The Colosseum of Horin, constructed in the Junk King’s name, was as much the marvel below as it was above. Beneath the high stands, terraces, and pillars of the stadium there was an intricate system of gated bays, tracks, and cages all devised to smoothly facilitate the games above. Only from within its underbelly did Orin realize how uninspired he had been when picturing how the game masters put on their show. It was one of many things, he realized, he had never appreciated.

  The strap of Orin’s helmet bit into his skin. It was a brimmed helmet pinched into a point at the top. The chinstrap had been cinched as tight as he could make it, but that wasn’t enough to stop it from shifting side-to-side atop his head. He’d known it was too big from the moment he received it, but he had only scraped the dried red flakes from its brim and moved on to choose his weapon.

  Orin shuffled forward behind a broad shouldered sailor. At least, if he was here now, he must have been a sailor once. The tattoos on his arms made that clear. An anchor, a broken oar, and a lady with thick, redweed hair falling over her face. Her unobstructed eye, black and bulging, looked towards Orin while she relaxed atop a coraled stone. Sailors, Orin thought sarcastically. He didn’t know the woman’s name, but he knew a few sailors. A superstitious lot. Even if their god was dead like all of the others, they would still pray to her while at sea.

  Distracted, Orin nearly stepped into the man when he stopped to inspect the assortment of weapons laid out. The sailor chose quickly, raising a blade from the rack in front of him. It was a two sided, single-handed sword with a thick ribbed leather grip. It was a choice weapon.

  The sailor, unconvinced, tested the blade’s grip before looking down the blade’s edge. Orin looked at the rack and he didn’t like what he saw. The blade in the sailor’s hand was the only weapon with any reach. His eyes narrowed, reappraising the stack. A number of axes, cudgels, hammers, a ball on the end of a chain. This wasn’t good. He’d been relying on being able to maintain his distance. Orin wasn’t strong compared to any man. At six-and-ten years he was right for his size but no grown man. At his side, the sailor still examined the blade. It was perfect, if he had reached it first he wouldn’t be holding up the line.

  “It’s too heavy,” The sailor said. Orin looked up to realize the sailor had stopped inspecting the blade, but instead had inspected him with one eye. “You wouldn’t be able to use it if I gave it to you.” He bent down, scanning the pile of weapon’s at the rack’s base, “Here.” He dug out a wooden shaft from the stack, knocking loose the other small arms around it. The sailor held up a stonewood shaft reinforced with langlets and a wrought iron axe head. He inspected the axe’s edge, “This will be better. It’s lighter than a blade, but put enough weight behind it and it will break more than skin.” Orin took the offered weapon, it was heavy, but he had no problems lifting or holding it. It would have to do.

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  Orin thanked the man, and they exchanged names before facing forward and continuing down the line with their meager arms and helmets. Officials of the games directed men into numerous gated bays which connected to the field above.

  Orin found himself quickly pressed into one of the stony cages. Once the last man had been brought by the official a guard locked the door and assumed his post nearby.

  A faint ray of natural light descended upon the gathered fighters through the barred bay doors leading to the field above. Orin pressed his back to the wall of the bay. Looking around he counted fifteen men who had also taken the gamble. Though their reasons may have been different, their wagers were all the same.

  The other entrants spoke among themselves. Their hushed voices, not more than whispers, hissed across the stone of the confined bay.

  Orin pressed his head back, feeling the cool stone across his neck. It had all come to this. . . How had it all come to this? Orin ran his finger along his palm, slick with sweat. Oh? Is it real now? He asked himself, sardonically.

  Orin looked to the gates at his right and left. At one, a locked door and a guard with nothing to do but watch. At the other? Only likely death. It all seemed so. . . symbolic. Why even have a guard? He wouldn’t force them to fight, but if they refused it was the cage that wouldn’t let them leave. He was nothing more than a witness. An apathetic beholder to their whatever happened first. An unresolved man might look to the door they had entered and yearn for the safety of the life he left behind. But as he looked at the guard, he had no doubts in his mind which door symbolized death.

  There’s no room for regrets, Orin reminded himself. His feelings were especially irrelevent. His choice was made. He had let the fear of what would come fill him and found it lacking. He had drowned in self-loathing and sardonic visions of what lay beyond the fork. And he had reached this conclusion: He would take this gamble. Whether the finality of that decision brought him dread or relief, he could not say, but at least his family. . . Well, they could call him a fool in the next life, but at least they wouldn’t blame themselves. All the better, if he succeeded they need never know that he had come here to die.