Knights The Hand of Tharnin

chapter 16: The Pit of Misery

The ride to Rogue Haven was miserable. Timlin was given stale food to eat that he could barely stomach (by having it crammed into his mouth) followed by stale water. It was cold in the wagon and he often lay shivering on the dirty, gritty floorboards. When it rained, the roof leaked in several places, leaving Timlin soaking wet. Also, a moldy stench hung in the air that he never seemed to get used to. The wagon's purpose was obviously to transport slaves, and their comfort was not an issue. As far as the Dwarven master seemed concerned, Timlin could rot back there with the floorboards. And if he happened to take ill and die, what did the loss of a slave matter who'd been found wandering the countryside?

Occasionally, Timlin could hear Tolus whistling loudly, and his hands knotted into fists. He wanted to kill the Dwarf so badly it was like a raging, endless fire inside him. Timlin was trained in escaping ropes and chains, but the Dwarf's knots were so tight and secure that days of working at them produced no results. At last, Timlin simply gave up and lay there in the dark hating his captor.

Timlin wondered what his former friends at Dremlock would think of him now. No doubt they held only anger towards him for betraying the kingdom. They would probably have felt pity towards him as well, had they known the situation he now found himself in. Timlin knew one thing for certain--no one would be coming to his rescue. He was utterly alone in the world. He'd not only betrayed Dremlock, he'd also betrayed his friends. And most importantly, he'd betrayed himself. That last realization gnawed at him the most.

At last, the wretched journey to Rogue Haven came to an end, and Timlin was dragged from the back of the wagon. It was a cool fall day, and Timlin found himself in a misty clearing surrounded by towering pine trees. Timlin inhaled the fresh air, wishing he was free to wander where he wished. They stood behind a large, rugged-looking building made of pine logs. The sounds of merrymaking came from within--laughter, shouting, and music.

Tolus grinned. "This tavern is your new home, little man. We've got an arena down below, where you'll be fighting for your life now and then. Bear in mind that how well you eat, how much coin you make, and whether or not you eventually gain your freedom all depends on you. If you're lazy, you will get nowhere. You might even get yourself killed. So are you ready to work hard and better your life?"

Timlin shrugged. "All you really care about is your money."

Tolus jammed his finger against Timlin's chest. "Wrong, boy. I care about all my fighters. You'll come to understand that--if you live long enough."

The Grey Dwarf shoved Timlin along into the tavern and down some stairs into a hallway made of stone blocks. Several cells lined the hallway, containing rugged-looking men who were seated on the floor. The musty stench of the hall overwhelmed Timlin. At the end of the passageway was an oval-shaped iron door surrounded by oak carvings of exaggerated and hideous Birlote faces. A single guard watched over the tunnel--a stocky, bald man who held a knotted club. A large ring of keys hung from his belt.

Tolus pointed at the strange door. "The entrance to the arena. It is said that the man who walks past that door leaves his soul on the other side. Later tonight, you shall get your first taste of combat."

Tolus cut Timlin's ropes and shoved him into a cell containing another prisoner. Then he left the hallway. Timlin sat down and groaned.

"No use groaning," Timlin's cellmate said. He was tall, bald, and dark-skinned, with a short, scruffy beard. Muscles, displaying scars, rippled over his frame. He wore only a pair of leather trousers. "Might as well cheer up. You're not going anywhere. And why should a man be unhappy, even if facing death?"

He extended his hand. "My name is Oaran."

Timlin shook it. "Timlin Woodmaster."

"Woodmaster?" Oaran said, raising his eyebrows. "Sounds Knightly."

"It used to be," said Timlin. "I wanted to be master of the bow and the arrow, but now I guess I'll fight with whatever weapons I'm given."

"You'll fight with the weapon you're most comfortable using," said Oaran, "but not the bow. We fight in close combat."

"How did you end up here?" Timlin asked.

Oaran's eyes narrowed. "You want to know my business? Knowing a man's business can be dangerous."

"I just wondered," Timlin added quickly, "if you were taken prisoner like me or if you chose to come here."

