It was the morning of the games, and he stood at the entrance to the Arena of Champions. Rows of seats surrounded the sand on which the competitors would display their skills. The planning for this event had taken them months and now here they were - black robes, red wraps, and white adornments, each tribe claiming its own section of the stands. The old arena looked very good today, with banners hanging from the walls that were his: a snake within a circle on a yellow background.

  Jantar approached and gave a situation report. “The contestants are assembled outside.”

  “Good. I can get on with the opening ceremony.”

  He walked through an arched entrance out onto the arena with Jantar and his two guards flanking him. He waved to the onlookers and felt pride as he saw their faces, united by this spectacle. Here, amid the remnants of the fallen civilization, he felt the promise of renewal. As he was hosting the games, they clapped at him and he waved his thanks. Most, if not all, of them had likely never been entertained in such a venue before, and they must sense the importance of this event. The third eye on his forehead marked him out as a descendant of the old ones and his association with the old city and its Arena was something he was keen to show off.

  A beating of drums began, and following him through were the Wardens led by Chief Whelay. Their banners flew in the air, white and green. Their fifteen fighters wore white wraps adorned with river reeds and polished stones that glittered in the sun. They walked in a line around the arena, waving to the crowd, keeping time with the drumbeats. The crowd clapped and cheered.

  More drums beat approached that had a faster rhythm. The Burners entered the arena, a tide of red with red banners and a silver claw at the center. Their twenty fighters marched, their red-dyed robes, their claws and bone necklaces adorning them. Their leader, Radaki, strode ahead of them, his warrior’s tail bouncing.

  He turned to face the crowd, a wide grin on his face and shouted. “We are the Burners! Let our fire burn brightest today!”

  The Burners in the crowd roared their approval, and the sound of their cheers echoed off the ancient stone.

  Before the noise could die down, a third set of drums could be heard. The Thirstakers marched in, a block of black-clad warriors. Their banner was black and had a horn motif. They moved with disciplined steps in time with the drumbeat. Their fifteen contestants included Jeska, Bakalit’s daughter.

  Bakalit took the lead, his horned crown catching the sun as he strode ahead of his warriors. He raised both arms, the muscles in his forearms corded with strength, and his voice thundered across the sand, “We‘re the Thirstakers! We‘ll show these claw-wearers and river-dwellers what true strength looks like!”

  The three tribes finished their parade around the arena and stopped near the center where they formed three islands of color in the sand.

  He walked across the sand, feeling the fine grains shift beneath his sandals. He was wearing the simple tunic of the Loyal Band. When he reached the center, he welcomed everyone. “Wardens! Burners! Thirstakers! You have all come here to prove your strength and courage. You have come here for honor. These are worthy things! Can I ask you to see one more thing in the Arena of Champions today? Look around you! Look at the old stones that hold this place together. The Ashok built this place! All of us. I now introduce to you our judge for these games who is using the Old rules. “

  A man emerged from the entrance. He was Orun, a member of the loyal band who was young and moved with poise and swiftness. His robes were the color of pale sand, and in one hand he carried a simple wooden staff topped with a carved blue stone.

  Orun stopped in the center of the ring in the sand and slammed the butt of his staff on the ground. “This Ring of Rope is for unarmed combat. Flesh and spirit alone will clash.”

  He gestured to the edge of the rope circle with his staff. “A contestant will win by pushing the other out of the Ring or by knocking them out inside the ring. A match has three rounds. As Arbiter my word is final.”

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  A table and chair were brought out and placed near the ring. Upon the table sat the tournament board: the names of the sixty fighters inscribed in charcoal on small wooden tiles.

  “Everyone else shall leave the Arena!,” Orun commanded, and Tal along with the others filed out through the exit.

  Tal walked through to his seat on the lowest tier of the stand. He was joined by the three other leaders, who sat beside him. Together the four of them had a private view of the contest in front; their ground position providing an excellent view of the action.

  Orun took two tiles at random, looked at them, and called out the names.

  “The First Match! Gorun of the Burners versus Linar of the Loyal Band!”

