Niaz lifted an eyebrow.

  “Whatever you know,” Faolan continued. “If you didn’t offer the Pit, she would’ve let you walk.”

  Niaz tried to raise his hands to rub his face, but his chains didn’t have enough slack. He cursed and looked at Faolan with a grimace. “Reckon you’re probably right.”

  “Why then?”

  His grimace warped into a mean sort of smile, not just mean though, frightening. Terrifying the way it crawled up his face and reached his eyes’ crow’s feet. “Why the fuck not?” Nauseating bloodlust. “I suppose sometimes I just miss it—the work that comes with being the Devil of the Clay.”

  “Why do they call you that?” But the look in his eyes was all the answer Faolan needed.

  Niaz shrugged and his mug regained its usual aloofness. “Guess you’ll find out in a few days. My turn for a question. You actually a berserker? If not, your Old Gods won’t save you. No Gods to be found this far south.”

  “I am.”

  Niaz barked laughter. “All my years traveling the Sharp Places and here I find one. Where else but home?” He wiped wet eyes on his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll be able to manage out there after all.”

  Faolan allowed a smile to tug at his own mouth. “I’m not the one who should be worried about managing.”

  Niaz snorted. “Boy, I’ve sent more men to the clay than you knew were alive to begin with.”

  “I’m not dying here. I’m going to find my father’s sword and finish his work.” He didn’t have to add any weight to his voice this time.

  Niaz looked up at the dark ceiling. “Well, one of us is going to die. Nothing to do but wait and find out who, eh? Remember what I said earlier? About heroes and villains being decided by the victors?”

  Faolan lolled his neck back and looked to the black ceiling too. Damn did he miss Maud. He hoped the Old Gods had spared her somehow. “Aye.”

  “Well, best of luck. Sounds like one of us will be getting some songs.”

  The Pit

  He wiped beads of sweat from his brow with a clammy hand, and instantly more was spilling from every pore. That was to be expected though; here the days were scorching and the nights freezing. The Far South didn’t deal in half measures. Standing next to him in the dark tunnel, Niall’s boy rolled his neck and stretched his arms. Spitting image of his father, except for his hair, he had Siofra’s hair, her frown too. Father and son had the same high cheekbones and sharp, green eyes, but it was his mother’s glare all the same. The beginnings of some scruff were growing around his jaw. Seemed he had all the focus Niaz was missing on account of the smothering heath and tens of thousands of Kazans screaming outside in the Pit.

  The clay grumbled underneath his boots and the crowd roared louder. Dust fell on his head as boots stomped the stands above. It mixed with the sweat to give him a dirty, grainy feeling all over his face. Didn’t even bother wiping it this time. “How you feeling?”

  Faolan kept his gaze locked on the light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Anything you’d like me to tell your loved ones, should I ever cross their path?” Not so much as glance Niaz’s way. Seemed the boy had his mother’s resolve too. Niaz was starting to think he had more of Siofra in him, regardless of who he looked like. For the best probably. Siofra got the wrap as the cold one, but it was her husband was the real bastard. “Iron resolve, eh? You remind me of a woman I knew a long time ago. Same steely glare.”

  “Must’ve been some woman.”

  Niaz nodded. “Aye. Luckily, I never had to cross steel with her. She was a nasty bit of work with a falchion.” He wondered if maybe he’d been too obvious, but regardless the boy never so much as twitched in his direction. Reminding him of Siofra might’ve been selling it short; he was starting to think this was her in the flesh. He huffed. Then again, she’d never been half as brilliant a conversationalist. Maybe Vonungr only had so many words allowed in a day.

  Faolan swiveled the bronze scimitar they’d given him into balance, looking his mother’s part all over again.

  “Wishing you had your father’s sword about now?”

  Faolan rolled his neck. “I could kill you with a stick.”

  “Big words, but those won’t save you in the Pit, boy.”

  Faolan finally wrenched his head toward Niaz. “I’m not the one who’ll need saving.”

