Once the news arrived from Jeb, via Mariala’s entangled parchment, the Hand of Fortune quickly spread out to their various task in preparing to mount a rescue. Vulk and Devrik sought out Master Vetaris, whom they knew to still be in the city, to learn whatever he could tell them about Nitarin Gates near to Bremkin. Mariala and Korwin set about ordering their equipment and supplies, while Toran made sure their weapons were all in top shape.

Master Vetaris was able to gain them use of one of the Crown-held Gates within Lothkir, but the closest Gate to Bremkin was about seven kilometers to the west of the town. In the first hour after dawn the next morning the Hand departed through the Cael Gate, dressed in plain traveling clothes and with Cris leading a pack mule. They appeared in a small glen about half kilometer from the road between Bremkin and Torvasir.

By mid-morning they had made their way into the town of Bremkin and found the Warrior’s Spear, the inn next to the local arena’s barracks where Jeb had taken a room. They were able to secure two rooms on the floor below Jeb, and were soon crowding into his narrow attic chamber to scope out the building across the street where Erol was being held.

“It’s the barracks for the gladiators,” Jeb told them, relating what intelligence he’d gleaned in his talks with the locals. “It’s usually run by a cantor of Korön named Helmun Vurkus, but he’s been displaced temporarily by by some big-wig Deputy Grandmaster from Izmirk… no one I talked to knows his name. Cantor Helumn has been forced to stay with his sister, on the edge of town, ‘cause this new guy had taken over his office and quarters… you can see into both from here… the office and the desk you can see pretty good, but that’s the bedroom, the window off to the right… can’t see as much in there…

“The new guy brought a bunch of gladiators with him, about a dozen they say, and several wagons with caged wild animals. There was also a very large wagon, completely sealed, that no one seems to know anything about, but there’s lots of guesses what might’ve been in it – a cave bear, a rock troll… one old coot was sure it was a great bronze golem!”

Jeb had been watching the comings and goings as well as he could, and knew that fresh produce deliveries were made every morning to the back door, where a single guard seemed to stand watch inside… a cook and two helpers brought in the merchandise, and yesterday several kegs arrived an hour or so after the vegetable.

The front entrance was guarded by two soldier-looking fellows, who questioned any visitors before they were allowed in. A captain of some sort was sometimes summoned, apparently to vet visitors who were’t expected. Various citizens seemed to be interested in the quality of the new gladiators, apparently in aid of figuring proper odds on the rumored up-coming games. There seemed little trouble in bribing guards to get in to watch the gladiators practice, which Jeb himself had actually done the afternoon before.

“I saw Ser Erol,” he said excitedly. “He was all done up in gladiator stuff, and he was kicking the shi- er, stuffing – outta the other gladiators, mostly. There was this one guy, big, with jet black hair, who gave his a workout, though!”

By mid-day the Hand was ready to do their own reconnaissance of the arena and the barracks, confirming much of what Jeb had told them. It was decided that Mariala and Korwin would pose as out-of-town buyers interested in purchasing a slave, to see if it could be as simple as just buying Erol back.

The first stop was the arena, however, to see if one of the guards could be persuaded to let them in to view the training gladiators. Mariala wanted to try one of the new spells she had gleaned from the notebooks of the Mad Astrologer Koltorin, and used the Tongue of Khorthal to convince the man that it was perfectly reasonable to let her and her companion in. It worked like… well, like a charm.

“And it saves us money on bribes,” Korwin commented as they mounted the wide yellow sandstone steps into the stands.

They strolled to the stone railing that separated the spectator stands from the square floor of the arena itself, some 4 meters below them. On the brilliant yellow-white sands a dozen gladiators sparred, one-on-one, while other men, apparently trainers, called out critiques or commands. Armed men, like those guarding the arena entrances obviously fighting men of the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha, stood at the four corners.

Mariala’s eye was immediately drawn to a pair close below them and to the right – a tall, black haired man with a gladius and shield, and a shorter man in hemet and harness, wielding a trident. It took a moment to be sure, as his face was in shadow, but she soon confirmed that the shorter fighter was Erol. She nudged Korwin and nodded toward their erstwhile companion. They drifted down the railing, closer to where the two fought.

Erol caught sight of them as they moved, and almost failed to block a vicious swing from his opponent. He quickly refocused on the fight, for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he turned and sprinted off, obviously to the great surprise of his sparring partner. He headed straight for the nearest guard, raising his trident as if to spear the man, who stood in stupefied shock for only an instant before reaching for his own weapon.

But he only had it half-drawn when Erol suddenly collapsed to the sand with a strangled scream, to writhe in apparent agony for a moment before going suddenly limp. The guard slammed his sword back into its sheath, laughing, and aimed a solid kick at the unconscious man before the black-haired gladiator ran up to pull his fellow fighter away. They couldn’t hear what he said, but the guard laughed again and turned back to take up his post.

Erol seemed to revive as his companion dragged his to his feet, none the worse for whatever had happened… except for the kick to his ribs, apparently, as he rubbed gingerly at the spot. He carefully didn’t look again towards his friends in the stands.

After a few more minutes of making a show of watching other gladiator pairs, in case anyone was watching them in turn, Mariala and Korwin departed the arena. She thanked the friendly guard who had let them in, giving him a bright smile as they passed him on their way out to the street. Heading back to the inn, their attention was drawn to a town crier bellowing forth the news of the town’s pending return to the authority of the Republic – and the declaration of a celebratory session of the Taruthani Games to be held day after tomorrow.

