THE BELLY OF the ziggurat prison sat several floors deep beneath the earth, protected from the harsh desert sun. The interior was lit only by torches and a single beam of sunlight filtering down an impossibly long shaft that ran through the center of the structure. It allowed just enough light in to crush the soul of any man thinking it a hint to freedom.
For weeks Keleir watched men attempt to reach the square four-by-four shaft, only to see them end up as broken piles on the sandy prison floor. Those strong enough to reach the shaft were no longer strong enough to press their weight against the sides and shinny up. They always ended up like the rest.
He did not understand Mavish, but he guessed enough from the jesting of those around him that the ones who had been inside the prison the longest found those sad attempts entertaining. They even, by his guess, goaded a few into it just for the primitive entertainment it provided.
The Alar did not offer Keleir the luxury of his own cell, separated from the superstitious Mavahan people. They left him in the common hold, a large cavernous sandy pit at the bottom of the prison. Some—more violent—men sat chained to the walls, but the rest wandered aimlessly with boredom. Those whose sanity had been driven away spent most of the day staring at the beam of golden sun, muttering to themselves.
When he first arrived, they’d shunned him as an Ipaba, and in all honesty, he couldn’t have been happier. He didn’t understand their language, and he wanted them to fear him. Fear would keep one of them from starting something Keleir wasn’t too sure he could finish. In all his training, he was far better at magic than combat. Most of the men in prison were working slaves, built like giant stone pillars, and dropped in the pit until needed again.
He recognized one of them but made no move to speak to him. He knew the man from the day he arrived, from the room in which they trapped him. He delivered the luggage that Keleir now suspected belonged to some vagabond on the street. Not that it contained anything valuable to him.
The tall slave possessed deep, dark skin the color of rich chocolate, a color in sharp contrast to the bronze collar hanging around his neck and the tan rags around his waist. Despite the rags, his owner kept himself well. He wore a crown of long, tight braids tipped with bronze clasps, the cluster of which were bound together at the back of his head with a leather cord. He held a different rank than the rest, given his clean-shaven appearance—perhaps he was the reason some kept their distance from Keleir.
Those who didn’t shy away from the man called him Xalen Okara.
Keleir spent the first week curiously watching the Droven man, for it seemed a much better use of his time than watching men plummet to their death. At first the latter had been interesting enough, but after the sixth one, he grew too disgusted with the lack of intelligence in those that followed.
Xalen paraded around the room with the pride of a king. Perhaps he’d worn the crown of a Droven king but now wore the rags of prisoner. Even if that were not the case, Keleir imagined it so. It made his dull confinement all the more interesting.
His curiosity in the Droven man couldn’t save Keleir from his own thoughts, and as a week passed into another, he lost himself in staring at the sunlit shaft with the other prisoners who thought they might escape up it.
The Fire Mage snapped away from his thoughts when the guards brought Luke to speak to him, and it was the first Keleir had heard his own language in weeks.
“They sent a message to Adrid. They forced me to write it—I’m sorry, Ahriman.” He bowed to Keleir, but the prince would have none of it. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders and held him upright.
“You do what you must to survive. Do not worry. The situation is far from hopeless. I didn’t come here expecting a warm welcome. I planned for a lot of scenarios, though not for a massive, impossible cavernous pit to escape from.” Keleir’s fingers tightened on Luke’s shoulders. “Tell me how to get out of here. Tell me whatever deal I must make with them. I will give it.”
Sir Canin shook his head with a mournful expression. “They will have nothing, Ahriman, not even your life.”
The shoulders of the prince slumped ever so slightly until he caught sight of the woman standing just behind Luke. A tall woman, built with muscle, she wore the attire of a lady of the house, down to the bronze collar around her neck. He nodded to her. “Why is she here?”
“They don’t treat me like a prisoner, perhaps because I am the one who can translate best for you,” Luke admitted, the words straining as they left his lips. His gaze fluttered up. “They are still treating me as your honored and she as my new attendant.” He lowered his head. “I don’t really need one, but she is the only other person I’ve met who speaks our mother tongue and I admit that I am fond of hearing it.”
