Amongst a crowd numbering in the thousands, two unaccompanied children were hardly noticed amidst the furor and excitement of the gathered throng. The arena was filled beyond capacity and the spectators crowded around the entrances, wriggling past one another in an attempt to get through to the stands. For most of these latecomers, there would be no room in the arena; they would be resigned to watching the spectacles from the ramparts of the city's walls. But Ismal and Kali were small, nimble, and determined. With hands interlocked, the two wove their way between a forest of legs and slid through even the narrowest gaps between spectators. As they pressed through into the arena, they left a wake of curses and disgruntled arena-goers. But with this many people there was no room for courtesy; manners were for those who didn't get to see the fights.

Ismal and Kali made their way through the drawgate and entered onto the first tier of the arena. Hundreds of feet above, curtains drawn with pulleys and rope shaded the spectators from the merciless desert sun while leaving open an aperture above the arena floor. The result was much like a giant dome, and the sound inside this place was cacophonous. A thousand souls chattering and whooping made it difficult to hear anything. Kali simply pointed up above them to the highest levels of the stands, suggesting that they try to find a place to sit there. Ismal nodded in tacit accord and followed her up the teeming stairs.

This arena had been built a hundred years ago to seat some two thousand spectators - the people gathered within this space today easily doubled that figure. The stands - simple benches of sandstone - were filled without exception. Personal space subordinated to maximizing capacity, and viewers were seated shoulder to shoulder. At the lower levels, people had even begun sitting on the steps. There was nowhere at all to squeeze in, even for two children, and so the pair ascended higher up the steps.

Some twenty rows up, Ismal stopped at the first bench row where there seemed to be room to scooch in on the end. An ancient-looking man sat at the end, with a knappy, gray beard that ran down into a messy heap upon his lap. His face was leathery and wizened, and failed to look up from the arena floor as the children approached him.

"Excuse me," Ismal began with all the courtesy he could muster. "Would you be so kind as to scooch in, that we might sit here?"

The sun-withered man did not move, but grumbled something in an unrecognizable language that Ismal and Kali understood as 'No'. With that, Ismal and Kali plopped down on the steps beside him.

Perhaps two hundred feet below them on the arena floor itself, the show had already begun. A troupe of acrobats flitted about the arena, walking about on their hands, cartwheeling, and performing jumping flips for the amusement of the crowds. In spite of their bright, gaudy costumes and the silken streamers that trailed behind them, the crowds did not seem particularly interested. This was merely the pre-fight show, designed to buy the fighters in the pits beneath the arena time to prepare while distracting the spectators from the fact that they were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers they didn't care to be seated with. The performers below sensed the boredom of the crowds, and decided to change the course of the show.

The acrobats danced away from the edge of the floor, while two dwarfs marched out to the center. Armed with wooden swords painted in bright, gaudy colors, they circled about one another as they prepared to do battle. A cheer of amusement rose up from the crowd as the half-men met and gently tapped their false swords together - as was customary between combatants before a fight. The dwarfs took a defensive pose with their swords, ready to engage in a battle to the death.

Then, at the moment the crowd seemed to be watching most intently - one flung his wooden sword at the other. The green and red-striped sword tumbled through the air and struck the enemy in his bulbous forehead. His opponent doubled back, dropping his own weapon to massage his forehead. The spectators broke out into uproarious laughter as the attacking half-man then charged across the sand and tackled his distracted foe. The laughter mixed with cheering as the two dwarves beat one another in a sloppy brawl upon the sand. Ismal and Kali giggled as they watched one of the dwarves reach for one of the fallen swords, and then whack the other across the head. The attacker recoiled and fell onto the sand. The defender regained his footing and pressed his 'blade' against the neck of his defeated foe - ready to dispatch him. He then looked up to the spectators, allowing them to decide the fate of his defeated opponent.

The decision was unanimous. A bawdy cheer rose up from the masses, which soon developed into a chant:

[i]LET HIM LIVE!
LET HIM LIVE!
LET HIM LIVE![/i]

The victor gave a nod of agreement, 'sheathed' his sword against his belt, and offered a stubby arm to help his companion up onto his own feet. The two dwarves gave a bow as the crowds cheered jokingly yet again before retreating to the edge and allowing the acrobats to continue.

The bellowing blast of a horn fanfare soon brought the frolicking of the acrobats to an abrupt halt. The chattering of the crowds died down as all eyes descended on the mezzanine devoted to royal spectators and dignitaries. Under a silk awning bearing the red date palm frond of Farai, Ismal watched as Rhuk and a cadre of guards and servants escorted his father and sister to their thrones at the very fore of the arena.

"Stupid Raiza," Ismal grumbled, "she hates going to these fights and yet she gets the best seat in the entire arena."

Kali paid King Nerej and Raiza little mind, but instead watched the entourage following behind them.

"Your father's guests," Kali noted. "Are those... Drathans?"

