile might before a meal, and the corsair rolled off of him, offering him her hand to help him to his feet. He raised his brows, not expecting the gesture, but she had offered to partner with him, and it looked like she was keeping to her word. He took her hand, and though he was almost twice her size, her body was lithe but fit, and she managed to keep herself somewhat steady as he rose to his feet. The crowd surged, a wave of men and women standing up from their seats and pointing and the pair of them, calling for more. The other slaves jogged to the middle, those that could walk. Some of them were tanned, others were fair skinned, and one was as black of skin as Calliope's hair. They raised their weapons and hooted, screaming out to the crowd with triumph and exultation. Bahadir raised his fist into the air, his face as grim as stone, and that caused another uproar of cheers.

It seemed like forever, but suddenly the crowd went silent, and Bahadir and the rest turned to look northward, toward the Sultan's seat. Calliope followed their gazes, and sure enough, the Sultan had lifted himself from his chair and had approached the swepping balustrade, his vizier just beside him, leering down at the survivors. They were hundreds of meters away, but even from this distance, Bahadir could see the Vizier was displeased. The sorcerer planted his staff onto the floor, and all knew it was a small cantrip that carried the Sultan's voice across the area for all to hear.

"Laqad qatalt bishakl jayd. Allah yueamiruk hadha alyawma, wa'ashkuruk ealaa alqital fi sharafi! Antisarun! He declared, and the crowd roared again at his approval. And as the other day, the Arabyan Mamluks rushed out into the field to guide the slaves back to their pens, so they did not get any funny and dangerous ideas of escaping through some crack in the arena. Calliope whispered to Bahadir for a translation, and he told her 'he thanks us, and says it is the will of the gods we can entertain him so well.'

Two hours later, after having been searched for concealed weapons and being granted their daily ration of water and food, Calliope and Bahadir found themselves now 'free' if one could call it, albeit in a closed off section of the arena. Calliope questioned why they were not allowed to traverse the greater area underground as yesterday, but even Bahadir did not know. They were within a smaller chamber, the size of a living area, with two cushions to rest upon and one jug of water, which Bahadir felt a wonder at. It was rare to be granted such a privilege twice in a day. Closed around three sides, with one wall being carved with inlets and ridges to signify some ancient door, behind them were mere iron bars. It was not until one of the smaller slaves named Ibn-Amrik approached that they could get some answers.

"If it is not the victors of impossible odds," He said in accented reikspeil, grinning with ivory and copper teeth. He was as scraggly in appearance as a starving dog, and as thin, but he seemed in a fine mood. "Bahadir, my friend! Why did you not tell me you have a woman as lithe and dangerous as a serpent?"

"Why don't you tell me why we're in here, and not allowed to walk with what little freedom we are alloted, Amrik." Bahadir responded derisively.

"Have you not heard? Certainly you did not miss the cries of your victory?" He asked, surprise in his wicked voice. "Everyone today could see it was your victory, not the other poor souls of this hell we call home! The crowd speaks of you two more than the Sultan and his nameday!" He cackled at that, a harsh laugh that ricocheted off the ancient stonework. "And you have names, besides! Bahadir they are calling the 'Bronze Tiger,' for your great strength and agility, and you, Corsair, they have named the 'Black Mamba,' a most dangerous serpent of the desert oasis."

"Fantastic," Calliope sighed, sinking back against the stone wall. Her body ached prodigiously from the battering it had taken in the arena. Her wrists were stiff and her hips pulsed with flashes of pain that throbbed in time with her heart. There was a commotion as several palace servants bustled in to the room, four of them held short swords and one of them had an ornate bell mouthed firearm inlaid with brass traceries. Calliope had no doubt that it was effective for all it's garish ostentation. A pair of servants carried a tray of fresh fruit and cold meat. The gunmen gestured them back from the bars and the door was unlatched so that the food could be set inside. Calliope considered the feasibility of a rush, but charging a door covered by a coach gun was suicide.

"Now we are talking," Calliope sighed, picking up a quince and biting into into it, spitting the rind through the bars at the retreating servants. She was gratified to see them flinch, despite the barriers between them.