Now they had a firmer timetable… and in five minutes they were back at the inn and closeted with the others. There was no need to pass on the news of the Games, as everyone had heard it through the open windows.

“It’s obvious Erol is being constrained,” Mariala said, after describing what they had witnessed in the arena. “I noticed that he alone, of all the gladiator-slaves we saw, wears a collar of some smooth, silvery metal. I’m guessing he attacked that guard to show us what the collar can do.”

“Do you thing the guard had some control device?” Vulk asked. “Something we could steal, perhaps…?”

“I don’t think so,”she answered thoughtfully. “The guard seemed startled, and started to draw his weapon before Erol collapsed. I think that kick was chagrin at being lured into reacting at all… no, I think the device must prevent him from attacking his captors, somehow… but not his fellow gladiators, obviously.”

“If anyone has a control device,” Toran suggested, “it would be this Deputy Grandmaster, I should think.”

It was decided that they should continue on with the ploy of out-of-town buyers, but with the addition of Toran as their artificer/advisor. That way Toran could try to touch the Deputy Grandmaster, which would allow him to use his amulet of illusion to impersonate the man should he prove unwilling to simply sell Erol.

They would claim to be from the Republican town of Lakona, which sits on the border of both Dürkon and Nolkior, explaining their accents and any lapses they might make in social matters. Mariala would be recently widowed, and newly moved to the capital, now scouring the countryside looking for “investments” for her large inheritance.

This story, and Mariala’s spot-on impersonation of a snooty upper-class lady, got them past the street guards at the barracks and into the presence of the guard captain. He was courteous enough, introducing himself as Captain Rohar Geffen of the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha. He seemed slightly taken aback when Toran offered his hand, but quickly rallied and shook it firmly. Mariala offered he hand for a kiss, and Korwin just looked aloof.

After a few questions he agreed to see if Deputy Grandmaster Tramano had time to see them, and departed up the nearby stairs. The companions were left in a wide corridor that was blocked off to the left by a massive set of bronze gates, which apparently lead to the gladiator-slave quarters.

Captain Geffen returned shortly and informed them that the Deputy Grandmaster could spare them a few minutes, motioning them to follow him. At the head of the stairs they found themselves at a solid-looking oak door off to the left, flanked by two stone-faced guards in deep red tunics. Bronzed chain mail glinted beneath, and nasty-looking maces of black iron with red flames enameled on the heads hung at their waists. They looked extremely competent. And humorless. They were also obviously not under Captain Geffen’s command.

After he had escorted them stiffly past the body guards and into a large, well-appointed office, the guard captain departed, closing the massive door behind him. The room ran the length of the southern end of the building, with two large windows on the long wall and one at the east end, all slightly open, letting in a breeze as well as the afternoon sunlight. A large cabinet of dark wood, finely carved, dominated the north wall, and the wood floors were covered by several animal skin rugs – a black bear and a badger, Korwin thought.

At the far end of the room was a large, ornate table of a similar dark wood, its top covered in green leather, obviously being used as a desk. A slender man of middle height, dressed in the dark red, gold trimed robes of a Korönian cantor rose from the chair behind the desk and stepped out to greet them.

“I am Gordek Tramano, Deputy Grandmaster of the Order of the Seven Pillars,” he introduced himself. “I understand you are interested in purchasing yourself a gladiator, Lady Greenkeep?”

“Indeed I am, reverend sir,”Mariala said, stepping forward and extending her hand to be kissed. With a slight glint of amusement, Tramano took it and bent his head slightly.

“These are my traveling companions and partners,”she continued, indicating Korwin and Toran. “Egbert Timpledink, my late husband’s Master of Slaves, and Andor Stoneheart, of Dürkon, his Master Weaponeer.”

Tramano pointedly ignored Toran’s proffered hand, simply bowing, very slightly, to each man as he was named. He leaned back against his desk, and motioned that Mariala should continue.

“I have decided to invest some of my excess capital in the Taruthani Games in Delfarin,” she said, smiling winningly at the man. “I have already purchased one gladiator, in the capital itself, but I’ve been advised that better bargains, and unknown gems, might be better found in the hinterlands. And indeed, after what I saw today in your arena, I believe that might be true.”

“Ah, you’ve seen my men at work, then,” Tramano said. “And do you have some particular man in mind?”

“Two, actually, sir! They fought together, and seemed both remarkably skilled and brutal… just what I’m looking for. One was tall and possessed of  jet black hair, the other shorter, with a silver collar around his neck.”

Tramano stiffened slightly, and his manner became suddenly much cooler.

“You do seem to have a good eye, Lady Greenkeep,” he said shortly. “Or your advisors do. But I’m afraid you have set your sights too high. Those are my two best men, and are not for sale at any price.”

“Really? Not even the shorter one? I rather thought he might be a bargain, since he seemed to have a fit of some sort… a marvelous fighter, but if he has the falling sickness… or was it the collar he wore? Is it some device you use to control the difficult ones? If so, would you be willing to sell me one or two of those–”

Now the cleric’s demeanor was positively glacial, and he rose from his desk, reaching for a large bronze bell behind him. He rang it three times, and the door instantly opened and the two body guards stepped through, hands on their weapons.

“As I said, madame, those men are not for sale… indeed, I think now that you will find nothing for you here. My men will see you out.”

He turned away and resumed his seat behind the desk as the two warriors stepped forward.

“And a word of advice, madame – gladiators are for entertainment only, and should not be used for investment purposes. Especially by ladies who are out of their depth. Good day.”