Oaran stared at Timlin as if he were insane. "No one chooses to come here. Even a madman wouldn't choose this. I drank too much ale in the tavern above and fell asleep. I woke up down here. That was three years ago."

Timlin lowered his voice so the guard wouldn't hear. "I think we can escape. I know how to pick locks, if I have the right tools."

Oaran shook his head. "Sorry lad, but it's not going to happen. The cells are guarded day and night. We're watched carefully. Your only chance of escape is to do what you're told and win your battles. When I started, my food was terrible. I could barely swallow it. I was given no dressings for my wounds. No blanket, even." He patted the thick quilt beneath him. "Now I eat good, I sleep good, and I'm given a little ale now and then. I even have my own money."

"But you're still a slave," said Timlin.

"And so are you," said Oaran. "What of it? You think I choose this life? No, I want to see my wife and children again someday, who live in the city of Gravendar. I must stay alive for them. Who will you stay alive for?"

Timlin shrugged. The pain of loneliness wracked his heart, but he tried to hide it. "I have no one. I don't really care."

Oaran seized his shoulder and smiled. "You care deeply. I see it in your eyes. You've suffered much. So, you fight for yourself--and that is good enough. You can make a new start here, but you will be forced to kill. Goblins at first, and then later you will face human warriors."

Timlin flinched away from his touch. "I won't give up on trying to escape. And if I get a chance at that Dwarf..."

"Doesn't matter," said Oaran. "I was the same way as you three years ago--desperate to escape and see my family again. But the harsh punishments for disobedience are not worth the effort. Save your energy for the arena. You'll need it." He tapped his bald head. "Use what's in here, lad. Fight until you are free, and then never look back. Today is a new day."

"Not for me," said Timlin. "Today is the same old thing."

Oaran gazed at him with a curious expression. "You've known some troubles in your life, for sure. Something very dark and bitter lurks in your soul. Is that why you're no longer at Dremlock?"

Timlin looked away. "I've seen worse than this dungeon." He wasn't lying. He had seen worse--endless days and nights spent living below ground, with barely the space to crawl about. The constant beatings and lashings, the hopelessness of his existence. He'd been treated worse than most animals were treated, but he'd survived to eventually crawl forth into daylight.

"Don't disrespect them," said Oaran, his face deathly serious. "If you do, you'll be forced to fight me. And I don't want to have to kill you. I take no pride in killing a skinny lad who has suffered a hard life. No pride at all."

"I won't be treated like a slave," said Timlin, his hands shaking.

Again, Oaran tapped his head. "Keep calm now--and be free later. Or make a stand now and there will be no later."

"We'll see," said Timlin, shifting about uncomfortably on the stone floor. "I may not look like much, but I'm dangerous."

Oaran's eyes glittered, and he smiled. "I sure hope so, my little friend."

Eventually, the guard served them food and drink. Timlin's meal consisted of moldy food and water that tasted odd. Oaran, however, was given a large platter covered in venison and vegetables--so much food that Timlin doubted he would eat all of it. Timlin's mouth watered as he stared at the platter--the dripping meat, potatoes (Timlin loved potatoes), and a large jug of milk. Oaran glanced at Timlin while he ate, but did not offer to share.

Timlin nibbled on a piece of stale bread, then tossed in back on his plate. "Are you going to eat all of that, Oaran?"

"No," said Oaran. "I'll probably leave some of it. My leftovers will go to the Goblins that fight in the arena."

"Goblins?" said Timlin. "Why would you want to feed them? I'll gladly eat your leftovers. I haven't had a good meal in ages."

"I'm sure you would," said Oaran, "but you won't get them. When I'm done, the guard will take my leftovers to the Goblins."

"Because it's not allowed?" Timlin asked.

Oaran shrugged. "There is no rule that says I can't feed you. Prisoners share food all the time. But I'm not going to feed you."

Anger rose inside Timlin. "Why not? I thought you were a kind-hearted fellow, giving me that advice and all."

"You thought wrong," said Oaran. "I'm not going to be kind to you, because kind will get you killed. You want to eat this good? Then you better win your battles. This food is a reward for hard work."

Timlin tossed his plate aside, scattering moldy crud across the floor. "I refuse to eat this. I'd rather starve."