  Niaz flashed that crooked smile and freed his own weapon, a weathered hand-and-a-half sword. He wished they’d given him something nicer, but he was sure it’d get the job done. Usually when you poke someone with the pointy end they die. Doesn’t matter much the quality of the sword. He shrugged and sheathed it. “See, I’ve killed men with all sorts of things—everything from a rock to a hammer to a stick.” His grin grew at that. “Truth be told, women too.” Faded at that. “So, what’s one boy, without his dad’s Cursed sword, all alone in the Far South? Now, like I already told you—I’m trying to be a better man than I’ve been. So, if you’ve any words for your loved ones, I’ll do my best to deliver them for you.”

  Faolan stared into the Pit, and it became clear Niaz wasn’t getting any more words from him. They waited in silence for what would be the last day for one of them until a shadowy figure became visible the light as it approached from the Pit. One of their escorts to Zara’s chamber.

  The Zurun stopped in front of them. “We are nearing commencement.” He turned to Niaz. “You’re to be brought to your wing. Are you ready?”

  Niaz winked. “Born that way.” The Zurun made a face like he’d just stepped in shit. Niaz turned to Faolan for what might’ve been the last time. After all, might be the Devil who was looking at him in the Pit. “Best of luck to you, boy.”

  Faolan didn’t respond. The Zurun disappeared through a crevice in the tunnel’s wall and Niaz sauntered after him, more dust raining from the ceiling as the crowd roared and stomped above. For not the first time, he thought about Aisha and Raiza as he brushed the dirt out his hair. Not much he could do other than hope they were alive. He’d told Raiza he’d keep her safe, but then bringing her home was at odds with what the rebellion was trying to accomplish.

  He tripped over something in the dark and fell onto the clay. Stood and dusted himself off. Complicated as it was becoming, he had the same shit luck as always. For now, at least, all he had to worry about was staying above the clay long enough to send Faolan back to it.

  The Zurun creaked a door open and Niaz followed him into another long tunnel leading out into the Pit. “How much longer?” Niaz asked.

  The Zurun turned, eyes glinting malice from the shadows. “I hope the Fanir kills you long and slow, Devil. You deserve much worse, but I will settle for long and slow.”

  Niaz smiled. “Wishing you the best as well.”

  The Zurun spat in his face.

  Niaz wiped the slime off. He should’ve taken the fucker by the horns and twisted his head off his body, but he was trying for a better man these days. He stretched his limbs. Between his aching back, cricked neck, and sore arse it was almost like decades of killing and marauding was taking its toll.

  Niaz and his friendly escort stood in silence, staring into the light at the end of the tunnel that was the Pit. The roars of the crowd and the Chosen thundered outside, and the clay rumbled as they stirred. Niaz shook his head. Some things the world was better off without.

  The Chosen’s roaring and the crowd’s stomping faded, blanketing the Pit in quiet. Now that it was about to begin, he had to tap his foot to keep from shitting himself. Why would anyone go through with it? Fighting someone to the death like cocks in a pen. Then again, most challengers didn’t have much in the way of options. Truth be told, neither did he.

  Another tremor shook the clay, and the stomping returned. The ground felt like it was going to split under his feet. Made you wonder if Faolan figured out what the Zurun were protecting deep under Kaza. He heard Zara addressing the crowd, and their stomping intensified, spilling more dirt onto his head.

  He felt it before he heard it, but he definitely heard it. This roar was drowning. He shuddered imagining the size of the beast it belonged to. When it died out his escort turned to Niaz. “Your wait is over, Devil.”

  Niaz supposed he was right, but now he wished he had more time. You never know what you’re missing until it slips through your fingers. Niaz cracked his neck and readied his weapon. That’s what life’s about—confronting the obstacles put before you, and Faolan Vonungr was an obstacle, sure as the Far South was hot. And with that he drifted toward the light and into the Pit.

  Maud slunk through the cramped space under the stands, as they screamed and roared and rained dust on her. There wasn’t even enough room to shake herself clean. The noise was ear-splitting, something had boomed so loudly her legs trembled. The only light lapped in between the feet of the stomping crowd. The stench of smoke and alone would’ve been enough to bite her fur off, but it was all made worse by her foreleg, healing, but still a fucking pain.