"Yes, we are talking," came a voice from the darkness. Azim Abbasi stepped from the shadows, the light glittering from the rings he wore on every finger. Calliope threw the quince at him, the fruit bouncing from his right eye and sending him staggering backwards. One of the servants struck at her with the hilt of his sword, but Calliope danced back from the bars to avoid the blow.

"Charming," Azim said with a half snarl, wiping juice from his cheek. "Shame you didn't have the decency to die quietly. It would have been so much easier to pay one of the slaves to strangle you. Can't do that now given the impression the pair of you made."

"Sorry to disappoint," Calliope replied, pulling the tray back into the cell out of reach of the servants.

"I can yet be made whole," the Vizier replied, his oily smirk returning as he wiped away juice with a handkerchief.

"The pair of you have just become the stars of this little show and so I cannot have you simply killed, what I can do is set up a series of bouts featuring the pair of you, something sure to kill the pair of you."

Bahadir waited a moment, wondering if the food was laced with something. Even if they would not outright kill he or the corsair, perhaps they would give them food that slowed them down, caused them to feel nauseous, give them the shits, distract them in the ring? But no, after wondering of it, he knew while the Sultan and Vizier wanted them dead, they also wanted a grand show. And the harder they fought, the more sweet it would be to watch them die, and so he took a small slab of ham and began to eat it, enjoying the succulent meat. It had a hint of sweetness to it, and to a slave, this was nearly tantamount to sexual pleasure, though it did not quite press those same buttons. Still, he could not keep the satisfaction out of his face, and next he plucked what grapes he found, and took some dates to keep[ for later.

He initially kept his head down. Long years under the lash, and the delectable food before him, had his eyes down and shoulders hunched. And he only caught a few words of Reikspiel here and there, as well. He wished he knew the northern tongue better, particularly so he could converse with the foreigner, but it seemed that even Azim chose to speak in that tongue because he felt his main adversary was the woman. Bahadir was merely a useful idiot, made to give a grand show before his untimely demise.

Well, the man thought, I would sooner let scorpions claw my eyes out before I kept myself subservient at my own death! He felt the pirate was rubbing off on him a bit. He never really felt any loyalty to the Sultan, but her promise of something more set a fire in his breast.

"You wish to kill we?" He said slowly, speaking the northern tongue clumsily. "You will have to try harder."

The Vizier and Calliope looked at Bahadir, both with different expressions. The Vizier had a look of shock and disdain, whereas the dark woman smiled, and then laughed like a hyena. Azim rose up, eyes blazing. "You dare speak out of turn, slave?" He asked in Arabyan.

"If you are going to kill me, then yes." Bahadir replied quickly. "I am of the old blood! I have fought men and beast! And if you think I will lay down and let it happen..." He thought for a moment, finding the right words to say it in reikspiel. "...You can...suck... this... penis!"

Azim's eyes widened, and he gave a snarl that would make a mountain cat proud. With a dramatic whirl, his cloak billowing, he turned and strode away, the food and water being withdrawn in his wake. But before he left the chamber in its entirety, he glanced back at them, a smile having returned to his face. "I was vexed to lose such a worthy slave, but now I have no qualms of setting the 'Wahush Wukar' on you!"

His harsh laughter echoed down the halls as he strode away with the theatrical air of a Detlef Sierck melodrama, his entourage in tow behind him. Bahadir settled back down, crossing his arms and letting out a breath. He glanced at Calliope, and knew she understood roughly what he said. Their next enemies would be the 'Beasts that walk.'

As the two were unshackled and granted their weapons beneath the shadow of the gate, the drums began. Small beams of sunlight pierced through small cracks above the ancient doorway, flecking the skin of the slave-fighter and the pirate captain. Bahadir had no stories of the northern world to equate this to, but he recalled a number of tales from his childhood that seemed apt, like the Tale of Rasheed and the Necromancer's Fool. He glanced at Calliope, the woman testing the weight of the sword betwixt her hands.