Oaran shrugged. "If you say so. But I'm still not sharing. Nobody shared with me, and the desire for better food kept me going in here. I fought for what I have."

"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.

Enraged, the beast drove at Timlin in a blur, its claws ripping at his face. Timlin deflected the claws with his blade, and the Jackal retreated a bit. It glowered at Timlin with hatred, then threw back its head and howled.

Timlin used the opportunity to lunge forward and slash at its throat, but the beast dodged the strike. Somehow it ended up behind Timlin, and instinctively, the former Squire ducked as claws ripped through the air where his head had been.

Timlin wheeled around and plunged his blade into the Jackal's heart. The stench of scorched fur and flesh filled the air. The Jackal tried a weak swipe with the last of its strength, and then it collapsed and lay still.

Timlin sheathed his Flayer and stood waiting, while the crowd cheered. At last, Tolus and the two men with crossbows entered the arena. Tolus nodded to him and smiled. "Good work, lad. A quick kill over a strong foe."

Timlin gazed down at the dead Jackal. He knew it would never end. Soon he would be forced to kill or be killed by humans, while the vile people sat drooling for bloodshed above. How many would he have to kill over the years?

"Just hand over that blade," said Tolus, his eyes straying nervously to Timlin's sheathed Flayer, "and we'll get you back to your cell. You fought so well that I think you'll have a thin quilt waiting for you to help keep you warm."

Timlin's mind was in the dark place again--the place from his youth. Calmly, he stepped toward Tolus, drew his Flayer, and held it handle first toward the man. As Tolus reached for it, Timlin leapt around him and shoved the dagger against his throat from behind. Tolus cried out for help.

"Stay away or I'll kill him!" Timlin warned the two guards. Those who remained in the crowd above went into a frenzy of boos (and a few cheers), but Timlin ignored them.

"This is futile, boy," said Tolus. "If you kill me, my guards will kill you. Give up and this nonsense will be forgotten."

"Take me out of here," Timlin ordered.

"Never," said Tolus, his Dwarven voice becoming a rumble. "Go on and kill me, then. And my guards will end your miserable life."

Timlin considered it, but his will faltered. Finally he threw down the Flayer and shoved Tolus away from him.

Tolus whirled around and pushed Timlin to the ground. The Grey Dwarf was seething with rage. Tolus and the guards then proceeded to beat Timlin severely, until the young man could barely move. Then they dragged him back to his cell.

***

Over the next few days, Timlin was groggy from the beating and spent a lot of time sleeping in his cell. He ate a bit of moldy food and drank some stale water. He dreamt of escape and would periodically awaken to the disappoint of realizing he was still in his cell. Occasionally he would hear other prisoners shout or men talking in the hallway, but he was too groggy to care what they were saying.

At last he felt good enough to stay awake during the daytime, and he washed away some dried blood from a head wound. He spent the day meditating on restoring his body to full health. As the day wore on toward evening, the guard brought dinner, which for Timlin meant more food that was barely edible. This time, though, the meal was particularly rancid.

"Feeling better, huh?" said Oaran. "Well, you won't feel very good once you hear what I have to say."

"I have to fight you, right?" said Timlin, knowing from the look on Oaran's face. "Tolus wants me dead."

"Yes, he wants you dead," said Oaran, sighing. "I told you not to disrespect him. Even worse, you put a dagger to Tolus' throat. Now you've got to kill me if you want to live, and that's not going to happen."

"I'm sorry," said Timlin. "I don't want to fight you, either." He felt utterly defeated, almost wishing the beating had killed him.

Oaran slammed a tin cup down, splashing water. "Why did you have to go and do that, boy? You're good with the blade. You could have won your battles and your freedom. Now I've got to take your life."

Timlin said nothing. He didn't have a good answer.

"The battle is scheduled for after dinner tonight," said Oaran, glancing down at the platter of food in front of him. "It's your last meal, so eat up."

Timlin glanced down at his bowl of swill. "You've got to be kidding. This is my last meal? I'd rather die hungry."

Oaran slid his tray closer to Timlin--a tray covered in meats, fruits, and vegetables. "Take what you want."

