Suvau spent an uncomfortable night in the dungeon after a sparse meal of gruel. Palo complained that there was the same amount of gruel prepared so the more slaves there were, the less there was to go around. The young lad with the awkwardly healed arm, Gustin, was quick to point out if Palo was so intent on dying, why bother eating?

  With his bonds preventing him from lying down, Suvau had to sleep sitting up. This did not bother him too much except that sleeping fitfully made the new day come all the more slowly. Suvau had already made a mental map of the passages he had seen as he’d been marched to the dungeon. He hadn’t come to Fort Mavour out of pure selflessness regarding Judd’s knighthood quest. Suvau had another agenda in mind. He wanted to free his people if there was even the slightest chance to do so. He had determined it was impossible to escape the way he’d been brought in. It led straight out into the bailey and marketplace of Fort Mavour. The moment anyone, servant, soldier or civilian spotted them, it would be over.

  But Suvau knew that Fort Omra, in its foundations, was a labyrinth of passages and escape routes. He hoped that Fort Mavour, built during the same period of time as Omra, would be the same.

  Jole, Urik’s brute, made sure to keep one hand tight on Suvau’s bonds, the other on his neck. Suvau could feel the restrained strength. He did not doubt for a moment that Jole could snap his neck should he resist. Urik walked ahead, leading him to the Arena. Suvau kept his head down, eyes flitting backwards and forwards, continuing to draw a map of the foundations of the fort in his mind.

  He was marched into a space where there were manacles bolted to the wall, hanging limp and empty. However, he could smell dust mixed with blood in the air as if it were a tangible presence. Suvau could see smears of dark, dried red on the stone of both wall and floor, his fury hard to mask. Jole sensed his increasing agitation and his fingers tightened around his neck.

  Urik turned to Suvau, his eyes gleaming. “We have not had fresh meat for quite some time. The monsters may struggle to sniff you out without the scent of blood on your skin,” Urik reached for a whip hanging on the wall, “so we will have to let it out a little…”

  Jole turned him around so that Urik could flay Suvau’s back. The big man refused to give Urik the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain but he couldn’t stop it from appearing on his features. Jole’s expression was impassive, the brute just a mindless thug in Urik’s thrall.

  “There,” Urik hung the whip back up, “that should entice a few monsters.”

  Suvau swallowed, his brow sweating rather than his tears falling. Urik turned a wheel, a strong metal bar gate rising with every rotation. Cold air greeted Suvau’s face. The brisk breeze slapped Suvau and he realised he was about to go outside, or at least, somewhere exposed to the outside.

  It had to be the Arena or what he’d heard the other slaves calling, ‘the pit’.

  Jole took him through across two or three stone pavers that ended in a broken edge, uneven grey rock causing him to pick his footing much more carefully. Suvau wanted to look around but was marched down a decline, past a pillar to a semi-flat space. Jole undid Suvau’s bonds and, without any kind of communication, turned and simply left him there.

  Suvau rubbed his wrists and looked around.

  The space he was in was three quarters of a circle, the curved edges ending on the far side of the Arena where there were two more pillars reinforcing an inner portion of wall, a sizeable metal gate separating the Arena from what could only be Maul. The gate had metal spears at the bottom that slid deep into the rock and Suvau suspected holes had been dug out painstakingly so that the gate was sealed top, bottom and sides. Beyond the gate, the ground continued to slope away into a chasm of jagged rock and dead, blackened trees. He couldn’t see far along the chasm because it twisted into a corner and his line of sight was cut off but at the moment, the gate was down so he tore his eyes away from it to look at the Arena itself.

  The gate he had been marched through was one of three and with his builder’s keen eye, he could see that they were not original constructs but rather, additions that were made to keep the monsters out and to allow slaves and warriors in. Apart from the gates, there were no windows and no other doors and the walls were at least fifteen feet high. On top of the walls were balconies that ran around most of the space, supported by the half dozen stone pillars that Suvau noted would provide some cover if required. There was a solid protective railing of more stone at the front of the balconies for those who would watch the match from the pews, or grander chairs for the more illustrious attendees.

  Suvau shivered, pain and cold warring for dominance. He could feel lines of chilled blood trickling down his back like monster tendrils. The ground at his heels became dotted with his blood, staining the stone.

  There was a loud creaking and he turned back to the gate to see it rising. When it was up, in the silence afterwards, Suvau could hear the sound of chittering and scurrying feet.