"Scared?" He asked, which drew an almost accusatory look. He did not change expressions. Very little had changed since the other day, particularly for her, but Bahadir felt a sense of loss. He had insulted the master, and had lost their favor. Bahadir had never been happy in servitude, but it was...familiar. Even when sent out to face death, he had done it knowing he had their approval. It had always been there, and now it was not. They did not want him to die gloriously, just to die. He did not know how to feel.

For her part, Calliope gave a predatory grin. "Aye, I'm shakin in me boots." She replied, her accent a bit thicker with the facetious remark. "Being condemned is where the fun begins, savvy?"

"Savvy?" He echoed, confused.

The dark woman, always so confident, was caught by surprise for a moment. "Er, Savvy is understand."

"Savvy... what?"

"No, savvy means understand." She remarked, even sheathing her sword to place her hands parallel to one another, gesturing left and right as if indicating two boxes. It dawned on him what she meant, and he nodded.

"Ah, savvy." He replied, using it with its intended purpose. Her grin returned.

"You watch my back, I watch yours." She said, retrieving her sword again. Bahadir caught her eye, and he gave her a look between them. She laughed when she realized he was indicating how much larger his back was than hers. "Means I'm working twice as hard, don't forget that."

With brutal suddenness, the gates opened with a clang, hot wind and sunlight pouring in to invade their bodies. Even through the glare, Bahadir could see two other gates following suit across the breadth of the sandy arena, and he gripped the haft of his axe more tightly when he saw the distant, hulking figures emerge from the dark shadows. To the east, misshapen and bestial things loped into view. Their bodies were scarred and mutated with coarse fur, some sporting hooves or paws on their feet. Their heads were twisted into mockeries of beasts from the forest, and they carried axe, sword, and spear in their hands. Bahadir knew them by many names, but the northerners called them Beastmen. Most had curved horns or antlers, the ungors and the gors, save for a few with wolfish heads. However, one was larger than the rest, stepping with greater confidence, as if it believed the Gods themselves watched its every movement. What stood out the most were its great sloping horns, and the patchwork armor on its broad chest.

"Bestigor..." Calliope spat, looking at the creature.

To the west, other beings strode into the light. With pigish, yellow eyes and tusks, they were thicker in body than the beastman, and lacked none of the ferocity. All were taller than the ungors, and even most of the gors, and rather than fur, their skin was a putrid, moss green. They had sloping foreheads and large jaws, with huge fists and shoulders as wide as Bahadir's. In their hands they wielded similar weapons, axes, swords, clubs, but none held spears. One did hold a long handled axe, however. A veritable bardiche, and the thing that wielded it seemed nearly as ready to sweep it across the backs of his allies as he did his supposed opponents. They bristled with taut aggression, as keen on violence as the beastmen were on destruction. They were Orcs, and along with the beastmen, there must have been thirty humanoids in all stepping into the arena. Bahadir looked behind him, and saw Mamluks with spears approaching to worry their backs if they did not step forward, and so he and Calliope leaped out of the gate and into the sun, even as the beastmen and orcs saw both the two seemingly helpless humans, and the opposing monstrosities, and great roars erupted as the monsters charged.

"Do you have a plan?" Bahadir asked, drawing the tip of his blade in the dirt as he watched the oncoming monsters.

Calliope hefted the saber in her hand wishing mightily she had a pistol, or better yet a half dozen cannons. Her eyes scanned the arena noting details and impressions and filling them away for later. The braying of beasts and roar of the orcs melded with the screams and cries of the crowd above them.

"Are you paying attention?" Bahadir demanded. Calliope turned her eye to the charging beasts and nodded her head. Her mind made a few calculations, surprisingly well served by years of plotting bearings and winds.