Timlin's eyes widened. "I thought you weren't sharing with me."

"It's different now," said Oaran, a look of pity on his face. "None of that matters now. Don't you understand, lad? You're going to die tonight!"

Timlin stuffed the delicious food in his mouth and washed it down with milk from a pitcher. He didn't want to think about anything but savoring the meal. He ate until his belly hurt.

But once he was finished eating, reality set in. One of them was going to die. Timlin was not convinced it would be him, but in order to survive he would have to kill a man whose only desire was to see his family again. Suddenly, Timlin's stomach wasn't handling the food very well and he had to struggle to keep it down.

"What if we both refuse to fight?" he said.

"Then they will kill us both," Oaran said gloomily.

"I won't kill you," Timlin said. "It's not right."

"Well, I will do what I must," said Oaran. "It's nothing personal. Every man has a right to protect himself and try to survive."

At last Tolus and the two men with crossbows led them from their cell. They dealt aggressively with Timlin, watching his every move. Timlin felt the two slaves might have a chance to escape if they fought together, but he could see by the subdued look in Oaran's eyes that it wasn't going to happen.

The two men were shoved into the arena below the noisy crowd. Timlin was given his Flayer, and Oaran was handed a short spear with a long tip. The crowd booed Timlin and cheered Oaran.

"My good people," Tolus called out from above. "The little fool there who assaulted me the other day must now meet his fate--at the hands of our champion Oaran! Rest assured that he will die. But I am fair as fair can be, and should Timlin Woodmaster happen to somehow defeat Oaran, his crime will be forgiven."

The crowd went into a frenzy of boos directed at Timlin. "Cowards!" Timlin shouted at them. In return they spit wine and ale at him. Timlin was shaking in rage, fear, and disgust to the point where he felt like he might fall apart. He struggled to remember his training and calm himself.

"Let the battle begin!" Tolus roared.

Instantly Oaran lunged for Timlin, almost catching the former Squire off guard. But Timlin's reflexes were too swift and he sidestepped the thrust. He kicked the spear away, but Oaran retained his grip on it.

"Stand still and I'll make it quick," Oaran said. "You won't feel much pain. Just close your eyes and let it be."

In response, Timlin shifted into his defensive posture, raising his burning dagger. Oaran's eyes widened at the sight of Timlin's sorcery.

"The Divine Fire!" Oaran whispered in awe. Then his eyes narrowed. "Your tricks won't help you, Timlin. Let me end your pain!"

Timlin stood like a statue, waiting for Oaran's move.

Oaran hesitated, then swung the spear at Timlin's head. The blade ripped through the air inches from the lad's face. Timlin dropped to the sand and kicked Oaran's legs out from under him, then leapt quickly back to his feet. But Oaran scrambled up just as quickly, and once again they circled each other.

"I won't kill you," said Timlin.

In response, Oaran drove the spear at Timlin's chest. Timlin again sidestepped it, and this time he cut the weapon in two with his burning dagger. Cursing, Oaran dropped the useless handle and grabbed the tipped half from the sand. Oaran's spear was now just a few inches longer than Timlin's Flayer.

Oaran's face was pale, and his shocked eyes revealed his thoughts. He'd won dozens of battles over the years, but now he realized he was hopelessly overmatched. Timlin was simply too swift and too well trained for him. In fact, Timlin was better at fighting an armed man than he was at fighting a Goblin. As a Blue Squire, he'd been trained extensively in weapons combat, and his sorcery guided his movements and enhanced the deadliness of his blade.

Timlin was equally shocked--to find out how well Dremlock had prepared him for a situation like this. He felt like he was toying with Oaran, and his confidence soared. He simply knew he could not lose.

With a desperate howl, Oaran drove in on Timlin with his half-spear. Timlin easily evaded the bumbling, desperate move and, letting the fire die in his blade, he slammed the pommel of the Flayer against Oaran's head. Oaran fell to the dirt and lay bleeding, a foggy look in his eyes.

The crowd sat in stunned silence at the sight of their fallen champion. A few who had dared to bet on Timlin cried out in delight.

"Well done, Timlin," Tolus called down. "Now kill him before he recovers."

