The slaves numbered over thirty people, mostly men, sitting shackled in caged wagons in the centre of the column. There were also half a dozen women, chosen for youth and strength. “The spectacles are more popular when they offer a certain variety,” Lekran explained. “It’s a tradition to match women against beasts in honour of ancient myths. The Volarians discarded their gods but kept much of their stories, especially the bloody tales.”

Frentis was gratified to find most of the slaves were Realm folk, with some dark-skinned Alpirans from the southern empire. From the treatment meted out to the overseer it was also clear they would make willing recruits.

“You did well,” Frentis told Lemera, crouched over the body of a Free Sword as she divested it of any useful or shiny items. She replied with a shy smile which faded into a wince at the overseer’s scream. “Freedom is a hard road,” Frentis told her before going to find Thirty-Four.

• • •

“You are content with your part in this?”

Eight glanced at his two fellow former Varitai and nodded. The days since their liberation had seen them suffer through many hours of sleepless pain as the absence of karn took its toll. However it had also brought a new light to their eyes, plus a tendency to stare at the sky or the landscape, as if seeing them for the first time. They spoke little and Frentis had begun to wonder if they truly understood their situation, but now saw an awareness in their gaze, as well as a sense of certainty.

“We will free as many Varitai as we can,” Frentis went on, “but we cannot free all. You understand this?”

Eight nodded again, speaking slowly, his voice raspy and the words formed with deliberate care, “We were . . . dead. Now . . . we are alive. We will make others . . . live.”

“Yes.” Frentis lifted the sword taken from a fallen Varitai and handed it to Eight. “Many others.”

Thirty-Four’s brief discussion with the overseer revealed the Varikum to be protected by no less than sixty Varitai supplemented by a dozen overseers. Fortunately they were largely devoted to internal defence with no more than a handful set to guarding against an incursion. “Garisai are notoriously difficult to keep,” Thirty-Four advised. “They are never given drugs and are not bound like Kuritai.”

“How many can we expect to free?” Frentis asked.

“The overseer estimated over a hundred. But you should not expect all to be willing recruits, brother, or easy to command. Life in the Varikum is brutal and short, many perish in training and fewer still survive their first experience of the spectacles. It is not uncommon for Garisai to be driven mad by their trials.”

Frentis glanced at Master Rensial, sitting on the ground nearby with the vacant expression that always seemed to grip him in the aftermath of a battle. Then they’ll be in good company.

He had Lekran play the role of the overseer, clothed in black with whip in hand. Frentis and Master Rensial had donned the garb of Free Sword mercenaries and rode alongside the lead wagon as it ascended the slope to the Varikum’s main gate. The establishment’s lack of preparedness was evident in the fact it was already open, a large man striding forth to greet them with a harsh glower.

“You fuckers are late!” he snarled at Lekran, then paused with a suspicious frown. “Where’s Mastorek?”

“If the old women in my village are to be believed,” the former Kuritai said, standing to unsling his axe from where it was hidden beneath his jerkin, “suffering a thousand years torment beyond the endless sea. You can greet him there.”

The overseer was still wearing a baffled expression as the axe swept down to cleave his skull.

Frentis spurred his horse forward, sword drawn as he galloped through the gate, cutting down another overseer trying desperately to haul it closed. Two Varitai rushed forward from a shadowed doorway, short swords drawn back, then rolled under the hooves of Master Rensial’s horse as he rode them down. Frentis dismounted, falling in beside Lekran as he came charging past, axe in hand, the three former Varitai close behind along with all the fighters in their small army, Frentis having seen little point in moderation now.

According to a prearranged plan, their force divided as it reached the inner keep, Lekran taking half the force right whilst Frentis went left. Resistance was sporadic but fierce, three or four Varitai at a time attempting to block their path but soon overwhelmed by the onslaught. Eight, together with Weaver and his two freed Varitai, had been given the role of capturing as many alive as possible; Weaver would loop his thick rope around one and drag him to the ground whilst the others closed in to bind him. Their success was small, only seven more captured alive by the time the Varikum fell, its elegant curving marble hallways liberally streaked with blood from end to end.

