FIRELIGHT FLICKERED OFF the stone walls of the apartment, the massive man leaning back from the table and patting his large stomach with satisfaction. “Ah, Harther, my boy, nothing better than a good meal to end the day.” Half closing his eyes, he mused aloud, “Perhaps I should go visit Lady Arista to discuss plans for the fall festival. Won’t have much time with the upcoming holiday and everyone wanting time to train on the sands and—”

Loud banging from the main doors of the arena echoed down the corridors like the rumble of thunder. The man yelped, nearly falling off of his chair. Rocking the chair back onto four feet, he scowled in growing irritation as the incessant pounding grew more insistent. He closed his eyes trying to ignore the intrusion into his formerly quiet evening; he finally pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

He sauntered to the gates. The bells of the town temple tolled the hour. He paused to listen, counting the tones. “Who would be out at this hour?” he grumbled to himself, ignoring the fact that only moments earlier he had been planning on going out himself. When the banging increased in urgency, he hollered ahead towards the iron doors, “I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your shirt on!”

Cautious by nature, he climbed the short flight of stairs to the small, shuttered window by the gates. He peered outside, squinting in the bright moonlight at the pair of cloaked figures. “Who’s there?” he demanded in a hostile tone. “There are no handouts from the Dramaden arena for layabouts.”

The shorter figure lowered her hood to peer up at him. Harther’s eyes went wide in shocked recognition. “Good gods! It can’t be!” he whispered.

“Master Narrik?” Tiwaz began uncertainly, exhaustion and pain clear in her voice.

“By all that’s holy,” he uttered in delighted amazement, stopping the young woman from speaking further. “Hold on! I’m coming right down.” He shut the window with a slam and bolted it. Nearly falling down the stairs in his haste, he raised the iron bar securing the gate aside and pushed it open far enough to admit the pair. He pulled it back and let the locking bar fall back into place with a clunk.

Without waiting for an explanation, Harther turned and beckoned them to follow him to to his apartment. He pointed to a pair of stools sturdy enough to support Doom’s weight. The Dramaden arena master looked them over with absolute joy. “As I live and breathe, Tiwaz, it is good to see you. I should have never doubted you would get away from that bastard master of yours someday.”

He looked to the larger figure whose cowl hid his face in shadows. “And you must be Doom. That not-a-demon fellow Tiwaz talked about constantly. Well, constantly for her,” he qualified when Doom turned to regard his friend in surprise. “Never was a chatty child. But when she said something, let me tell you, she meant it.” He chuckled, reminiscent of the first time he had said anything untoward about him.

Tiwaz managed a faint smile. “I am very glad you remember me, Master Narrik. I know it has been a very long time. We worried you would not recognize me.” Doom nodded fractionally, trying hard to keep his face hidden as he hovered near his friend.

Harther laughed. “A respectable arena master never forgets the good ones. And you were exceptional, lass.” He sat, regarding her in curiosity. “So, rumor has you dead. How’d you pull one over that bastard master of yours?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Tiwaz said in dry tones.

“I’d wager it’s an interesting one, too.” The older man chuckled, sitting back casually. “So, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call just to let old Harther know you are free now.”

Tiwaz sighed, looking at the ground. “I wish it could be. We are in need of your help.”

The jovial expression faded to one more serious. “Of course, lass. What do you need? I don’t have much on hand I can give you but—”

“She wants to fight,” Doom stated, his disapproval severe.

Tiwaz winced at his tone, but did not relent. “Doom is a skilled hunter and woodsman. But he cannot barter for anything we need because people would think he was a demon when he isn’t.” Her pale cheeks flushed. “I know nothing of bartering. But I understand how money works. We need money to buy supplies for travel. Which means we need to earn money.” She sat up straighter. “I know other gladiators earn money to fight. So, I want to fight.”

Harther scrutinized her with a frown. “Forgive me, lass, but you don’t seem to be in any shape to fight. You know I do not abuse my fighters.”

Her smile was mirthless. “Unlike my former master. Yes, I remember, Master Harther. But we need supplies. Supplies that we need money to buy.”

The man grunted. “Well, that’s true enough. But just the same. I’d be happy to give you anything you need so you don’t have to risk being discovered.”

“While I am grateful you are so generous, Master Harther, we cannot depend on charity. If we cannot learn to earn our way now, we may as well return to Alimar.” She squared her shoulders with pride. “I do not belong to anyone. It is my choice to fight.” She met his eyes unwaveringly.

He glanced between her and Doom, frowning. “I wonder that you’ve lived so long, Tiwaz. You’re a stubborn child.”

“Tell me about it,” Doom grumbled. A small grin touched her lips. An injudicious movement caused his hood to slip back partway, revealing his face. He hastily grabbed at it to pull it back when Harther stiffened. Already pale, Tiwaz turned a sickly color in fearful uncertainty, watching Harther with dread.