  “Your blood has drawn a bit of a crowd,” Urik’s voice taunted him from above, “however, not a minotaur. Looks like you’ll have to survive the goblins if you’ll be of any use to LaMogre in drawing his required monster out of Maul.”

  Suvau ran to the gate and, despite his back protesting, pressed himself against the pillar. Seconds later, the first of the goblins tore through. Suvau let them go by, counting as their twisted little bodies, bulbous heads and grasping hands lurched into the Arena, seeking their prey, the gate falling back into place, sealing them into the Arena. They were foolish monsters, little more than pawns in the Maul invasion and they never thought to look behind them, glancing about the Arena, sniffing the blood that was on the floor, unable to find their prey.

  Suvau smiled and grabbed the goblin closest to him, snapping his neck. He managed to kill three out of the seven beasties before the goblins realised something was wrong. Unfortunately for the fourth goblin, who turned when he realised the smell of blood was actually behind him, Suvau grabbed his legs and swung him around, striking the other goblins, sending them flying before bashing the one in his hands against the pillar. The goblins, now only numbering three, scrambled brokenly to their feet and in blind stupidity, tried to attack Suvau even though each of them suffered shattered limbs.

  The brawl was over quickly and Suvau’s dark gaze lifted from the bodies at his feet to the balcony above where Urik stood, eyes filled with one part admiration to three parts frustration.

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  “A Maul with brains as well as brawn…you’re going to need them. With your heart pumping, the smell of your blood will travel further, bringing larger monsters to the Arena threshold and within. Jole!”

  Suvau hurried to put distance between himself and the gate as it began to rise again.

  He had to steady himself and hold some strength in reserve.

  He didn’t know how long his time in the Arena would go for…but he suspected Urik would not be happy until monsters drew Suvau’s blood for themselves.

  An hour later, Caste and Rodel made it back to their room, Caste limping and Rodel supporting him. Caste sank onto his bed and groaned, holding his ankle. Rodel stepped back and sighed.

  “Maybe you should have taken LaMogre’s offer to call for his nomad healer.”

  Caste had been rather surprised that Judd hadn’t left for the duration of Roust’s ‘instruction’. He hadn’t been aware the, almost knight, had stayed. He’d been too focussed on attempting to knock Roust off his feet and trying not to be knocked down himself to realise. But when Caste had fallen, clutching his ankle, Judd had stood and called the match off and Roust had, thankfully, conceded.

  “I’ll limp there myself later,” Caste insisted, knowing that, should Aalis be exposed as a witch, his own integrity would be stained with foolishness that he had not recognised it, “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it seems.” Although, when it had happened, Caste would have sworn before Bishop Peele that the sword master had broken his ankle. “Is Roust always like that?”

  Rodel nodded. “He maintains that all males, not just soldiers and guards, ought to be able to defend themselves when in Fort Mavour. It’s the reason I was chosen to succeed Deacon Alast upon his elevation to the long coveted role of archdeacon.” Rodel leaned against the wall of his room and folded his arms. “Out of all the clerics left in the Order of the Grail after most of us were assigned knighthood quests, I was the only one who met the physical standard…and I think that’s just because I’d been out in the wilds for a few weeks and not cooped up at a desk or in a library,” he caught sight of Caste’s expression, “not that there’s anything wrong with that!”

  “That,” Caste said tersely, not entirely satisfied with Rodel’s poor concession towards his beloved occupation, “is what is waiting for me back in Astaril and by Andigre, Grail and all the knights, that is where I will live out my days.”

  Rodel nodded. “I take it I will be sending any and all accounts of Fort Mavour to Bishop Undern soon.”

  “Not for some years,” Caste pointed out, rubbing his ankle, “I hope this ridiculous endeavour will not stunt my advancement…”

  “If LaMogre manages to attain his knighthood, it can only work in your favour.” Rodel pointed out. Caste begrudgingly agreed with that. “How many monsters does he have left to kill?”

  “Two, a minotaur and a witch.” Caste replied.

  “It may take some time but he will face a minotaur here…as for a witch…”

  “That’s already…” Caste said before sucking the rest of his words back into his mouth before they had a chance to be heard.

  Rodel frowned. “Already what? Do you have a bearing on a witch to be killed?”

  “It’s…taken care of…actually it slipped my mind but the witch isn’t on the list…at least, not to be killed. I mean, Judd’s killed it…essentially.”