"CITIZENS AND VISITORS ALIKE," A booming voice emanated from the arena floor, stealing the attention away from the King. The acrobats, jesters, and other performers had left the arena, leaving but a single herald standing within the sunlight radiating through the gap in the curtains above. The sand upon which the announcer stood, though disturbed by the footprints of the performers, remained clean. Ismal knew that by sunset they would be soaked in blood and littered with the corpses of a thousand combatants.

"ON THE BEHALF OF HIS MAJESTY KING NEREJ, PROGENY OF CHAKUL, NOBLE SOVEREIGN AND HOST OF THESE GAMES, I BID YOU WELCOME TO THE COLISEUM OF FARAI!"

"What an impressive voice," declared Ismal. Even from this height, the herald's words were clear enough to be understood.

"It must be some manner of sorcery," Kali guessed. "No mortal voice can carry that far."

"A MANY OF YOU HAVE COME FROM HALF A WORLD AWAY TO SEE THE SPECTACLES THAT HAVE BEEN PREPARED FOR THIS DAY! YOU HAVE ENDURED MUCH TO BE HERE, AND I SHALL DELAY YOU NO LONGER; ON BEHALF OF OUR GRACIOUS KING NEREJ, LET THESE GAMES BEGIN!" The herald's speech was punctuated by a second fanfare of trumpets carved from samak horn. The masses erupted into of cheering and general excitement as a drawgate on the far side of the arena rattled open.

From the darkness of the tunnel, a din of chittering nonsense could be heard as the dark, twisted forms of a score of ghul burst from the darkness onto the sand. The arena hummed with the sound of a thousand boos as the monsters hissed and sneered. They sported a crude assortment of arms: spears of hewn flint and bone, swords fashioned from gaan teeth lashed with sinew to wooden clubs, maces of rusted iron. They snarled and yipped at the spectators above them - even the closest of which were seated in safety some twelve feet above the pit of the arena.

The drawgate underneath the royal mezzanine rattled open now - redirecting the attention of the ghul as well as the crowds. From within the darkness of that tunnel, agitated whinnies rang out. Three riders on Dulari Swiftbreds charged out upon the arena floor. Seated bareback upon the thin horses were men clad in lamellar hide, their faces obscured by headwraps made crusty by years of evaporated sweat. Each carried a dozen javelins in a long quiver upon his back. And though the crowd erupted into applause and resumed cheering as they rode onto the arena, their gray almond-shaped eyes remained fixed upon the enemy before them.

"Ashen Riders!" Ismal shouted in excitement as he recognized the riders. As a fanatic of all things swords, bow, and spear, Ismal was well acquainted with the lore of the Nerezïm. Theirs was a tribe of horse people from the Ashlands that resisted - and ultimately succumbed to - the Drathan invasion of their ancestral homelands on the Sour Sea. The free Nerezïm subsequently scattered across the lands, lending their skills on horseback to lords looking to bolster their cavalry. As such, the Ashen Riders earned reknown as the finest light cavalry in all of Azoth.

"I wonder how those Drathans feel about seeing them fight," Kali mused.

The three Ashen Riders spurred their steeds on, kicking up a cloud of dust as the charged for the advancing ghul. The monsters before them hobbled ahead in a disorganized rabble, brandishing swords and threatening to skewer the horses on their speartips. The riders charged and veered away at the last moment, skirting around gaggle of snarling ghul while drawing a javelin from their quivers. They held the spears aloft midpoint along the shaft, waiting until all four of the horses' legs were in the air before loosing the javelins on their foes. The spearpoints of the javelin fell with practiced precision on the necks and groins of the ghul, where their armor was weakest. The spears hit with a meaty [i]thwock[/i] as the ghul crumpled onto the sand. Applause rang out from the stands with each dead ghul. It was a massacre for the beasts.

Without warning, both the drawgates opened yet again. From each tunnel, more ghul swarmed out into the arena. From both sides, the chattering savages hobbled to the center of the arena where the three Nerezïm circled about and rallied. Their horses whinnied and snorted at the sight of the sniveling monsters coming to encircle them, but the riders held fast. They let loose the last of their javelins at the approaching ghul, sending another dozen of the creatures collapsing to the sand in bleeding heaps. With their spears exhausted, the Ashen Riders drew their swords and charged headlong into the enemy. The charge left a wake of broken and crushed ghul, but the riders soon lost their momentum. Bone-tipped spears plunged into the rippling muscles of the horses, sending their riders tumbling into the sand. Even when dismounted, the Nerezïm hacked away at the swarming ghul. But they too were overwhelmed. Spears pierced through their cuirasses and tooth-swords hacked into flesh. The proud Nerezïm fought and resisted to the last breath, until hacked apart by a hateful swarm of ghul. Ismal and Kali could only watch in horror as the ghul reduced these great warriors to mangled heaps of gore. The masses voiced their displeasure in an eruption of furious booing.

But on the royal mezzanine, Master Joshaad wore the arena's solitary grin from ear to ear as the perennial enemies of his kind were butchered before his eyes.