“I know what you mean. It is a happy thing indeed that I should hear your voice. Who is she?”
“Her name is Aleira Ritan. She is originally from our southern town of Jukad, near the border with Mavahan. She followed me here against my wishes. I suspect it was to get a glimpse of her husband.” Luke nodded behind Keleir to the group of men, the tallest being Xalen Okara. If it were not for the longing stare the Droven slave offered in their direction, he probably wouldn’t have known whom Luke spoke of.
“Slaves can marry?” Keleir asked, turning his attention back to the beautiful woman accompanying Luke.
As strong as any warrior, she had long, tightly braided brown hair, warm sun-tanned skin, and the eyes of a hawk. Mavahan slaves often possessed two jobs. Some of the house slaves pulled double duty as Challengers or gladiators. House duty, unlikely to break or weaken them before a fight, allowed plenty of time to train.
“Some can marry,” Luke replied. “Those who earn the favor of their masters may be allowed to remain in relationships or build them. I imagine the masters like it, especially if it leads to prime pairing and offspring.”
“Romantic,” Keleir muttered. Slavery in any form disgusted him. He’d been a slave to the Oruke in him for so long, and Saran a slave to her father’s will. There were many types of chains, some not always visible. He wrapped his arm over Luke’s shoulders. The boy stiffened as he drew him in close. “We need out of here. Now. As soon as possible.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Convince her to help,” Keleir whispered. “Tell her if she helps I’ll secure her freedom and her husband’s.”
“I don’t think …”
“Don’t worry, she’ll help. She’ll owe me.” Keleir grinned, sly and devious as his eyes flashed to Xalen Okara. The contrast of such a wicked smile with the bloody hue of his eyes sent a shiver through the boy.
Luke shook his head. “Ahhh, n-no, I don’t like that look. What are you going to do?”
Keleir ruffled the boy’s hair. “Best you not know. Though, I do have a translation question …”
Luke scowled at the prince as he fixed his hair. “You know,” he said, his warm brown eyes smiling, “you aren’t what they said you’d be.”
“Cunning?”
“A monster. I did not expect kindness in your eyes.”
Keleir stiffened. His back straightened, and his shoulders rose. He watched the young knight leave, feeling a wave of disbelief and hope mingle in his chest. There were few people in the world—two to be exact—who would ever say such a thing to him. It startled him to hear such words from someone siding with the group that wanted him dead.
That evening Keleir did not seek his usual seclusion during dinner. When the guards delivered the gruel, he grabbed a bowl and plopped down next to Xalen as casually as he might his brother, Rowe. While a tall man standing, even the Fire Mage felt small next to Xalen sitting.
“A little bird told me you speak my tongue,” Keleir said between mouthfuls of disgusting gruel. The slop had a putrid taste, but he’d eaten worse as a child.
Xalen angled his eyes at Keleir before cupping his fingers into the bowl and drawing food to his lips. It dripped down his hand, and he licked it from his wrist. “Did Aleira tell you that?”
“Her charge. He says she’s originally from a border town in Adrid. He says you’re married. I assumed you spoke our tongue if you were to communicate with her. Mavish isn’t her native language.”
“Nor is Droven, yet she speaks it fine,” he said, tilting the bowl to his lips. “You know neither.”
“No.”
“Just like nobles, too good to learn languages when others can do the hard work for you.” The Challenger threw his empty bowl into the sand. “What do you want, Ipaba?”
Keleir’s red eyes narrowed on him. “I wasn’t always a noble. For a while I was a poor, cursed boy who spent most of his days chained to the floor of his bedroom.” Keleir rubbed his chest absentmindedly. He shook the memory off and continued, “I just want to talk. It’s nice to see someone who speaks my language. It makes this less lonely.”
Xalen cracked a smile, his dark eyes twinkling. There was mischief there, and his face glowed as bright as the sunbeam taunting them every day. “What is it you say in your tongue to flirtations—flattered, but married.”