“But surely we could come to–”

“I SAID good day, madame!”

The two bodyguards loomed ominously behind them, and the three had no choice but to allow themselves to be escorted from the room and down the stairs, where Captain Geffen saw them out of the building.

“What the Void were you thinking?!” Korwin finally exploded when they were around the corner and headed for the inn. “Why did you mention the cursed collar?”

Toran just shook his head and looked away in embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” Mariala shrugged, her face a little pink. “It seemed like a good idea, right up until the words left my mouth.”

Back at the inn, once everyone had been filled in on results of their visit, it was agreed that they really needed to talk to Erol before moving ahead with any rescue plan. Since the only person Toran had been able to touch was the guard captain, it was decided they would watch for him to leave the building, at which point the ninja dwarf might safely impersonate him.

Less than an hour later Mariala, who had been watching the front door while Korwin kept an eye on the back door from the vantage of Jeb’s window, used her entangled parchment to let Toran know Geffen had left the building. She followed him at a discreet distance, to make sure he wasn’t just running out for a packet of sweets or something…

Toran grasped his Amulet of Seeming and muttered the control word, focusing on the image of Rohar Geffen. In a few seconds Jeb confirmed that he now appeared, in every particular, to be the Korönian commander. He quickly set out, approaching the barracks from the same direction in which the real Captain Geffen had departed. The guards seemed surprised to see him again so quickly, but snapped to attention at his irritated grunt. Good, let them think he was annoyed because he’d forgotten something…

Inside, Toran took several sweaty, nervous minutes picking the lock on the bronze gate, but finally did it. He made a quick recon of the building, in short order discovering the main slave barracks (where the men who had practiced this morning now rested), the mess hall, and the individual rooms for particularly favored gladiator-slaves. The last of these was locked, and it again took Toran several tries to jimmy the lock open.

Erol stood posied beyond the door, glaring suspiciously at the Iron Fist captain who stood hesitating in the opening. But he didn’t attack…

It took Toran a moment to remember that he didn’t look like himself just then.

“Erol, it’s me, Toran,” he hissed. “I’m using my amulet to impersonate the guard captain. I don’t know how much time we have, so we need to talk quickly.”

He glanced down at the slip of entangled parchment in his hand – still blank, so the real Geffen wasn’t on his way back yet.

Erol relaxed slightly, but still looked suspicious.

“What is my ferret’s name,” he demanded suddenly.

“Um, er,” Toran mumbled, taken momentarily by surprise. “Oh, it’s Grover, of course. And he was a big help in letting us know you were in trouble – him and Jeb.”

With that Erol accepted that Toran was who he said he was, despite appearances, and they immediately fell to talking in low tones. He filled the Khundari in on what had happened to him, and the very personal nature of the grudge that the Deputy Grandmaster had for him. He also related the daily routines of the barracks and the arena, and what he knew of his fellow gladiators. And most importantly, the nature of the collar that held him prisoner so effectively.

Toran in turn told Erol where the Hand was, and what plans they had made for his release… complicated as they now were by his damn collar. He examined it himself, hoping he might be able to pick whatever locking mechanism held it in place, but it appeared to be a band of solid silver, without hinge or seam.

“Not natural, Void take it,” he grunted, stepping back. “Magic or dark ritual, do you think?”

“Knowing Gordek, it’s a cursed Korönian ritual of some sort,” Erol replied, “and a powerful one. Unfortunately I wasn’t awake when they put it on me, so I’ve got no clue as to how they did it.

“I do know that he wears a bracelet of this same metal, and he can activate the nerve burning with just a touch of it!”

After they had exhausted their mutual store of relevant information, Toran prepared to leave, until Erol remembered one more thing.

“It’s something I heard yesterday, from one of the older men who’s been here since this place was built, five years ago. Apparently the Republic had spies and agents working on the construction, and they managed to build a secret passage between the storage cellars and arena service level. I don’t know if it’s true, but it might be worth looking for…”

Toran agreed, then quickly let himself out of the room, relocked the door, and continued his exploration of the barracks building.

On the second floor he found the bodyguards still in position outside Tramano’s office. He could sense their icy contempt, but they ignored him, for which he was grateful. Turning the corner he found two windowless offices cum bedrooms, in which clerks worked by lamplight – they were confused to find him poking his head in their doors, but disinclined to question him. He was coming to appreciate the aura of fear the Korönian military and religious orders fostered in its subordinates.

At the end of the corridor he found a locked door, which he picked in record time. He was congratulating himself on his increasing skill as he slipped into the dimly lit room, only to be brought up short (how else) by the sound of a gentle snore. He had apparently penetrated the personal quarters attached to the large office, and Gordek Tremano was taking an afternoon nap on the large four poster bed, not three meters from the Dwarf.

His stealth training kicked in automatically, and Toran was able to withdraw from the room without waking the cleric. He briefly considered killing the man where he lay, but assassination wasn’t really his thing, and anyway, until they could figure out how to get Erol out of the collar it seemed foolish to take such an irreversible step…

He had to go back downstairs and into the slave area to find the stairs that led up to the larger portion of the second floor, the area where the gladiators could practice indoors, and where the temporary excess of visiting Iron Fist guards in the Deputy Grandmaster’s entourage slept at night. A pity about that last, Toran thought – the six large skylights might’ve made a good way to sneak in, otherwise.