Frentis ordered Illian’s group to scour the Varikum for survivors then sent Draker and his disguised Realm folk to the battlements with instructions to give every appearance that business here continued as normal. He made his way to the wide sand-covered circle in the centre of the main keep, finding a dense knot of men and women standing in a defensive formation. They had arranged themselves in three tight, disciplined ranks, faces set and grim with defiance, although their weapons consisted of only wooden short swords and spears. The sand around them was littered with the bodies of their overseers, cut down by the archers who had occupied the balcony overlooking the arena. It seemed their attack had caught the Varikum in the middle of its afternoon practice.

“They think we’re bandits on a slaving expedition,” Lekran commented as Frentis entered the circle. “Finding it hard to convince them otherwise.”

Frentis sheathed his sword and strode towards the group, seeing how they tensed at his approach, his eyes picking out the scars they bore. It appeared none had escaped injury, either from the whip or whatever torments the veterans had suffered in the spectacles. He halted ten paces short, scanning for some semblance of recognition among the faces but seeing only suspicion.

“Are there any here from the Unified Realm?” he asked in Realm Tongue. The response was mostly a series of baffled glares though one did stir at the words, a light-skinned man slightly older and even more scarred than the others. Like all of them his head was shaven and he wore a loose shift that revealed a body honed to the kind of leanness that only came from years of hard training.

“Last of the land-bound died two days ago,” he said in a Meldenean accent. He cocked his head at Frentis, mouth twisting in faint contempt. “They rarely last long.”

One of the others spoke up, a short but well-muscled young woman holding a wooden spear level with Frentis’s eyes. “Tell him if he intends to sell us, he better be prepared to bleed for the privilege,” she said in Volarian.

“I speak your language,” Frentis told her, raising his hands, palm open. “And we come only to free you.”

“For what?” she replied, her glower losing none of its intensity.

“That,” he told her, “is surely for you to decide.”

• • •

In all some two dozen of the freed Garisai opted to leave, the Meldenean among the first to depart. “No offence, but a pox on your rebellion, brother,” he said in an affable tone at the gate, hefting a sack laden with sundry valuables and provisions. “Done two spectacles and that’s enough blood for any life. I’m taking myself to the coast where I’ll find anything that floats and sail to the Isles. Expect my wife’s probably found another willing prick by now, but still, home is home.”

“Your people are allied with us,” Frentis pointed out. “The Ship Lords have agreed a formal treaty.”

“Really? Then a pox on them too.” He gave a brief grin of farewell and started off towards the west at a steady run.

“Coward,” Lekran muttered.

Or the wisest man I’ve met in a long time, Frentis thought, watching him go.

The young woman from the practice ground had been elected to speak for her fellow Garisai and named herself as Ivelda. Frentis divined a certain tribal enmity from the hard looks and similar accent she shared with Lekran. “She is Rotha,” he had advised, his gaze darkening. “They cannot be trusted.”

“Othra means ‘snake’ in our tongue,” she replied, her hand closing on the short sword she had claimed from the pile of captured weapons. “They drink the piss of goats and lie with their sisters.”

“If you intend to kill each other,” Frentis said as Lekran bridled, finding himself too weary to intervene, “do it outside.”

He turned his gaze to the map Thirty-Four had laid out in the luxurious apartments where the Varikum’s chief overseer once made his home. Much to the annoyance of the freed Garisai they had failed to take him alive, though great play had been made of his corpse, his head now adorning a spear thrust into the centre of the practice ground.

“The Volarian garrison will no doubt have word of our activities by now,” Thirty-Four said, tapping an icon some fifteen miles north-west of the Varikum. “It won’t be hard to follow our trail here.”

“Our full strength?” Frentis asked.

“Two hundred and seventeen.”

“Not enough,” Lekran said.