  Caste wondered if the stammered gibberish he’d just blurted out would awaken Rodel’s suspicions. However Rodel, while handsome, did not seem overly bright or intuitive and he shrugged and lay back on his bed, arms behind his head, one leg bent. Caste willed himself to relax and eyed Rodel’s clothing.

  “That is certainly not traditional officer attire.” He observed, hoping to move the conversation elsewhere.

  “Roust insists on my wearing something practical.” Rodel snorted then proceeded to mimic the brutish sword master. “Dresses are for women, helpless and defenceless…dress like a man!”

  “Charming.” Caste muttered.

  “Actually, the clothing is very well tailored and Alast had to approve of its make before I was allowed to wear it. While I would never confess as much to Roust, I prefer this over the tunics and cappa clausa.”

  “You still wear the cappa clausa though, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, but it is very liberating to be able to take stairs, mount a horse and fight without worrying where my hem is.” Caste didn’t like to admit he’d had the same concerns on occasion. He believed, once back in Astaril and in the heart of the Order of the Grail that such concerns would be a distant thing of the past. Rodel cleared his throat and looked at Caste with his southern sky blue eyes. “I wasn’t expecting LaMogre to be at the training session.”

  “I don’t think he was,” Caste said then realised how foolish that must have sounded, “I mean, I don’t think he was meant to be. He was taking a short cut through the training hall.”

  “With the daughter of Sir Donimede?”

  “I think she was his escort.”

  Rodel frowned. “Do you think…do you suppose they are…attached?”

  Caste snorted. “After less than a day?”

  “Prominent matches have been known to be made in mere moments of time.”

  Caste considered this. Judd had always shown a partiality towards Aalis that made Caste very uncomfortable. Not only was she of dubious origins and lifestyle, but Judd was heading fast towards a knighthood which would elevate him from being able to marry anyone he liked of the common variety to a much smaller, yet far more illustrious, eligibility pool. When knighted, Judd would not be permitted to wed or even court someone like Aalis unless it was unofficially such as if Judd married for status and kept Aalis in his abode as his mistress.

  That future rankled with what Caste knew about Judd. He was honourable and had integrity. He would not do that to the woman he married or to Aalis, not that she seemed the kind to entertain such a proposition.

  Caste put his foot back on the floor and tested it, relieved that the initial blinding pain he’d suffered seemed to be the warning of imminent breakage rather than a break itself. He might favour it slightly but he wouldn’t need to limp to protect it.

  “Willower seemed rather taken with LaMogre.”

  “Miss Donimede, you mean,” Caste corrected vaguely, still testing his ankle, his tunic hiked up to his knees, “it is inappropriate for an officer of the Grail to refer to the daughter of a knight by her first name as it implies familiarity,” he thought he heard Rodel sigh and looked up at his fellow cleric’s expression, “or attraction?”

  “Miss Donimede then. She seemed quite taken with LaMogre.”

  Caste could not deny that. “It would be an advantageous match for Judd to make,” Caste mused, “at least, before his knighthood. After his knighthood…he might be able to do better…”

  “How can you speak so callously of Willower?”

  Caste stared at Rodel whose good natured expression had become furious to the point of violent in the blink of an eye.

  “I…speak objectively.”

  “You are objectifying her?”

  Caste folded his arms. “As a cleric of the Order, you need to be aware of the hierarchy of eligibility and how certain milestones in life can greatly elevate marriageability status. It is part of your duty as cleric, one day without Alast’s oversight, to provide guidance to Sir Donimede in these matters.”

  Rodel shook his head. “Donimede has already done so, several times, with his eldest daughter. Rylan, Fereak, Haern and his father, Egrette,” Caste cringed at the list of eligible men that Donimede’s daughter had been unable to entice, “Rylan again after Genovieve’s death…it’s a cruel game of status snatching that plays with a woman’s heart.”

  “I suppose she would be better off marrying for love rather than to secure any foothold for Donimede in the future of Astaril monarchy…” Caste remarked slyly.

  “Much better off.”

  “Imagine if all rules were removed and she could marry…anyone!”

  “Just imagine!”

  “She could choose from an almost endless pool of potential suitors with no stigma attached to herself or her father…”

  “No stigma at all…”

  “Why…she could even marry a cleric!”

  “I would treat her far better than any of the knights treat their wives…” Rodel’s words faded as Caste’s eyebrows raised and he realised just how blindly and badly he’d blundered. “Oh sh…”