He next explored the lower level, first using the stairs near Erol’s “room” to access the wide tunnel that led to the service level of the arena across Trident Street. Just before the large double doors that opened into the main chamber were two other sets of doors, one on the north side of the passage, the other on the south. Erol had said they led, respectively, to the menagerie where the animals were kept between games and to the town’s Korönian temple across town.

The service level itself was as large chamber, with a ceiling 4.5 meters high, dominated by the four winches that operated the elevator mechanism used to lower a portion of the arena floor, 6×6 meters square, into the room. Free-standing iron cages lined the east, west and south walls, and contained ragged prisoners destined to be fodder in the upcoming games, four panthers, and – a giant!

Toran had never actually seen one of the Gyantari, but had heard many tales of them growing up. This one looked every bit as wild and ferocious as legend suggested, with a mane of knotted brown hair, and matted beard, clad only in a bear skin loin cloth. His eyes were wild and angry, and he glared at Toran as he passed his (much larger) cage. If he’d been able to stand he looked like he might be close to 5 meters tall!

There could be little doubt that this must be the “big surprise” that Gordek Tramano had planned for Erol and the townsfolk!

The north side of the great room was clearly the domain of the arena’s weaponcrafter, who even now was working with his two apprentices at the large forge centered on the north wall. Tables and racks of weapons lined the wall to either side, and barrels full of spears, tridents and javelins. None of the workers paid more than token attention to Toran as he “made his rounds.”

The only other exits from the room, besides the double doors in the east wall through which he had entered, were flights of stairs in each corner that led to trap doors. Presumably these opened into the ground floor rooms of the arena, beneath the stands, from which the various victims of the Games would enter the actual fighting ring.

Heading back the way he came, Toran finally made his way to the cellars, the stairs to which lay beyond the mess hall and near the rear door of the barracks. It took him only a few minutes to find the concealed door, behind a stack of crates of dried foods and sacks of potatoes. Umantari work, and not all that cleverly hidden, really… a Khundari child could have found it almost as quickly.

Operating the mechanism, he followed the narrow, crude tunnel beyond it (clearly untrod for years) for perhaps 30 or 40 meters, eventually coming to a jog north which ended in a blank wall. Here there was no attempt to conceal the opening mechanism, and he cautiously snicked the stone door open, peering warily into… yes, it was the service level of the arena, as they’d been told.

This end of the secret passage opened in the southwest corner of the large chamber, between the stairs up and westernmost panther cage. Toran carefully stepped out into the shadows, screened from the weaponeers by a large pillar and the dim lighting. Just three meters away the Gyantari turned in his cramped cage to glare at him again.

It was at his point that Toran realized he hadn’t checked his entangled parchment for quite some time… and as he peered down at it now, his heart suddenly lurched! Words had appeared, warning him that the real Captain Geffen was on his way back. Toran cursed his own inattentiveness – how long had the message been there? Did he dare return to the barracks?

No, he decided, the best solution was to exit through the arena, discarding his disguise as he passed through so that it would be a simple Khundari visitor stepping into the street. The blacksmith and his apprentices seemed slightly surprised to see him step from the shadows – hadn’t they seen him leave awhile back? – but they knew better than to question the comings and goings of anyone wearing that uniform.

He crossed the arena as the illusory Captain, ignored by the sweating, grunting gladiators and their trainers, nodded to the nearest guard and stepped into a ready room that appeared to be unoccupied. It was, and he released his disguise before opening the door to the street, strolling out as if he owned the place – and nearly collided with the real Captain Geffen.

They exchanged the nods of recent acquaintances, but the knight seemed distracted and quickly turned in at main entrance to the barracks. The door guards looked blankly ahead and said nothing… probably thinking their commander had again left the building by the back door, but knowing better than to question him.

Mariala appeared next to Toran as he rounded the corner to the short street that led to the inn, and they exchanged looks of relief. That had been close! Back in their chambers, Toran related all he had learned from both Erol and his own reconnaissance, and the debates began as to how to proceed.

Arguments flowed back and forth, various schemes to sow confusion during the upcoming games competing with suggestions of nighttime raids and kidnappings. It seemed unlikely that any of the T’ara Kul would be able to dispel whatever arcane energies powered the collar – if it was a ritual of the Chained God it would certainly be immune to their power, and if it was magic it was likely to be of a level beyond their own.

It seemed equally unlikely that any persuasion they could bring to bear would suffice to make Deputy Grandmaster Tramano to give up the secret of the collar and its control device.

“So to the Void with persuasion then!” Devrik finally interjected, as the arguments went on endlessly. “Let’s take this Tramano by force, relieve him of this control bracelet, and of his life if he objects too strenuously.”

“But it might not be that simple,” Vulk objected. “Having the control device might make Erol safe from being actively subdued, but it doesn’t mean he could leave the bounds that have been set… are they fixed to these specific buildings, or to a set radius from the control bracelet, for example?”

This set off another round of arguments, with Korwin and Toran arguing for trying to make common cause with the Gyantari prisoner, who could wreck terrible confusion if released during the Games. Devrik and Vulk were dubious of the rational nature of a giant, and leaned toward acting that very night to raid the barracks, while Jeb continually reminded everyone that the most important and VERY FIRST THING needed to be getting Erol free.

Eventually a compromise plan was reached, and as evening settled over Bremkin they moved to carry it out..

Devrik and Toran followed Captain Geffen when he left the barracks building shortly after the evening meal. They stalked him through the dark streets, hoping to find just the right spot to accost and subdue him, but before they could he turned in at what was obviously a brothel.