  The two men entered the arena and approached the circle of rope on the sand.

  Gorun was a mountain of a man, all muscle, a coat of red ochre paste gleaming on his skin.

  Linar was from the Loyal Band’s group. Tal knew he was a stonemason with arms like knotted rope and a grim set to his jaw.

  He walked to the rope circle and looked across it at Gorun with a defiant stare.

  The two fighters waited for the signal to start the match. The arbiter lifted his arm. “Enter the ring!”

  The contestants entered the ring from opposite sides.

  The arbiter dropped his arm. “Begin round one!”

  Linar moved first. He shuffled forward, his feet sliding in the fine sand. Tal knew the man worked stone and would understand weight and pressure, but this was a different kind of work

  He feinted left, then right, trying to find an opening against his opponent.

  Gorun did not take the bait. He kept his body facing Linar. He let the mason spend energy, all the while with a smile on his face.

  Gorun taunted him and shouted. “Are you fighting me - or the sand?!”

  Linar growled and lunged, seemingly trying to grab Gorun’s arm. Gorun sidestepped, and Linar’s hands closed on empty air. The crowd from the Burner camp roared with laughter.

  Linar backed away and circled again. It seemed Linar was having trouble finding an opening against the man’s guard. The tactic wasn’t working. From Tal’s seat, Gorun looked like a rock and Linar the tide breaking against it. If Linar had any sense, he would find a way to get in close, where Gorun’s longer reach would matter less, even if it would mean trading strength for strength.

  A horn blared.

  “End of round one!”

  Linar walked out of the ring, where a member of the Loyal Band offered him a waterskin and he drank from it deeply.

  Across the ring, Gorun was barely sweating as one Burner brought him a waterskin. While his eyes remained fixed on Linar, he took a long drink. He did not look tired. He looked like he was just getting started.

  “Begin round two!” the arbiter shouted.

  Linar did not hesitate this time. He charged forward, lowering his shoulder and aiming for Gorun’s midsection. It looked like he meant to drive the bigger man back and use his own momentum against him.

  Gorun saw the charge coming. He braced himself, sinking his feet into the sand. The impact was a dull, heavy thud. Linar grunted, driving his legs, pushing. For a moment, Gorun slid back a short way.

  Then the bigger man wrapped his arms around Linar’s torso, trapping him. Linar struggled, his arms seemingly pinned to his sides, his face was pressed against Gorun’s ochre-painted chest.

  “You are strong,” Gorun’s voice shouted. “But not as strong as me!”

  Gorun squeezed him and Linar thrashed about trying to break the hold, but it was useless. Gorun trapped him.

  Then, with a grunt of effort, Gorun lifted him clear off the sand. For a moment Linar was airborne. He crashed down onto the sand hard. He rolled over and got onto his knees. There were cheers from the Burners in the audience.

  Linar stood up. Gorun was standing there with his hands on his hips, looking almost bored.

  Tal Eko felt sorry for Linar as the stonemason staggered back to his feet, sand clinging to his sweat-slicked skin and chest heaving with each ragged breath. From his seat beside the other tribal leaders, he could see the grim determination etched on the man’s face. In the stands, the Burners’ shouts echoed across the arena.

  Gorun must have seen a chance to end it. He took two quick, stomping steps forward. Linar’s legs did not move fast enough. The Burner’s shoulder slammed into his chest in a brutal shove.

  Linar flew backwards. He wheeled his arms, apparently trying to regain his balance, but it was no use. He hit the rope with the back of his right foot and fell back out of the ring.

  The arbiter shouted, “The winner by ring-out is Gorun of the Burners!”

  The Burner camp erupted in a frenzy of cheers. Radaki was up on his feet, pumping his fists in the air, a triumphant grin splitting his face.

  Linar lay on the sand for a short while, then got up and walked away to the exit, looking at the ground as he went.

  So.

  The first match was over, and it had gone exactly as he had feared. Linar had courage, but courage was not enough against trained fighters. The path to the alliance he needed now seemed longer and more difficult than ever.

  Still. There were more matches to go.