Robert Keller - The Hand of Tharnin

"Yet you're still a pathetic slave," said Timlin.

Oaran nodded. "I'm alive, though."

Timlin sat down and sighed. "Not even a small potato?"

Oaran lifted a tiny potato, studied it thoughtfully, then popped it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his gaze fixed on Timlin.

Timlin leaned against the cell bars and closed his eyes. But a moment later, the guard seized his head through the bars and shoved Timlin away. "No touching the cell bars!" he growled, as he pushed Timlin.

Timlin turned with instinctive, blazing speed and seized the guard's arm like a striking snake. The stocky fellow's eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe he'd been snared. Immediately, Timlin released him and backed away.

"Keep your filthy hands off me!" the guard muttered. But his eyes showed a glint of fear. "Grab me again like that, and you'll get the whip."

Timlin bowed. "Sorry, it was instinct."

"Instinct will get you killed," said the guard, walking away shaking his head. Moments later, the guard bellowed and smashed his club against something metallic, clearly frustrated by Timlin seizing him.

Oaran frowned. "You're a quick little devil-like nothing I've seen. There is a lot more to you than meets the eye."

"I was well trained," said Timlin. "But who cares? It was all a waste."

"Not a waste," said Oaran. "Not yet."

"What do you mean?" said Timlin. "I've already betrayed Dremlock. I've pretty much sealed my fate."

"You've still got a heart," said Oaran. "You can still use those fine talents to do some good in the world."

"Whatever you say," Timlin mumbled. Soon he would have to fight for his life for the amusement and profit of others, and the notion sickened and terrified him. Timlin wasn't afraid of ordinary combat-such fears had been diminished by his training. But something about fighting to the death in an arena made his stomach feel like it was full of boiling acid. He realized he was trembling from head to toe. He wasn't just afraid to die-he was also afraid to kill. He didn't want to slay a foe in close quarters for no honorable reason. He pondered that realization, deeply confused by it. As part of the Blood Legion, he would have been expected to kill whoever they told him to kill-even innocents if need b e. But Timlin realized his Knightly training, and his conscience, was still affecting him deeply and demanding he only take a life if given no choice.

"I don't want to kill anyone," Timlin said aloud.

Oaran nodded. "You'll fight a Goblin tonight. Later, it will be a man who faces you. And it will be to the death."

"I'm not ready to kill a man," said Timlin. "It's not right. I thought I was ready for all that when I left Dremlock, but I guess I was wrong."

"You won't have a choice," said Oaran. Then he added, "Well, you actually will have a choice. You can choose to die." He gazed at Timlin in pity. "You're young and you're afraid. You've got a good soul in you, as bad as things have been in your life. But you'll soon learn to live like the wolf or the hawk-taking lives to preserve your own. This place will make you an animal."

Timlin shuddered, feeling cold inside.

***

Later that evening, Tolus and two men with crossbows came and let Timlin out of his cell. Timlin stepped into the hall with his hands raised, his eyes fixed on the weapons of the men who confronted him. He considered going for a weapon and fighting to the death-which would have been justified considering the circumstances-but he doubted he would prevail and he didn't want to die. At least in the arena he had a chance. He figured if he could buy some time and watch for an opportunity to escape, something might turn up. He harbored a lot of skills and secrets his captors likely didn't know about. They might underestimate him.

"Watch that little fellow," the guard muttered. "He seized my arm earlier, just like a snake striking at a rat. He's a dangerous lad."

Tolus frowned. "Are you going to seize me, Timlin? Better think twice before trying anything. I'll kill you for it!"

"I'll follow your orders," said Timlin.

"Good," said Tolus. "Perhaps Oaran has talked some sense into you. That's why I put you in with him. Now, are you ready to fight? We like to test the new ones before we waste too much food on them. If you can't handle a lowly Goblin, you deserve to die. It's all up to you. This is just business, lad. Don't hate me for it."

Timlin didn't reply.

They herded him to the end of the hall, where the strange, oval-shaped iron door stood. Timlin glanced up at the oak frame that surrounded it-the ugly, grinning, Birlote faces carved into knots in the wood. The depiction of the Birlotes as grotesque and demonic angered him.

"Say a prayer here to whatever god you serve," said Tolus. "Ask him to keep your soul, so you don't leave it in the arena."

Timlin thought of the Divine Essence, but it didn't seem like much of a god to him-just a frightened young creature beneath Dremlock. Then an image flashed though his mind of the Great Light that hovered above Stormy Mountain, and he said a prayer to it, asking it to guide him on whatever path he took.

Tolus patted him on the back. "I wish you luck, boy."

Timlin was pushed beyond the door, and his Flayer was slapped into his hand. Then the men departed, slamming the iron door behind them.

Timlin stood in a square room, lit by torches, that resembled a pit with walls of stone and a sand floor. Benches stood atop the walls, lined with spectators who cheered, laughed, and booed him. Some were so drunk they could barely sit up. Timlin was sickened by the sight of them-their grinning faces and the bloodlust in their eyes. Some held bags of coin, ready to make bets. They seemed like heartless beasts to Timlin, caring only for their own pleasure. He found himself hating the world and wondering why there had to be so much cruelty.

Another iron door opened and a large Jackal Goblin was herded into the arena. Immediately, it fixed its evil gaze on Timlin, the muscles rippling in anticipation over its spotted, furry body. Its clenched fists uncoiled to reveal long black claws, and its drooling muzzle split open in a grin. A sleek and immensely powerful beast, it eyed Timlin with eagerness-thinking the short, skinny lad would be easy prey. The aura of the Deep Shadow emerged from it to make Timlin's thoughts all the more gloomy-to sap his will and defeat his spirit.

But Timlin was well-trained to resist that aura, and he adopted a sideways, defensive posture with his legs apart for balance, the Flayer twirling swiftly in his fingers a few times to intimidate his foe. His keen eyes took in everything-the size of the arena, the strength and probable speed of his foe, and even the sand that might be used to blind his enemy.

"I present Timlin Woodmaster," Tolus called out from above, for the benefit of the crowd. "Former Divine Knight of Dremlock and a former thief and assassin. He has killed more than twenty men in his young life."

Some in the crowd cheered, and some (who obviously didn't believe Tolus' boasts) booed and spit into the arena.

Timlin didn't let Tolus' lies shake his focus. He channeled his sorcery into his blade and it burst into green flames. As the Jackal leapt in for the kill, Timlin was ready. He sidestepped the beast and slashed a smoking wound in its shoulder with his Flayer. The Jackal let out a screech of rage.

A Jackal was a powerful Goblin. With teeth and claws that could easily shred flesh-as well as a cunning mind and immense strength and speed-they were one of the most feared creatures in the land. They also possessed extreme tolerance to pain. Timlin knew the shoulder wound would not slow the beast.

But the Jackal was a creature of the Deep Shadow first and foremost, and the more ugly its mood, the stronger its evil aura became. Timlin's focus waned for a moment, as feelings of despair overcame him. The fire in his dagger died out. Then his training took control and he calmed his mind, letting the aura of the Deep Shadow pass through him like wind through grass-telling himself it could not harm him. Once again the Flayer burst into flames.