Following him in after a few minutes, they were just in time to see him disappear into a room on the second floor. Devrik quickly made arrangements with the management for the use of a room for himself “and my little buddy,” which raised some eyebrows but garnered no comments. Silver was silver, after all, and what two consenting fighting men did in their spare time was no one’s business but their own!

They settled themselves in to a room down the hall from the disporting guard captain, to give him and his companion time to get down to business.

“I suspect it’s much easier to surprise a man when he’s buck naked and fucking,” Devrik said with a chuckle. Toran grinned agreement. After half a turn of the glass they figured it was time to move, and the ninja dwarf led the way down the dimly lit hallway to the appropriate door… he slowly lifted the latch, then threw the door open as Devrik leapt past him –

And almost onto the gladius of the the fully clothed and armored Korönian knight!

His own battle-honed reflexes saved him, however – Devrik dodged aside as the blade hissed past his shoulder. The furious guard captain drew back for another blow.

“Did you think I didn’t see you, skulking along in the shadows–” he started to say, then seemed taken aback to see Toran moving up behind Devrik.

“But you didn’t see me,” the Khundari Shadow Warrior said grimly, and hefted his battle axe.

That momentary distraction was all it took – Devrik easily countered the Korönian’s attack with a swift attack of his own, slamming the flat of his battlesword against the side of the taller man’s head.

Geffen fell like a marionette with it’s strings cut.

As Devrik checked to make sure their target was both unconscious and still alive, Toran looked around the room for Geffen’s would-be companion for the night (or the hour, whichever), but there was no one to be seen. He checked under the bed, to be sure.

“He must’ve sent the whore away,” Devrik shrugged when Toran pointed out the lack of this complication. “He knew we – or at least I – were coming, and he probably didn’t want anyone else underfoot in a fight. Gods know I wouldn’t either!”

“Certainly works out well for us,” Toran grinned, slipping his axe into its sheath on his back and helping his friend lift the stunned man from the floor, draping an arm artfully across his shoulder. “Saves us having to keep another person quiet until this is all over.”

The two had little trouble in exiting the brothel with their “drunken” friend, and even less trouble dragging him through the mostly empty streets of the town. They took him into the inn by the back door and up the rear stairs, avoiding the common room and any inconvenient questions from the landlord.

By the time they had him securely bond to the bed in Jeb’s third floor chamber, the man was just beginning to come around. His blurred and obviously concussed state made getting answers out of him easier than it might otherwise have been. But after blurting out the password for the day, he suddenly seemed to come fully to himself, and merely sneered at their further attempts at coercion and persuasion.

When they had got all the information they seemed likely to, Toran stepped out of the room and activated his amulet – there seemed no point in letting Geffen know what sort of resources they had. Mariala handed him the captains keys, which were the most important reason for seizing the man, and he set out to penetrate the enemy lines…

The first thing the Shadow Warrior did, once past the main entrance guards, was head to the back door to let in his companions. Between Mariala’s Wallflower spell, and Korwin’s Klodia’s Shadow Body they were effectively invisible, but it still required a nerve wracking minute of engaging and distracting the lone guard.

“There’s been rumor of an attempt to free the slaves,” the false captain explained to his guard as he unlocked and opened the door. “Take a quick look up and down the street.”

The man looked slightly nonplussed, but obeyed his commander without question. As he stood in the narrow street, peering back and forth, trying to pierce the shadows, the rest of the Hand slipped silently past him and into the barracks.

When the man returned to report that there was nothing to be seen, “Captain Geffen” was unlocking the bronze gate to the gladiator-slave’s quarters. He paused in the hall with the gate wide opened and told the man he planned to make a circuit of the area, just to be sure.

“Stay frosty,” he said as he finally closed the gate behind himself and moved up the dimly lit corridor towards Erol’s room. The sentry saluted and returned to his post, with only occasional puzzled glances up the passageway toward his retreating commander.

At Erol’s door, Toran made a great show of checking on the star prisoner, for the benefit of the not-distant-enough sentry, allowing the others to slip past him and into the room. He closed but did not lock the door behind himself, and set out for the service chamber beneath the arena.

The place was empty at this late hour, except for the prisoners, the panthers and the ferocious-looking giant, so he had free reign to set the Hand’s plan in motion. His first task was to convince the Gyantari of his trustworthiness, which seemed impossible as long as he looked like one of the men who had captured and tortured him… he hated to take off the disguise, because Gheas alone knew how many charges were left in the amulet, but he had to take the risk. Besides the giant, it would be easier to enlist the prisoners, too, if he didn’t look like he was trying to entrap them…

As soon as the Gyantari saw the image of his tormenter shimmer and vanish, revealing a small, dark Khundari, his wariness vanished in sudden delight. His whole face lit up, and he suddenly didn’t look ferocious at all. He looked like a youth – a very large youth, to be sure, but still a youth.

As it turned out, his name was Ergaboreth of G’tall, and he was just 20 years old. Growing up in a remote and isolated community in the southeastern Blackmist Mountains, nestled in a hidden valley on the slopes of Mount Katha, he was captured by a squad of “monster” hunters from the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha over a month ago. He had been beaten, starved and tormented ever since in an effort to make him more “fierce” for the Games in Izmirk.

Then, about a ten-day ago, he had been loaded into a cramped wagon of iron and oak, draped in canvas, and jostled along bad roads until they arrived here. At first he had been kept in a cage in the place where they kept the animals, but this very morning he had been moved here.

As they talked, it became obvious to Toran that the Gyantari youth was a gentle soul by nature.