Timlin sheathed his Flayer. The crowd booed.

"This is a fight to the death," Tolus shouted. "People have good money at stake. If you don't finish him, I will have both of you killed."

"I won't do it!" Timlin shouted back. "Not for a bunch of cowards." He wondered if this was the end for him--if he would soon lie riddled with arrows and bleeding out his life. He was terrified, but determined to fight to the death.

His face crimson with rage, Tolus and his men came down to the arena. Tolus strode up to Timlin, shaking his fist at him. "Lad, you better finish Oaran off. This is your last chance to win your freedom. Otherwise, I'll take both of you back to your cell, and tomorrow I'll throw both of you in here with some Ogres!"

"Take me back to my cell," said Timlin.

"You'll regret this tomorrow," said Tolus. "Dying at the hands of an Ogre is a terrible fate. Think carefully."

Timlin said nothing, but Tolus' warning made his legs want to buckle. The Ogres would tear them to pieces. Yet Timlin's mind could not be changed.

"Then I truly pity you," said Tolus.

***

The next day, Tolus warned them it would now be two days before they were thrown to the Ogres, and that they would not be fed but could have stale water. After that, the Grey Dwarf didn't show himself again.

Oaran was enraged at Timlin. "You little fool! You had a chance to finish me and save yourself. Now we're both going to die."

"I couldn't do it," said Timlin, shrugging.

"Tolus would love to keep you alive," said Oaran. "But you're dangerous and don't follow his orders. I'm dead no matter what, but if you can convince Tolus that you're sorry and beg for a second chance, he might well grant it."

"It doesn't matter," said Timlin. "I just can't bring myself to kill people in the arena. I don't want to die, but I guess I'd rather die than murder people."

"It's not murder," said Oaran. "It's survival."

"Whatever it is," said Timlin, "I want no part of it."

Oaran bowed his head, his face gloomy, and the two sat in silence for a while. Then Tolus rushed into the hall and, with shaking hands, unlocked their cell. Tolus was alone and his sword was sheathed.

Timlin rose, ready to make a move. But the fearful look on Tolus' face warned Timlin to hold back.

"Timlin, you're free to go," said the Grey Dwarf.

"Why?" said Timlin, wondering if it was a cruel trick of some sort.

Tolus shook his head. "No time to explain, but I'd rather you left that cell and got out of here. I don't want any further trouble!"

"Trouble with who?" asked Timlin, completely baffled.

Tolus frantically motioned to Timlin. "The Blood Legion has come to Rogue Haven, and they want you. Now just go!"

Oaran rose, his eyes hopeful. "Better do it, Timlin. Just get out of here. It might be your only chance!"

Timlin started forward, and then a clanking sound arose. A bulky, armored Knight entered the hall, accompanied by two bearded giants carrying battle axes. The Knight wore dark, exquisitely crafted armor and his face was concealed by a helm from which two yellow eyes peered out. Timlin gasped when he saw the large gauntlet that covered the Knight's right hand and forearm--the Hand of Tharnin.

"The demon man!" Timlin cried, shrinking back.

"Something evil comes!" Oaran said, his eyes filled with fright.

Tolus stepped aside, his face pale. He pointed at Timlin. "Here he is, and as you can see, your lordship, he is unharmed."

The Black Knight and his giants paused before the cell. Timlin could sense the aura of the Deep Shadow--immensely strong and radiating from the gauntlet, yet somehow carefully controlled. "Timlin Woodmaster," said the Black Knight, in a deep voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Timlin. "We are together again, and I couldn't be more pleased!"

"What do you want with me?" Timlin said. "I'm not part of Dremlock anyone. I don't care about you."

"Yet I care about you," said the Black Knight, "my dear friend. I had a bit of trouble tracking you down, but now that I've found you, I have a question for you. How would you like to be a member of the Blood Legion?"

Timlin gazed on in confusion, wondering if this was some wretched prank that Tolus was playing. But Tolus looked genuinely frightened.

"You think I'm the demon man, huh?" said the Black Knight. He chuckled. "Perhaps if I remove my helm, you won't look so terrified." He removed his helm--to reveal the smiling face of Vorden Flameblade.

