THE LARGE WAITING area beneath the stands filled with a motley menagerie of fighters. All talked at the top of their lungs in attempts to be heard over the crowd outside and in. Harther stood on a large crate, hands on his hips. He waved to one of his assistants to ring a bell that brought relative silence to the gathered, allowing his booming voice to be clearly heard.

“All right, you mangy lot, listen up! For those of you who have not fought here before, this is how things work!” He paused for a heartbeat, scanning the sea of faces to make sure everyone’s attention was on him. “The winner of each round of fighting wins a token amount of gold with the overall winner taking the grand prize. Brackets will be filled by lots. The bouts today and tomorrow will be single elimination. You go down today or tomorrow, you will be done! The last three days will be double elimination. If you end up too injured to fight, regardless if you won the bout, you’re eliminated, but you will get that round’s winnings. New brackets are established when each round is done.

“The rules are simple. Fight to the yield or unconsciousness. This is a reminder,” he added, punctuating his words’ rhythm, “that death matches are forbidden in the Empire! And before you think you might be able to get away with saying, ‘Oops! So sorry, I slipped,’” he added in a mockingly, foppish voice, drawing a rumble of laughter from the fighters, “Be aware! Even if you kill someone purely by accident, you will be disqualified! Any money that might have been owed to you goes to the next of kin or to the city coffers if there are no kin. I’ve no use for wild, undisciplined louts in my arena!

“The crowd is being informed of this rule! Because if there is even a declaration of a death match, all bets on the fight are immediately forfeit to Dramaden’s coffers. Doesn’t matter if the bet was for the survivor or the poor bastard killed.” Harther crossed his arms. “Once you walk out of my arena, or are thrown out on your ear, you are not my responsibility. I don’t care if there is a mob outside wanting to take their losses out of your miserable hides. So don’t get careless! Understood?” The general response was affirmative. “Good! Samal, bring the lots over here and get these tiers set up! The crowd is getting impatient.”

He pulled out two disks and held them up, calling out the names on them. “You’re up first! Get on out there!” he told the pair of combatants. The man continued to call out names and assistants marked them on a giant board. Some of the fighters went to benches inside to wait their turn. Others went out to stand in the corridor between the stands and arena along the inner ring wall to watch the fight in progress.

Halfway through the lots, Harther’s eyes lit up. “Ah, finally. I was wondering…” He held up the disks and called out, “Farn of Allygat and Kiliana of the North!”

As each fighter stepped forward to acknowledge the pairing, their reactions were polar opposites. “What?!” The man Farn, tall and massive due more to fat than muscle, flushed beneath his unkempt beard when he realized Tiwaz was his opponent. “Are ye shittin’ me? A little girl?! Do ye know who I am?” The man puffed out his chest with self-importance.

“I know who I am,” Harther drawled, crossing his arms. His tones hinted continued arguing would result in disqualification.

“It is fine, Arena Master,” Tiwaz stated, her voice clear enough to be heard by those still in the chamber, drawing attention away from Farn to her. “He is afraid he’d lose face losing to me. I am willing to take the by until the next round.” Those within earshot burst out into mocking laughter. The man all but exploded in unintelligible, indignant bluster. He stalked off to the side where his friends were waiting, the other men poking fun at him. Harther smirked, offered a nod to Tiwaz and continued with naming off the first pairings.

Long used to ‘fighting cold,’ Tiwaz opted to not watch the other competitors. She found a secluded corner well away from the others to wait. She crossed her legs, and closed her eyes, settling to meditate until called.

The woman sensed someone sit beside her, but having no interest in speaking to anyone, attempted to ignore him. His attention was so focused that she finally turned to glare at the man, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

The attractive man who had been leaning forward with his elbows on his knees smiled brightly when he got her attention. “Hi!” Before she could turn away and ignore him, he offered her his hand in greeting. “I’m Gareth Tavarius.”

She blinked, looking at his hand blankly. Never having seen nor ever been offered a normal greeting of equals, she had no idea how to respond. The man sighed, lowering his hand. Her eyes raked over him, filled with criticism. “What are you by trade?”

He looked hurt. “I don’t look like a fighter?”

“No.”

The man sighed and shrugged. “Ah, well.” He turned a charming smile towards her. “You might have heard of me. I’m a bard of great renown throughout the Western Empire and Northern Territories.” She just blinked at him. His smile faded into keen puzzlement. “You… do know what a bard is, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Wow, you certainly must have lived a sheltered life,” Gareth commented as he sat up straight and stretched. She glared at him then turned to resume her meditation. “You are not very talkative, are you, She-Who-Fights-Under-The-Name-Kiliana?” He drew back at the sudden, narrow-focused hostility directed towards him, holding his hands up. “Hey, most people take on a stage name for these open fights. It’s nothing unusual.”

When her lip uncurled from its snarl and she relaxed, he lowered his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Kiliana is a pretty name, but you don’t really look like a Kiliana.” She opened one eye, arching an eyebrow quizzically at him, then closed her eyes again. “I heard your name pulled, but I didn’t see. Who is your first fight with?”

She looked in the direction of Farn and his cronies, the man shouting his self-perceived prowess and pounding his chest with self-importance. “Can’t you guess?”

He followed her gaze and made a face. “Ick. Poor you. Pity, too. You look like you could use a real challenge, not that blustering tavern brawler.”

Tiwaz’s eyes snapped open and she fixed a hard glare on him. “What do you mean?” Her voice was frigid with hostility. “You think I am a professional?”

Gareth held up both hands defensively. “It is part of the trade of a bard, being able to read people. I can tell he is just an idiot. One who spends most of his time in bar fights against weaker people, using his size and crude tactics to win. And his smell.” She relaxed, smirking. “And I can tell you had to have had some professional training, just by how you carry yourself.” He was careful not to mention how much training he believed her to possess, given her hostility.

“I see,” she said slowly, looking away with uncertainty.

“The only thing I can’t figure out is why a woman as beautiful as you would want to be a fighter.”

Tiwaz stiffened, her expression incredulous as she looked at Gareth as though he had sprouted an eye stalk from his forehead. “I am not beautiful.”

Before Gareth could argue with her, Harther walked up. “Yer up next, lass. Good luck to ye.” The arena master gave the bard a look warning him to back off.

With considerable relief to have a reason to flee this bewildering stranger, Tiwaz got to her feet, checking the security of the very plain short sword she wore. She stiffened when Gareth caught her arm. “See you later?” he asked hopefully, his fascination with her obvious.

“Not if I can help it.” She shook him off, bowed to Harther and headed towards the arena entrance without a backward glance. She kept well behind Farn who was still blustering.

Gareth started to follow when Harther moved in his path. “You better think about what you’re doing, bard,” he said in a low voice. “And then forget it. She is not your usual bed flower. If you value remaining intact, I suggest you keep to the tavern wenches and merchant daughters.”

Watching Harther walk off, Gareth frowned in a mixture of insult and intrigue. “She’s won over the Dramaden arena master? Now I’m even more curious.” He joined many others going to the corridor ringing the arena sands to watch the upcoming battle between Tiwaz and Farn.