Unlike most of his kin, he was curious about the outside world and the legends he’d grown up on about the “small folk.” Despite warnings that they could be trecherous and cruel, he preferred to believe the legends of old alliances, mighty wars fought side-by-side with the Umantari and Khundari and even the magical Telnori, and grand adventures shared by heroes and giants fighting demons and monsters of the ancient world.

His faith has been shaken, a bit, by recent events.

He explained that he had been dressed in his current bear skin loin cloth, and forced to practice with a great spiked club, to perpetuate the myth of the crude, primitive and savage Giant that the little people seemed to have. He listened carefully as Toran outlined what he wanted of the young giant, and then sighed.

“I had resigned myself to never seeing my home again,” he said sadly. “And I don’t think my chances will be much improved by your plan… but better to die fighting for myself, and not for the entertainment of these nasty little creatures.” He peered down at Toran uncertainly. “No offense.”

“None taken,” the Khundari assured him, with a grim smile. “I’m not fond of these particular “creatures” myself. But not all Umantari are like them, and I assure you we’ll do all we can to see you escape, Ergaboreth…” he trailed off, realizing he might be making promises he couldn’t be sure of keeping.

The young giant smiled ruefully himself, seeming to be thinking along similar lines.

“My friends call me Erg,” he said, putting his hand through the bars. Toran hesitated only a second, then extended his own hand. It, and most of his forearm, was engulfed in the massive grip, but the giant didn’t squeeze too tightly, and released him quickly.

“I’ll help you with your plan, if you’ll make me one promise – it’s one that you should be able to keep, assuming you yourselves survive – take word of my fate back to my kin at G’tall. Tell them I regret nothing, even though it seems their warnings were prophetic.”

Toran solemnly agreed to this condition, but assured Erg that there was a good chance… well, a chance… a possibility, anyway… that he could tell his kin this tale himself.

After freeing the giant, Toran released the prisoners, explaining what he wanted in exchange. Unfortunately, most of them saw no percentage in acting as ballista fodder when they could instead just nip off into the night… he did manage to convince a handful of them to stay at least long enough to operate the floor lift, lowering it enough to give Erg an opening to pull himself up to the floor of the arena.

“And release the panthers, as well,” the giant suggested as most of the prisoners scampered off into the night. “I’ve made friends with them these past ten-days, and I think they, at least, will fight beside me.”

With the situation in the arena prepared, Toran headed back to the barracks building to set the next step of the plan in motion. Rather than use the underground passage, he dashed across the street, yelling for the two men on sentry duty at the front door to “keep the damn giant contained” until the rest of the men could be summoned. Their confusion was suddenly mitigated by the sound of a great bellow coming from within the arena, but Toran gave them no time for questions, barreling past them with vague shouts of “assembling the troops.”

Dashing up the stairs to the gym cum soldier’s barracks, he burst in and gave the sleeping men no more chance to think than he had the guards. In minutes he had them up and armed, heading down the stairs under the confused command of “his” chief lieutenant.

“I shall follow anon, after I inform the Deputy Grandmaster what has transpired,” he cried after their retreating backs. The lieutenant threw a look back at him as if he wanted to mention the fact that he hadn’t really told them what had transpired, exactly, but discipline and training prevailed.

As the sound of the twenty or so men storming across the street faded Toran made his own way down the stairs and turned right, jogging quickly to Erol’s cell. There he released his companions, and they all proceeded to the other set of stairs that lead up to the administrative section of the building.

Although the building was relatively sound-proof, it was a warm night and several windows on the second floor had been left open, which meant Gordek and his two bodyguards were probably already aware that something was up. As Toran, still disguised as the guard captain, reached the head of the stairs one of the bodyguards was peering out the window at the soldiers pouring into the arena.

“What in the Void is going on–” he started, as he recognized his despised colleague. But Toran had his axe out and was swinging a mighty blow at the man’s legs, his disguise rippling away like smoke around him.

Despite the double surprise of being attacked by a supposed co-religionist and seeing that same man suddenly morph into a snarling Khundari, the bodyguard’s reflexes were amazing. He leaped over the scything blade, drawing his own weapon, and landing in battle stance, all in a single flowing move.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw the number of fighting men… and was that a woman?!… coming up the stairs behind this crazy Khundari, but it didn’t slow his counter attack nor silence the bellow of enraged warning he got out.

Toran blocked a flurry of sudden blows with a grunt, then drove forward with another attack, pushing the taller man back toward the office door. This gave Devrik, behind him on the stairs, a chance to swing past him as the second guard, who must have been posted outside the Deputy Grandmaster’s bedroom door, suddenly skidded around the corner. Mace drawn, he snarled in rage at the scene before him and prepared to charge into the fray.

While his right hand held his battlesword leveled at theToran’s opponent, Devrik gestured with his left hand. A spark flew from it toward the running man, growing in size and intensity until it struck his chest. The warrior was suddenly engulfed in a ball of searing flame, and he came to stop as if he’d been pole-axed. As the flames dissipated he collapsed to the floor in a clatter of metal, clothes and exposed skin blackened and smoking. He still breathed, but he was most certainly out of the fight.

The first bodyguard, still engaged in a furious barrage of stroke and counterstroke with Toran, paid no attention but instead redoubled his attack on the Dwarf. Toran was forced to give way, but this only opened up a space for Devrik to pivot and bring his own battlesword fully into play.