“Well,” Harther stated after getting over his initial shock. “I was going to suggest you fight, too, Doom, but you’re definitely too distinctive for these parts. Don’t need to draw any attention to your presence. We get a few women in the arena, and it’s been several years, so could get away with Tiwaz so long as she doesn’t use an appearance or name she’s known for.” The pair relaxed at his matter-of-fact words. Tiwaz leaned into Doom’s half embrace with such utter relief that Harther turned away, using the need to refill his mug as an excuse to look away from the display of emotions.

“It’s fortunate we are going into autumn. My assistants and my stable of gladiators only live here during the spring and summer, so it’s just me around here. I don’t really have anything for guests, but—”

“A storage room with a door would be fine,” Doom rumbled. “Or a stall. Preferably one without a wall of iron bars.”

Harther turned back, looking insulted. “What the hell? Bars? You think I’d put you in beast pens? Even slaves are supposed to be treated better than animals.” He snorted, crossing his arms. “I said I don’t abuse my fighters, and I meant it. The arena has sleeping compartments my fighters’ use when they are living here, but most of them store their gear in them. We need somewhere no one would be wandering into during the day.”

The man scratched his salt and pepper beard beneath his chin. “There is the old wing I’d closed off for lack of use.” He nodded to the discussion he had in his mind. “Yes, yes, that will do perfectly. Come along. I will bring you food, but first, we’ll get you settled. If you’re going to fight for me, I need to see what condition you’re in. As exhausted as you look right now, Tiwaz, I would never allow you past the gate onto the sands. You know my standards.”

“I do, yes,” she replied. Doom’s expression waxed grateful to her acquiescence.

He led them out of the apartment. From several cabinets and storage closets, he retrieved several keys, an oil lamp, and armfuls of bedding. He handed the stack of bedclothes to Doom, gathering up the rest before continuing.

The halls were tall and wide, doors lining both sides. At the end of the hall, he unlocked the door leading into another, shorter hall. He opened the door on the inner wall and entered the room. Moonlight streamed in from a window he unshuttered before he lit a small lamp on a table. Built into the stonework were two raised, wide pallets.

“This is the old wing,” he explained. “I keep it locked up except for visiting fighters during the warm months.” His expression was sober. “While people might believe you’re dead, Tiwaz, I would prefer not to take any chances, otherwise I’d give you better accommodations.”

“There is better than this?” Doom asked in shock. “This is more than fine, Master Harther. We are very grateful.” Tiwaz nodded, unable to give voice to her own gratitude.

Harther humphed, only nodding and restraining himself from cursing the conditions the two must have suffered to consider this the height of luxury. “Around sunrise, my trainers and gladiators come to use the grounds to train. I hate making you have to hide away, but I suggest waiting until they’re well gone before coming out. You will have free run of the arena otherwise.”

He placed a pair of keys on the table. “This one is for this room, and this one is for the door into this hall. There is a bathing room at the other end of this section. Water’s clean, if not warm. Don’t have the fires going to heat it, what with no one being here. We’ll fix that tomorrow night, though.” He went to the door and said, “I’ll go bring some food. And I’ll try to make it enough to last through tomorrow evening, but I promise, I will feed you well to make up for the inconvenience.”

Tiwaz stated, the edge in her voice muted with exhaustion, “We don’t want charity.”

Harther smiled hugely. “Never fear, Warrior. I’ll make sure you earn every bit, even if it’s just helping me around the arena. Always plenty to be done around here.” With that, he closed the door behind him, leaving the pair alone.

Doom watched the man leave, a bemused expression on his face. “I told you we could trust him,” she pointed out.

He turned his attention back to her, catching her by the arm before her legs gave out and easing her to sit. “You look dead on your feet, Ti.” She gave him a dirty look. “It’s true. If it wasn’t risking being found by the locals being as close as we were, I’d have said we should camp and wait one more night.”

“You said you smelled rain in the air. You are never wrong about that.” She yawned hugely. “I hope it passes soon enough so I can start training.”

Doom looked at her while rolling out the thick sleeping mat. “Training can wait another day or three. You need to catch up on your rest.” He turned to her, putting a hand on her shoulder when she started to stand up, mouth opened to argue. “Stop, Ti. You are not your own fighter, you’re my fighter. My Tiwaz. And I will be damned if you treat yourself as bad as or worse than Alimar treated you. Understand?”

She closed her eyes and nodded mutely. “Good.” He drew her to her feet, helping her take her outer layer of clothing off, tossing it on the unmade sleeping pallet. Pointing to the one he’d finished preparing, he ordered, “Now get some sleep. I will wake you later to eat, but you need rest.”

“Fine,” she agreed wearily, lying down with her eyes almost closed. “Just this once…” As her voice drifted off, Doom tucked a blanket around her shoulders and tenderly brushed a tendril of hair from her eyes.