"This way!" she called and darted to the left, running at an angle between the orcs and the beastmen. Both groups altered their own charges to follow the movement, kicking up clouds of dust as hooves and massive feet shook the sands. Calliope slowed her run slightly as the angles changed. Bahadir suddenly grinned as he saw her scheme. The orcs crashed into the charging beastmen at a diagonal angle, axes chopping down with brutal sounds of steel on meat which was heard even over the crowd. Several beastmen turned and struck at the orcs, impaling one on a rusty spear. The charge descended into mayhem as the factions impacted each other. Calliope had a moment to feel greatful that her captors were more interested in spectacle than simply having them killed. Beastmen or Orcs alone might easily have overwhelmed them, but with both groups chopping each other into meat, they might have a chance.

"Brace yourself!" Calliope yelled as the press of bodies naturally shoved the edge of the melee towards them. There was no way to completely avoid the fray, they could only hope to even the odds. A pair of gors came rushing towards them braying and stinking with fear, urine, and hatred in equal parts. Calliope parried a spear point and thrust into the side of the beast, spraying blood and a slithering trail of entrails.

"Try to keep track of who is winning!" Calliope shouted.

"Then what?" Bahadir called as he sidestepped and brained another beastman.

"Kill whoever is winning, try to keep the numbers even!"

Bahadir had maneuvered to survive before, but it was a strategy he had been a bit too scatterbrained to think of at the moment. His lithe companion was good for more than her sword and her promises, he decided. A sizeable portion of the greenskins and beastmen had rammed into one another, their intimidation of the other side more powerful than their hatred of humans. A lone beastman had leaped like a mountain ram, twin axes in its hands as it threw itself into the midst of the orcs. From there, the maelstrom of the melee was hard to watch with certainty of its outcome, not that Bahadir or Calliope had the time to do so.

The pirate wench dispatched a beastman with a well placed riposte, dancing back as another gor harried her with a notched sword, braying. Spittle and putrid breath erupted from its goat-like snout. An orc had thought her easy prey, launching itself at her back with a large scimitar, only for Bahadir to behead the thing with a well-placed chop of his axe. Calliope gave a nod of thanks, but Bahadir could not even grant a 'your welcome' in his language before another orc replaced the last one, this one larger and carrying an axe of its own. Bahadir ducked a swing, but his own counter was blocked with the haft of the big greenskin's own weapon, the orc thrusting its elbow forward. Bahadir turned his head aside to make the blow glancing, and he used the momentum to perform a spin kick, his boot connecting with the orc's powerful jaw. It felt like he kicked stone, but even with its enhanced physiology, the orc was dazed. Bahadir raised his axe and clove through its skull, chopping through it like a melon.

A quick glance to the battlefield showed him the orcs held the advantage, and as more beastmen charged at him, he barked 'Qursan!' which was his people's word for pirate, or 'Corsair'. Calliope was well traveled enough to understand, and she redirected a beastman's spear thrust, bloodying its snout with the pommel of her saber before she turned to acknowledge him. He reached for her, and she reached for him. They grabbed each other's forearms, and Bahadir yanked her out of range of the beastmen. To her credit, she did not land on the ground, but clung to his back as he leaped and kicked off the wall, sailing over a scarred orc swinging a flanged mace. Calliope managed to kick it in the face as they sailed past, and once Bahadir landed, she dropped to the ground. Both humans turned, now back to back as half a dozen greenskins had seen the acrobatics and worried one another on who got to fight the duo next.

"Kol Khara!" Bahadir spat, speaking the insult in a manner that could be construed no other way than offensively.

"Bilge rats, the lot of ya!" She cursed, her voice surprisingly powerful for one so small, at least that was Bahadir's thoughts.

The orcs did not need to be told twice, the first three howling and shouldering past each other, their broad-shouldered bulk glowing from the sun. Calliope cut a thick wrist before blocking the sword with her own, having to half-hand her sabre to keep it from crashing atop her. Bahadir parried a mace with the head of his axe, giving a backhanded swipe that cut across the orc's face, drawing blood. It cried out in anger and confusion, but the roar died on its lips when its ally impaled it with a longsword. The orc behind it withdrew the blade and shoved its dead comrade out of the way to enter the fray.

Bahadir felt Calliope's strategy was working, but he was getting tired, and they were bound to make a mistake at some point. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he knew he could just as easily die today as not.