Erol, coming up the stairs next, with Vulk on his heels, decided to try and push past the melee and into the office, in the hopes of coming at his nemesis from behind. But the effort led him to shove against the bodyguard, and whatever arcane rules governed his collar decided this was an attack. He was down and writhing on the floor in an instant, the all-to-familiar searing white pain flooding his mind and body.

Meanwhile, Vulk and Mariala slipped passed the struggle at the end of the hall and made their way around the corner, heading for Gordek’s bed chamber. In passing Mariala had cast Fire Nerves on the Taurthani bodyguard, which didn’t take him out, but clearly staggered him. Korwin summoned his Frost Blade and leapt into the fray with Toran and Devrik.

Mariala and Vulk were around the corner and not halfway down the short corridor when the door at the far end was flung open. Gordek himself, obviously hastily dressed, stood glaring out at whatever demon-cursed goings on were disturbing his sleep.

His eyes widened slightly as he instantly took in the smoking form of his bodyguard, the sounds of steel-on-steel from around the corner, and the two people advancing on him, the man with weapon drawn and the woman raising her hands and gesturing sharply. The man called out in an urgent, commanding voice.

“We mean you you no harm! We are merely here to talk…”

For the space of a heartbeat Gordek almost believed that, before the reality of the situation reasserted itself. But the delay was long enough for the woman to finish her gesture…

He felt the tingling sensation and sudden clenching of his muscles that indicated he’d been hit my some sort of fire- or nerve-based spell, even as he jumped back and slammed the heavy door shut.

He gave a moment’s thanks for the holy amulet that had blunted the attack, as he twisted the heavy iron lock into place and retreated further into the room. He paused, gathering his wits and weighing his options.

Retreat through the office was obviously out, he thought as he turned the lighter lock on that door as well. Fine. Retreat wasn’t really in his nature any way. Whoever these fools were, they would soon learn what it meant to cross a servant of the Fire God…

The fight at the head of the stairs had come to an end, with the first bodyguard finally going down beneath the deadly blows of Devrik and Toran and despite the ineffectual blows of Korwin. Staggered by Mariala’s energy-draining blast, the man had eventually dropped his weapon, and though he made a valiant effort to recover it, in the end three opponents were just too much for him.

Barely.

Erol staggered to his feet as the man slumped down in a spray of blood, and tried the office door… locked!

“Toran,” he callled urgently, “can you get this blasted thing open?”

As the Khundari knelt and worked at the heavy lock with his picking tools, Mariala was similarly crouched before the bed chamber door. But she had the Captain Geffen’s keys, which Toran had earlier passed to her, and was trying them one by one as fast as she could.

Not fast enough for Devrik, however. Dashing around the corner as soon as the second bodyguard had gone down, he rushed at the door and threw all his solid, muscular weight into a powerful shoulder ram against the door.

He bounced off like… um, like something really soft thrown against something really hard.

Mariala resumed her deft inserting and turning of keys, and soon uttered a cry of triumph as Devrik rubbed his shoulder and hefted his sword. He nodded to his friend and she turned the handle, pushing the door quickly open and standing to one side.

But before Devrik could charge into the room a blast of fire erupted from the doorway. It struck the fighter in the stomach, though he tried to block with his sword arm, and he was blown backwards, engulfed as the bodyguard before had been in a ball of flame. He crumpled to the floor, singed, smoking and unconcious.

Mariala had thrown up her own left arm to shield herself from the blast, which had saved her face. But left her shoulder, arm and hand blackened as she, too, swooned. Her last sight before the darkness took her was of a shocked and enraged Vulk charging past her and through the doorway…

Vulk had indeed been shocked at the sudden reversal of their fortunes and the felling of his friends – they did this to other people, not the other way around! Although he had cast his holy armor upon himself, he was unsure it would be of much use against a fireball; but his anger was such that he gave it barely a passing thought as he dashed through the doorway, sword before him and ready to kill.

His first blow was deftly blocked by Gordek’s dagger, and the man went into a fighters crouch. He might be an administrator, but you don’t rise in the ranks of the Chained God without learning to fight, and fight dirty. His blade slashed at Vulk’s belly, barely missing.

At that moment the other door in the room, the one leading to the office, burst suddenly inward as Erol barreled through it, a feral snarl twisting his face as he took in the scene before him. In that moment, Gordek Tramano made a mistake – he reached for the control bracelet at his wrist instead of focusing on the man with the sword in front of him.

Before his fingers could touch the smooth metal, Vulk’s longsword flashed out and in a sweeping arc severed the cleric’s right hand above the wrist. Hand, dagger, and bracelet went flying in a spray of arterial blood as the Taruthani cantor’s mouth and eyes twisted into circles of shock and disbelief.

Falling to his knees, the stunned man clutched at the stump with his remaining hand, attempting to staunch the spurting blood. Even as he paled from blood loss Vulk stepped up and rapped him sharply on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. He slumped down, unconscious, and Vulk laid his weapon aside to apply a tourniquet to the mutilated arm.

“We don’t want him dead just yet,” he explained at Erol’s surprised look. “Not until he tells us how to get you out of that collar. And I’ve got to check on the others, he burned them pretty badly!”

Erol was jolted out of his satisfied contemplation of his fallen enemy at the news that his friends had been hurt. Grabbing the Deputy Grandmaster by the collar of his robe, he dragged the man out of the room in Vulk’s wake.

Devrik and Mariala had both suffered serious burns in the fireball attack, and both had patches of exposed skin that were blackened and weeping. Vulk prayed and performed the laying on hands, sending both his own psionic healing ability and the blessings of the goddess into his friends. The weeping stopped, and the heat seemed to dissipate from the damaged flesh, but it was obvious there would be scars and a long healing period… if infection didn’t set in and kill them in days!

