Surrounded by his phalanx of bodyguards, Darkend Bellowsmoke strode through the north gate of the arena as if the mantle of thane already rested upon his broad shoulders. He heard the acclamation of the throng and chose to take it as praise, though it was just as likely that the gathered Daergar were cheering the prospect of imminent bloodshed. Acutely conscious of the need to make an imperial appearance, Darkend kept a slow and measured progress down the long aisle. He looked neither right nor left, concentrating hard on concealing any outward sign that would give an indication of his wounded leg.

The dark dwarf climbed to the dais, still surrounded by his henchmen. He clutched the mighty mace in his fist, grateful that the pain in his shoulder was bearable. In addition to the tiny stone, Garimeth had brought him some ointments and unguents. This morning Thistle had smeared the oily stuff over all of his hurts. Now Darkend felt that he had nearly regained his full peak of his physical prowess. Most importantly, he was able to walk without a limp. The inflamed wound in his thigh had subsided to a barely tolerable throbbing.

All eyes turned toward the west gates, the route which lead to Gludh Kolgard's house. An expectant hush settled over the vast, domed enclosure as the dark dwarves waited for the last challenger. Darkend stared at that portal as intently as any young hotblood. Although, in his case he hoped fervently that the Daergar were waiting in vain. Slickblade was posted somewhere along that route. If it was at all possible, the assassin would act to keep Kolgard from appearing in the Arena of Honor.

Though the great coliseum had been crowded for each of the previous contests, today it seemed as though every dark dwarf from the two clan cities of Daerforge and Daerbardin had tried to find a way into the room. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, they crowded the ranks of the bleachers and stood in a thick mass around the rim of the huge bowl. Even the four aisles leading to the gates had grown packed in the short time since Darkend's entrance. If Gludh Kolgard did in fact appear, he and his entourage would have to force their way through the crowd to reach the stage.

More time passed and the crowd began to simmer uneasily. Fights broke out and several Daergar were killed-though as often as not the bodies remained in place and upright since there was not enough room to move them. Darkend began to allow his hopes to rise; maybe Slickblade had found a way to do the task that he had deemed impossible.

But when the outer gates were flung open with a triumphant clang, Gludh Kolgard was alive and hearty. With his face mask open to reveal the fierce set of his jaw and his mailed fist raised to brandish his huge, double-bladed battle axe, he stood amid the score of dwarves who made up his personal corps of bodyguards. Again the crowd cheered as they took notice that he had entered the south gate-a route that had required a considerable detour from House Kolgard, but which had insured that the challenger avoided any pitfalls or ambushes that had been laid in his predicted path.

Slickblade had failed.

"I challenge you, Darkend Bellowsmoke, for the Throne of Clan Daergar, the mightiest seat in all Thorbardin. I say you are unworthy and the blade of my axe will gladly prove it!"

"Come down here, then, if you are so eager to die!" retorted Darkend. "You have kept this august gathering waiting for too long already!"

Kolgard's response was drowned in the roar of approval, and the very bedrock underfoot seemed to tremble and shudder from the force of thousands of deep, cheering voices. Darkend kept his wide, pale eyes on the face of his adversary. He watched Gludh's bodyguards push a wide path through the crowd so that the challenger could swagger easily, free of any interference.

Abruptly one of Darkend's bodyguards leaped in front of him, then tumbled forward, gagging on a crossbow bolt that pierced his throat. The assailant had been one of the anonymous thousands in the crowd, and Darkend could barely suppress a shudder as he saw how close the missile had come to striking him. Somehow the bodyguard had sensed the danger to his master and had made the ultimate sacrifice in his service.

"An arrow from the crowd? A coward's path!" the patriarch of the Bellowsmoke clan cried as he shook his mace toward the approaching challenger. These words were lost on the Daergar as the excitement built to a crescendo. The dark dwarves, having sipped the first bloodshed, now thirsted madly for the main event.

As Gludh started up the steps leading to the dais, several more silver darts flashed through the crowd. Some were deflected off of bodyguards' raised shields, and a few dwarves of Kolgard's entourage fell writhing, pierced by the lethal weapons. Another of Darkend's men fell before the two main combatants finally came face to face with each other. Each stood in the midst of a semicircle of armored, brawny henchmen.

"Let the matter be decided between us alone," Darkend stated the ritual words.

"And let the will of Reorx be revealed," replied Gludh, clamping shut the smooth steel barrier of his face plate. Even his luminous eyes were lost in the shadows of the narrow vision slits.

With the compact agreed upon, the bodyguards withdrew to just below the ring of the stone dais. There would be no more assassin's arrows for the time being, the time-honored phrases having commenced the formal part of the ritual. The strength and skill of the two combatants alone would decide the fight.

The roaring of the crowd slowly stilled and was replaced by a soft buzz of anticipation. Here and there the bodyguards around the periphery of the dais jockeyed for position, stabbing and chopping at each other until a solid ring of dwarf warriors enclosed the circular platform. Bleeding and moaning, several hapless losers thrashed on the floor behind the henchmen. But these wretches were left to die unnoticed. All eyes focused on the impending duel.

Gludh Kolgard struck first, bringing his long-hafted axe around in a vicious swipe. Darkend didn't even need to step back for this attack was all show and the keen blade passed several inches in front of his tusked faceplate. Gludh followed this move smoothly, skirting sideways around the edge of the platform to keep his weapon between himself and his opponent.

The music of battle, a familiar emotion that mingled rage, hate, and exultation, swept through Darkend. He used the strength of his feelings to toughen his will and focus his power against his enemy-a tactic that was second nature after a lifetime of battle and killing. Even so, his subconscious remained aware of his weakness, the pain of his wounds and the toll taken by the days of previous fighting that had led him up to this moment. His movements seemed slow, like wading through sticky mud. He almost felt drugged, his senses and reactions thick. The deep gouge in his thigh was particularly worrisome. It periodically sent daggers of agony shooting through his leg and hip. He planted his feet with a show of firmness, careful not to reveal any outward sign that would give his opponent a clear suggestion of his vulnerability.

Darkend lowered his mace, clutching the haft in both of his mailed fists as he waved the spiked head of the weapon gently back and forth in the direction of his challenger. He held the center of the dais, pivoting only enough to continue facing the circling Gludh. The crowd rumbled, the noise swelling, expanding to a roaring thunder. The great arena shook and compelled the combatants into action.

Abruptly Gludh charged, the great axe raised high over his head. Darkend backed up for a step, then darted to his left. This forced Darkend's foe to hack the blade down and across his body, an awkward strike that his steel-hafted mace easily parried. Following through, Darkend waded in with his weapon smashing left, right, then back to the left. Now it was Gludh's turn to parry, using his axe to deflect each blow of Darkend's wickedly spiked weapon.