Exhausted and numb, Roran knelt on the ground, watching the clean up crews start making their way into the arena, dragging carts full of dirt and gravel and carrying large shovels with them. A single horse drawn cart was pulled towards the center of the arena and the cleaners started picking up the bodies and loading them onto the cart.
A handful of wardens came after the cleaners, shepherding the fighters off the fighting grounds and back down the stairs from whence they came. One came over to Roran, prodding him not unkindly.
"Come on kid, you lived. Let's go."
Roran nodded and made his way back to his feet. When he stumbled, the warden put out a hand to steady him. Half supporting him and half pushing him, the warden steered Roran back down towards the dungeon that was his home.
His feet felt heavy as he descended the stairs. He hadn't noticed how cramped it was down here before. Now that he had tasted fresh air and seen the sun, he didn't want to go back below, not back to the dungeon where his judgmental kinsmen waited for him.
Instead of taking him straight back down, the warden dragged him to a room with a handful of the other combatants. They looked as miserable as he felt.
"Leave anything you borrowed here, if you're injured let one of us know and we'll have a medic look at you."
Looking down at his hands, Roran said, "I dropped the sword and shield in the arena."
"Someone will take care of it," said the warden. "If that's all, sit down and wait here."
Roran obediently sat down on a wooden bench. His legs felt like noodles and he thought he might be sick. Burying his face in his hands, Roran tried not to think about the battle. About the people he'd seen die. About the bodies lying still in their own blood. About the people chasing after him, wanting to kill him.
Around him, the sound of people removing armor and weapons faded. Time passed. Eventually, someone came and shook his shoulder.
"Who are you with, kid?"
"Millgrove sir," said Roran.
"Stand up, we're taking you back to your apartment."
Is that what they called it? Roran had always thought of it as a dungeon or a cell or a tomb, never an apartment. He shuffled to his feet and a grim faced warden gestured for him to follow. They went back through the labyrinth of hallways, collecting two other young men along the way. Roran recognized them, they were part of the initial seven that he'd come up with. With the three boys in tow, the warden turned and headed towards another staircase leading deeper underground. They didn't collect anyone else one the way.
A clerk met them at the top of the stairs. In his hand was a leather sack, swollen with shiny coins.
"Boulderwater?" asked the clerk.
"Me sir," said one of the boys.
"Five for participation, plus one per confirmed kill." The clerk meted out six coins.
"Newbell?"
"Me sir."
The clerk meted out five coins.
"Millgrove?"
"Me sir," said Roran. The clerk measured out five coins, then added two more. "Sir?" asked Roran.
"Five for participation, two for challenging a champion."
"A champion sir?"
"A titled gladiator," said the clerk, consulting a ledger, "the judges have you down as challenging Kell, the living storm."
"I didn't challenge her-"
"Don't argue with the judges boy, take your favors and be grateful. That is all." With a flourish of his robes, the clerk disappeared down another hallway, vanishing into the darkness.
Looking down at his hand, Roran hefted the coins. They were light and thin, made of a bluish silver metal that seemed to shimmer even in the dark. Each coin was stamped with three crowns and the words: Vassilis, Balaki, Tasos. The three kings of this small world, the self proclaimed gods among men.
"Down you go," said the warden, giving him a gentle push. Roran closed his fist around the coins and, finally, returned below. The two wardens guarding the gate to the dungeons once more heaved the massive doors open and Roran was back where he had started, back home.
The warden led him to his cell, unlocked the door, and slammed it closed as Roran went back inside.
"See you next week kid," said the warden, and left.
Roran watched him go, watched him leave this dirty, fetid place to ascend the stairs and return to the land above ground. The land where there was blood and death and freedom and fresh air and sunshine. Roran grabbed the steel bar in his hand and squeezed. He wanted to go back.
"By the gods you're actually alive!" Yora wrapped her bony arms around Roran's waist and crushed him against her chest. "He's actually alive, oh thank all the gods above. Alira, your boy lives. May your spirit have mercy on us, your son still lives!" The little old lady descended into hysterics, sobbing into Roran's chest. Roran couldn't recall the last time someone had shown him this much affection.
"Calm down you old hag," said Murrin, dragging Yora off him. "What in the world happened boy?" Murrin shoved his finger in Roran's face. "How are you still alive?" It felt more like an accusation than a question.
Roran shrugged and held up the handful of favors.
"Give me those!" Murrin swiped the coins out of Roran's hand. "I can't believe it, you actually did it." He held one of the coins up to a brazier, the small blue coin glinting in the faint light. "You actually earned favors!"
Roran nodded. "Wasn't that the point?"
"Don't get sassy with me boy! I don't know how you did it, but you actually did something good for us. We can buy food with this, maybe even a little medicine." Murrin narrowed his eyes, staring at Roran. "Did you get anything else? Any money? Any medicine? What all did they give you?"
"Just the favors," said Roran, inching away from Murrin. The man was like a rabid dog guarding his new bone. "They let me borrow some weapons but I left them in the arena."
Murrin continued to glare at Roran. "If you say so, boy."
"Ignore him," said Yora, once more latching onto Roran. "Are you alright? Are you injured? Oh please don't tell me you have a wound that's going to get infected and kill you. Oh Alira, I'm so sorry for what we've done."
"I'm fine," said Roran. "I'm a little hungry, is there any food left?"
"No," said Murrin, not bothering to look at him. "The food is all gone."
"There's some water," said Yora, "we'll get you something to drink."
"Just his allotted share," said Murrin, squatting down and spreading out the seven favors, examining each in turn.
Yora led Roran back to his little corner where he collapsed in relief. He hated this place but at least it was familiar. As he curled up against the wall, his hand fell instinctively to the ground where it could draw patterns in the dirt, Yora began fussing over him.
"Are you comfortable? Just you wait right there. I'll fetch you some water. You've done us a kindness lad. Your mother would be proud. Horrified but proud."
Roran closed his eyes and listened to Yora wander off. He didn't hear her come back. He didn't hear anything. A blanket of exhaustion wrapped itself around him and dragged his beaten and battered mind into oblivion. He stayed there, in a peaceful sleep, for a long time. He stayed there until a soft, low sound roused him. It was sweet, and jagged, like a silver knife cutting through the air. It was the sound of a familiar whistle.
Opening his eyes, Roran looked out across the dungeon. Standing on the other side of the gate, looking through the bars, was chaos incarnate. Kell grinned at him.
"Hey kid, we need to talk."