“Me too.” Keleir grinned. “Married, that is.”
Xalen snorted, and then his eyes lifted to the angry crowd gathering behind Keleir. “I’d find a dark hole to crawl in if I were you.”
“I’m only trying to make friends,” the Fire Mage replied, lifting his hands in peace.
“It’s a bad day to make friends,” Xalen muttered as he rose.
The dark, hulking Droven man lumbered past Keleir and snatched a prisoner in the crowd up by his neck and tossed him over his shoulder as if he were nothing more than a sack of rice. The man crumpled into the sand. A deep silence settled over the prisoners. Xalen raised his arms and turned in a small circle, looking over those gathered around, until he paused at the small group just behind Keleir.
Keleir turned his attention to them. They were a ragtag band of six men. Some knelt, some stood with arms folded, all of them glowered at Xalen. The edge of a smile tugged at Keleir’s lips.
“Dek togo roan?” Xalen barked at them, spittle flying from his mouth. He took on a beastly pose, seemingly growing wider and taller at the same time. He huffed through his nose like a bull and stomped his foot forward. “Dek togo roan?!”
Keleir had seen it only twice in his time there. Dek togo roan meant “Am I challenged?” The phrase always ended with violence. The Fire Mage stood, turning to stand alongside the Droven man. Xalen sneered at him. “Back off, little noble.”
The Fire Mage smirked. “Six to one are terrible odds. You could use the help.”
“I need no help from an Ipaba,” he said. “Six to one are great odds for a Droven Masodite.”
Keleir eyed the bloodthirsty pack. Xalen, the strongest of the lot, had the most respect, the best food, possessed the favor of his master, and was allowed to keep a wife. If he lost the roan, he would surely lose all that. If a Challenger lost to mere thugs, outnumbered or not, he would not remain a Challenger for long. Either Xalen was very confident or too prideful to accept Keleir’s help.
The Fire Mage smiled at Xalen and bowed his head before he stepped out from between the Droven man and his enemies.
Dust and sand skittered into the air as the six men clashed against the hulking, godlike frame of the Droven Masodite. Keleir found beauty in the brute force of Xalen’s swing. He cleared three with one heavy swipe and stomped another down with a bare foot to the chest. The sternum cracked under his weight as he stepped across the scrawny prisoner and scooped up the man just behind him by the neck. The three he swiped away joined a fourth in clamoring up Xalen like a great old tree nestled in the forests of Adrid.
Keleir, content in watching the spectacle, spotted the glimmer of a weapon brandished high above the head of one of Xalen’s attackers. He respected fair fights, and while he himself couldn’t claim to be an honorable man, he would not stand for cheating. He stepped into the fray and, having no weapons, went for the sensitive spot between the man’s legs. He grabbed the thin man by his genitals and pulled him down off Xalen’s back with little effort. The man flailed at him, swiping with a sharpened rod stolen from the quarry. Keleir disarmed the prisoner, twisting the weapon from his grip.
The Fire Mage’s hand quivered just short of plunging the rod through the prisoner’s neck. Killing came easily, as natural as breathing. He had to consciously stop himself from doing it. He’d promised Saran that he wouldn’t be that person and that he no longer harbored the hands of a murderer. Those hands belonged to the Oruke.
Keleir curled his fist tight around the dagger and drew back, punching the prisoner soundly across the jaw. He delivered quick short jabs to each of Xalen’s attackers in less lethal areas of their bodies, areas void of arteries or organs. They dropped from him, grabbing at their wounds. The Fire Mage left the killing to the Droven Masodite.
But Xalen didn’t kill them. He beat them within an inch of their lives and scolded the crowd in Mavish. When he finished, he turned his attention to Keleir, who’d chosen to step a distance away from the large angry Droven lest he be caught in the mix. Xalen did not appear angry that Keleir had stuck his nose where it did not belong. He grinned at Keleir and grabbed one of his shoulders tightly, shaking him. “A noble Ipaba! Who would have thought?”
“Do you get challenged often?” the Fire Mage asked while observing the mess the Droven man had made of his attackers.