Then he remembered the set of vials he had carried around for months now, the gift from their friend and former companion Drake – the new Baylorium! It worked best when mixed with an individual’s blood, true, but even in its raw state the stuff seemed capable of miracles.

Vulk pulled four vials from the satchel at his waist, setting two of them aside. He pricked a finger on each of his injured friends in turn, allowing a drop of blood to fall into each of the other vials. These he shook vigorously and put back in their slots in the bag, after etching a unique symbol on each.

Then he took up the remaining vials and began spreading the viscous ointment over the burned skin of his companions, starting with the more seriously injured Devrik. By the time he started massaging the medicine into Mariala’s injured hand and arm Devrik was beginning to wake up and the blackened patches of skin were falling away to reveal pink new skin.

In less than ten minutes both Devrik and Mariala were on their feet and looking in amazement at their healing flesh. There was still some pain, and the new flesh was extremely sensitive, but since much of their clothes were burned away around those areas it was bearable. And it was not like they had a choice, given the situation.

“Tomorrow the other vials should be fully activated and I can re-treat the wounds,” Vulk told them, as he made a final examination of his work. “That should heal you up completely… I don’t think there will even be scars, although there might be if we just used the raw version… still, this shit is amazing!”

While Vulk ahd been tending to their fallen comrades Erol, Toran and Korwin had been questioning the revived and sullen Gordek Tramano, to little gain. Pale from blood loss, he remained tight-lipped, except to taunt his former captive.

“You’ll never leave here alive,” he hissed again as the rest of the Hand joined the circle around him. “I will never release that collar, and unless I do you are trapped within the bounds I – that are set for you. I would advise your friends to leave now, while they can.”

Everyone ignored this suggestion as unworthy even of comment, and began another round of quick-fire questions. Vulk and Mariala both quietly activated their respective abilities to sense truth, although it took some effort of concentration on Mariala’s part to work past the lingering pain of her burns.

In this way they were able to determine that, while Gordek spoke the truth that he would not be moved to release the collar and that it would take a ritual of Korön to do it, he lied about Erol’s ability to leave the barracks and arena.

“I can’t be sure,” Mariala said coldly, eyeing the man who had burned her. “But I get the impression…. yes, I think the area of effect is tied to that bracelet, not to wards on these specific buildings.”

If he had been healthy and not shock-stunned from blood loss, Gordek would no doubt have had better control of his face. Even as it was, he betrayed himself only by the slightest twitch of his expression. But that was enough to convince Mariala of the truth of her guess. She assured Erol that as long as he kept the bracelet near him, he could leave the area safely.

“Then I guess we don’t need this Void-spawned bastard anymore,” Devrik said, whipping out his dagger and grabbing the kneeling man by the hair. “I’d give you the honors, Erol, but I don’t think you could do it without activating that damn collar. And besides, he owes me for these burns…”

“Wait!” Gordek cried out. “You can’t kill me! If you do, his collar will activate permanently – it’s tied to me personally! If I die he dies – slowly and painfully!”

“He’s lying,” Vulk and Mariala said simultaneously.

Devrik cut the cantor’s throat.

As Deputy Grandmaster Gordek Tramano spasmed and bled out his life into the floor boards the Hand moved quickly to search the office and bedroom. The sounds of fighting coming in through the windows had faded to an ominous silence, and they knew they were out of time.

Erol found his armor and weapons in the large cabinet in the office, along with several other miscellaneous bits of armor that looked very well-crafted. He took it all. Devrik tucked the dead cleric’s ornate dagger into his own belt, while the others gathered anything that looked promising in the way of money, items or papers.

As the group headed down the stairs to the main entrance a quiet argument ensued concerning their next move. Toran and Erol were all for finding and aiding the young Gyantari and taking him with them. Devrik and Vulk were all for getting the Void out of town and to the Nitarin gate as quickly as possible. Mariala and Korwin were focused on preparing spells of concealment – and Devrik pointed out that the giant’s head would be out of range of her spell. Unless Mariala rode on someone’s shoulders…

Before they stepped out of the door, Mariala summoned her remaining reserves of energy and cast her Wallflower spell over the group, while Korwin cast Klordia’s Shadow Body on himself. Now they could move unseen through the night-time streets, as long as they did nothing to draw overt attention to themselves. While every nerve screamed for them to run, they instead set off at measured, steady walk, skirting the south side of the now-quiet arena.

Battered and bloody Taruthani fighters were staggering out of the arena and heading back to the barracks, many carrying more seriously wounded comrades between them. From the fragments of conversation the Hand were able to pick up, it seemed the young giant had made a very good show of himself and had managed to escape from the arena, along with two of the panthers.

This news ended the argument about helping their erstwhile ally, for although it seemed unlikely he could long evade his captors in this settled country, he was gone beyond their help at this point. They continued quietly on their way out of town to the rendezvous point they’d set up to meet Jeb and Cris, who had left the guard captain tied up in Jeb’s attic room.

“I’d not want to be in his shoes when his Order learns of tonights events,” Toran commented sotto voce after the two sidekicks had given their report. “It might have been better to kill him – I’m uncomfortable leaving living enemies behind me…”

It was too late now to do anything about it, however, and the group set off into the pre-dawn darkness of the countryside. With luck they could make the Gate by the time the sun was kissing the horizon…