  In her bout with Faolan to be as unhelpful a companion as possible, Sayah hadn’t given her much of a plan. She’s said Maud would know her cue when she saw it, and then drowned herself in wine. Say what you might for Faolan’s endless questions, at least he wasn’t a fucking drunk.

  Maud peered through the slits under the stands. Through the trampling feet she saw the Pit’s challengers walking out into the arena. Faolan strode confidently. The brown one from the canyon dragged his feet tiredly. She remembered him in the canyon though. He’d waded through more than his share of blood. And then there was the way everyone reacted when he’d said his name.

  Maud doubled her pace. Faolan would have to hold his own for the time being. She was supposed to be following Sayah’s instructions to reach the tunnel Faolan used to enter the Pit, but at some point, she’d gotten lost. Now she was relying on her nose to guide her toward Faolan’s scent and struggling telling her arse apart from her snout.

  She crawled in the direction of what might’ve been Faolan’s scent, but she was having doubts. The closer she got the more offensive the reek of smoke and must got, but her legs pulled her toward the stench instead of where she wanted them to take her.

  The crowd’s hollering intensified, which probably meant the blood was about to begin. She inhaled and followed her nose deeper. Eventually she couldn’t hear the crowd anymore and light stopped filtering in, but the space under the stands widened and she could walk normally.

  She shook her pelt roughly and took a big sniff. The smoke and musty stench were stronger than ever. She kept following it. She didn’t want to, but even her lurching stomach couldn’t stop her legs.

  She found herself scrabbling over wide caverns carved into the clay. Too wide to have been created by the Zurun, bigger even than the one she and Sayah took to Kaza. Her stomach was twisted into a full knot, but she crept further into the darkness.

  The heat was strangling now. Her tongue dangled from her jowls. She stepped out into an enormous cavern as the tunnel opened into a wide cave. Fuck the heat, the stench was smothering. She sucked in desperate air. Maybe it was the heat. Flames hissed and smoldered across the cave, their lights and shadows creeped on the walls. Metallic plates were coiled all over the cavern, swallowing and warping the light from the fires like Kronr did. Round stones were spread about in clusters too, screwing up the light the same way.

  Some of the plates started slithering between the shadows, worming across the cave. Her eyes were adjusting, and her fur stood on end. Nothing but fear that kept her from cowering to her paws and whimpering. Not metallic plates. Not stones.

  The plates slunk in and out of the shadows and came to an abrupt stop. Two thin billows of smoke lifted from the darkness a few paces ahead of her. Fuck, she needed to move. She needed to save Faolan and get as far away as possible. The smoke stopped and Maud stood, paws frozen to the warm cave floor.

  Two bright, serpentine eyes flared open and glared through her. They stared at each other in a violent calm. Fuck, why couldn’t she just turn? It opened its maw and shrieked, a blaze spitting and cracking in its depth. A frilled ruff shot up around its skull and drowned out the rest of the cave behind it, and she got her first grasp at the size of the thing. She begged the moon to let her turn and run. She’d been on enough hunts to know she was the prey.

  It was obvious why they called it the Pit. Victim to the east’s punishing sun, the arena was an enormous crater dug out of the clay. It was difficult to fathom how anything of this world could’ve dug out anything so expansive. Rows of stands stabbed out at the sky; an ugly, impressive amalgamation of wood and stone.

  Faolan scanned row after row of Kazans in the stands. The Zurun and tribesmen stretched back until he couldn’t make out faces, screaming for murder. Zara sat in the topmost section of the southern wall, shaded by more of the velvet curtains that were draped in her throne room. Sunlight beamed lightly through to her dais, but it appeared to waver a fraction, like when light kissed Kronr. Two narrow columns of smoke billowed into the sky, seemingly from beneath her. Something eerily familiar about the curtains. And then the way Niaz had called Kronr “your father’s sword” and “Cursed,” even though Faolan hadn’t told him anything about it. But Faolan couldn’t focus against the roaring crowd.

  Niaz looked entirely disinterested in all of it. They’d met in the center of the Pit, just a couple paces apart from one another, and he was slouched to the side, grimacing as he twisted and held one hand to his lower back. The other held his sword limply at his side.