“Every so often.” He grinned. “But not so many at once.”
Keleir sat in the gentle dip of the sand he’d occupied earlier, his attention caught by the clanking of keys against the barred gate at the top of the wide stairs leading out of the pit. Mavahan guards, in their rust reds and patinaed armor, rushed into the room, two by two. They surrounded the outer edge and swarmed in. Keleir quickly buried the weapon he’d stolen in the sand at his hip and smashed his fist against it as he stood.
“Stay down, Ipaba,” Xalen muttered and held out a wide hand to the Fire Mage. “They collect.”
The guards grabbed up the losers of the roan and dragged their half-conscious bodies from the chamber. Within minutes the only remnants of their existence were the crimson stains in the sand. When the metal doors clanged shut again and Keleir heard the heavy metal latch drop, he fell back into the sand and dug up his stolen weapon. He admired the small metal dagger before he pushed it into his boot.
“Don’t get any ideas about that,” the Droven man muttered, dropping down across from Keleir. “You won’t get very far.”
“I’ll get as far as I wish,” he replied with a wide grin. “I’d get farther with your help.”
Xalen laughed. “Bold Ipaba!”
“Keleir,” he offered, holding out his hand to Xalen. “Keleir Ahriman.”
The warrior admired Keleir’s outstretched hand before accepting it, grasping the Fire Mage by the forearm. “Xalen Okara, Chief Masodite of Droves. At least I was a long time ago.”
“Masodite?”
“Chief General, in your tongue.” Xalen smirked. “When Droves still stood, I was the leader of Death’s Breath, the greatest Droven army ever known to the First. Now I’m a slave and I live here in the sand with the worms.”
“Your master keeps you here?”
“Most of the time, so I remember my place. Though he has no need to teach me. But he keeps me here and keeps her …” Xalen glowered at the sand. “My wife, he keeps in his house. She is a female Challenger, and when she isn’t fighting, he loans her out to the Keeper of the House as a companion or maid.”
“How did you get a wife?” Keleir asked.
“She was my prize for beating the Ekaru o’Mortorten, the God of Death, a Dregs magician who fought in the Games. She and I did not love at first,” Xalen said with the hint of a smile. “She beat me fiercely on our wedding night. I loved her after that.”
Keleir laughed. “I was also beaten by my wife, long before we were married.”
Xalen waved his finger at the Fire Mage. “That is the mark of a good woman!”
Keleir smiled fondly. “Aye, that it is.”
Xalen’s eyes misted. “I get to see her for a night at the end of every week. Until then, I spend my days here thinking of her and waiting to see her again.”
“Do you ever think of escaping?”
“I’ve tried. I did not get very far, and it was Aleira who suffered for it. They beat her …” A darkness clouded Xalen’s vision. He curled his hands in the sand. “We were running because she carried a child and we did not want it born a slave. In the end, it did not matter. They beat her, and she lost it. After that, I only see her once a week. The only reason I see her at all is that my master wants me to fight and win. Without her, I do not fight. I welcome death.”
Keleir stared across the small space of sand between himself and the Droven warrior. The man was open with his tongue, but why shouldn’t he be? No one but he could understand the language. A language taught to him by his wife …
The Fire Mage ran his fingers over the soft sand. “That is barbaric and awful. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It is best. No child should be a slave,” Xalen muttered.
“No one, least of all children, should be slaves,” Keleir whispered. “What if I told you there was a way to freedom? What if I said that if we worked together, we could all be free—you, me, a friend of mine, and Aleira. Maybe even all of the others. What must be done will not take the courage of a Challenger; it will take the steel and hardness of a Masodite. I cannot guarantee your freedom, or your life … All I can guarantee is a chance, and that’s more than you’re going to get sitting in this pit.”
“They say not to trust Ipaba,” Xalen muttered. “They say you weave lies.”
“Who do you trust more, your masters or the man in the prison with you? I am going to escape with or without your help, Xalen Okara. All I’m asking is if you want to come along.”