Timlin gasped. "How...how can this be?"

"I too betrayed Dremlock," said Vorden. "I stole the Hand of Tharnin and now I control it. I am now the leader of the Blood Legion." He raised the gauntlet, and the blue stones captivated Timlin. "It's all thanks to this. Turns out the so-called demon man was weak, and the gauntlet controlled him. But once I claimed the device for myself, it opened my eyes to the truth. I realized Dremlock is the true evil in Silverland. Instead of making a pact with Tharnin, the Knights continue their foolish war and so many lives are lost. The Blood Legion wants peace for the land and knows exactly how to achieve it."

Timlin nodded, but remained uncertain. When he'd left Dremlock, he'd been full of rage and ready to join with Dremlock's foes. But something had changed in him a bit, and he'd begun to question himself and what was right and wrong. "But are you sure you control the gauntlet, Vorden?"

"Very sure," said Vorden. "If I didn't, I would probably kill you just for fun. Instead, I want you to be a Legion Master."

"What about the Legion Council?" said Timlin, stunned at Vorden's statement. "Wouldn't they have to approve such a thing?"

"My word is law," said Vorden. "The Legion Council obeys me. Unlike Dremlock, the Blood Legion has a supreme commander--a Black Knight who all must serve. I have been appointed to this position. "

"There was another who was called a Black Knight..." said Timlin, thinking of the man who'd claimed to be Tenneth Bard. Timlin wondered what had become of him, and if Vorden had somehow taken his place. He shuddered inwardly at the thought, but he was hopeful Vorden was not a slave of Tharnin as Tenneth Bard had seemed to be. If anyone could resist the power of the Deep Shadow, Vorden seemed to possess the strength of will for the task.

"I am in charge now," said Vorden. "Do not question it."

Timlin again found himself gazing at the gauntlet's hypnotic blue stones, and his fears slipped away. He grinned. "This seems too good to be true! I never would have imagined I'd see you here, in command of the Blood Legion. I almost feel like I'm asleep and will awaken in misery in my prison cell."

"You're not dreaming, my friend," said Vorden. "Master Timlin... How do you like the sound of that? You will fight by my side."

Tolus shrank back, his body trembling.

Oaran simply gazed at them with wide eyes.

Timlin fixed his angry gaze on Tolus. "So I'm now a Legion Master, Vorden? Does that mean I command those giants?" Timlin felt a rush of exhilaration at the thought that he was in command--gone from slave to leader in an instant.

"They are at your service," said Vorden, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

Timlin pointed at Tolus. "Seize him!"

Scowling, the giants grabbed Tolus' arms. They roughed him up a bit and forced him to kneel, yanking his head back to expose his throat.

"Release me!" Tolus pleaded. "I mean no harm!"

"This Dwarf made me a slave," said Timlin. "He beat me and starved me, and made me fight against my will."

Vorden's face darkened. He turned and seized Tolus' throat with the Hand of Tharnin. "Give the word, Timlin, and I will crush him!"

Timlin considered it, then shook his head. "I don't want him dead. But I want all of these slaves freed. Can we do that, Vorden?"

"We can do whatever we want," said Vorden, grinning, "and if anyone opposes us, they will quickly regret it."

"Then after we free the prisoners," said Timlin, "I want this whole tavern burned to the ground. Boot everyone out and we'll set it on fire!"

It was easy to see that Vorden had changed--his yellow eyes alone told the tale. Timlin feared what he'd become. Yet Vorden did seem confident and in control of his destiny, and Timlin was too focused on his current situation to fret over such things. He could worry about Vorden later.

Vorden laughed heartily, while Tolus begged them not to destroy his business. "I like your thinking, Timlin," said the Black Knight. "Let us burn this dung pit and leave this pathetic Dwarf to rule over ash."

Timlin smiled at Oaran. "You're free to go and see your family, and you'll never have to kill again. Good fortune has found you today, my friend. It has found both of us!"

But Oaran did not return the smile. His face was grim. He stared at Timlin with a look that would haunt the lad--a mix of fear, pity, and disgust. And then he fled the hallway without looking back.