  Faolan couldn’t help but spin around on his heels and drink all of it in. The Shield Circle was nothing for this. Child’s play. He stopped when he was facing Niaz again and drew a long breath. The crowd split his ears, and the sun pummeled his skin, but this was just about the old ways.

  He cracked his neck. He thought of endless lessons with his mother and long days in the shield circles. Faolan cut with his sword until he found the balance and stared at Niaz. Only one of them would leave the Pit. That was as true as the old ways were right.

  The crowd quieted into a hushed silence as Zara shouted to them. Faolan didn’t bother trying to make out what she was saying. She ceased her address and the ground quaked more intensely than it ever had before, accompanied by a needling shriek.

  Faolan winced, dropped his sword and whipped his hands to his ears. Where was it coming from and where’d he heard it before? Niaz hardly reacted at all, just cracked his back from side to side and watched Faolan apathetically.

  When the ear-splitting finally came to an end, Faolan picked up his sword and twirled it into the ready. Niaz raised his lazily. This time Faolan heard Zara. “Commence!”

  The crowd erupted. The old ways as well.

  Faolan cut for Niaz’s throat, but the old man swatted the strike away and answered with a vicious slash that left Faolan’s arm buzzing and his feet reeling as he parried.

  Niaz was relentless, smiling savagely the whole way. A slash, a cut, and a thrust in the time it should’ve taken to get through one of them. In an entirely different league than Isleen or Vanya, maybe even his mother. Faolan should’ve been faster, stronger too. Some good should’ve was worth.

  The crowd screeched as Faolan winced and reeled, any hatred for the Devil of the Clay forgotten. They wanted blood—what difference did it matter whose it was?

  Faolan leapt back and put some distance between them to catch his breath. He just needed to gather himself. His mother had always said it was wits that mattered most in a fight.

  Niaz levied that infuriating smile and lunged for Faolan again, but Faolan knew what to expect. Niaz tore at him, a dust storm ripping over the clay. Faolan made himself like a bur, floating with the winds rather than against them. He tracked the strikes, pivoted out of reach, glanced them away with his bronze. He had counters very few would’ve had, but then Faolan Vonungr was of a class matched by very few.

  “You won’t be able to run forever, boy. Not less you run straight into the clay,” Niaz said, still with his arsehole’s grin.

  Faolan shrugged and sliced the sword into the ready. “We’ll see.”

  They danced again, storm and bur, only Faolan’s nerves were settling. He got off his own strikes now, first desperate, then confident, then practiced.

  Sparks flew around their faces; metal sang over the crowd. He wasn’t trying to outlast the Devil of the Clay anymore—he was trying to kill him. He just had to do what’d he’d practiced his entire life, what he worked at harder than anyone else.

  The two of them separated, and the crowd exploded. Niaz yowled and there was a crimson line stretched across the bridge Niaz’s nose, spilling blood over his lips.

  Faolan smiled. “You won’t be able to run forever.”

  Niaz’s head dropped, and he held a hand to his face to slow the bleeding. He raised his head and smeared the blood over his face, but his eyes were missing their pupils. He laughed horribly and whispered something to himself.

  Faolan’s smile faded and he backed away. Niaz looked at the broken hand and a half sword like he was looking at it for the first time, smiling like there was no more beauty in all the Sharp Places. Then he looked at Faolan, and somehow the bloody, pupilless smile grew. “What happened to you?” Faolan stammered.

  Niaz twisted his face in confusion for a moment, then nothing but clean rage as he snarled at Faolan. Faolan took a breath to steady his stamping heartbeat. Whatever happened, nothing had changed. The old ways. Kill the man in front of him. That’s all this was about. He swung his sword back ready. “Clay and dust huh!?” Faolan shouted. “Here’s your clay!”

  Faolan charged at him and swung with all his strength, but Niaz swatted the sword away casual as he might a fly, slaughterous smile wide as ever. He raised his own sword but narrowed his eyes when their gazes met. “Where the fuck do I know you from?” Faolan’s teeth chattered in his mouth as he tried to respond. Niaz shrugged. “What’s it fucking matter? I’m gonna rot you slow,” a gurgled whisper. “One limb at a time.” His wettest, most evil laugh. “One digit at a time!”