To his immense surprise, he landed in a tangle of Manolithic warmen. Jangling adrenaline surged through him like an electrical current, and his arms and legs flailed defensively. Just as he was about to throw himself from the moving truck, reason penetrated his panicked brain, and he realized that the enemy battalion surrounding him was, in fact, all dead. He was sprawled atop a pile of corpses, several bodies deep, in what was nothing less than an industrial-sized death cart.

Frozen faces stared blankly back at him while limbs—those that were still intact—were splayed at grotesque angles. Everson clamped his hands to his mouth to stifle the retching that now convulsed his empty stomach.

These were the young men he had recently encountered at the Grand Schism. But what seemed a faceless and ferocious horde before now struck him as only a pathetic and pitiful pile of wasted youth. They were obviously being transported to a mass burial somewhere. Everson had not counted the trucks before, but he was now nauseated by the size of the caravan he had witnessed, all the vehicles most certainly filled to the brim with the fallen.

Fighting his disgust, he burrowed into the ghastly camouflage of corpses to avoid detection. His wary eyes went to the front of the truck, where the driver sat in a cab that was really more of an open-air canopy.

Everson instantly recognized the sloped shoulders and massive hooded head of one of the creatures he had met earlier. The hulking figure seemed focused solely on the road in front of him, so Everson relaxed. He now had nothing else to do but go along for the ride. As fatigue and the steady rumble of the transport began to anaesthetize his nerves, Everson mused sleepily, but optimistically, that it probably couldn’t get much worse.

FOUR

The Back Tier Arena was a bowl within the bowl of the surrounding mountains, and the heat sat in it like steaming soup. Back Tier was the most remote of the tiers and, consequently, the populace seemed to reside permanently at the back of the line when it came to receiving anything of consequence. It had been cycles since anything of note had occurred in the burg.

So today’s championship bout had brought out every man, woman and child to witness the event in spite of the blazing temperature. As The Which watched, she found the good cheer and enthusiasm ghoulishly ironic considering that it was in anticipation of a blood sport that would result in the death of one of the combatants.

Warman Kohl was young, but not in relation to the mean age of most of his comrades in the cavalry. He was a survivor, with skill that was renowned among the ranks. The Which imagined he had to be surprised to find himself staring across the arena at a warrior even older than he. A man named Warman Ty, his scarred face impassive but resolute.

Ty was not only renowned, he was legendary. Kohl absentmindedly stroked the matted mane of his birdun, a magnificent specimen with a discolored tuft of white fur. He would have to set aside his respect and admiration for a legend and focus on his expressed purpose: to kill the man. But The Which gave only passing thought to the mindset of her contestants. She was not nearly as enthusiastic for the coming battle as the boisterous commoners. She waited impatiently with The When and Chancellor Olaf, in a meticulously appointed royal box overlooking the arena. Her irritation was building apace with the raucous cacophony of the crowd. She was interested only in the result and cared little for the battle that would bring it.