“...and they all lived in peace ‘til the end of their days. The end.” Dylk slammed the stack of parchments shut and sighed with relief.

“What’s the College of Aril?” Gnom asked. It had been mentioned at many points during the book, even serving as the location of the final, climatic battle.

“I dunno, it’s probably something the author made up,” Dylk said, jumping down from the desk. The room had become even more of a mess than when they got there. They’d stayed there almost the entire week, gathering and sorting the pages from the tangled pile from whence they came. And then there came the reading of it, which was another whole day by itself.

The concerned others, most of all Ballin and Voolio, had made sure they didn’t starve themselves to death in their quest for beautiful, mediocre entertainment. So, the room was now filled to the brim with yonana peels and bread scraps, which Dylk had to step around to get to the door.

“Where’re you going?” Gnom asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Dylk said, closing it behind him.

“What about the coliseum?” Dylk spun on his feet in surprise. It was Ballin, standing in the hallway, garbed in his iconic dirt brown cloak. “We’re out of food but I was coming to check on you two anyway.”

“What’s a coliseum again?” Dylk asked.

“It’s the… the big one. The circle one? You know, the circle one.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Dylk said. “Like I said, anywhere but here.”

They made their way through the empty mansion - empty save for Vix, who was laying on one of the many couches - and walked out into the rain.

“Have you been there before?” Dylk asked, trying to pull his shirt over his head.

“The coliseum? Only once,” Ballin said.

“Don’t you live here?” Dylk asked.

“Now I do.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I used to live in the woods like Salman.” Ballin had his brown hood on, which made it hard to see his face.

“Do you hate it here as much as he does?”

“Salman doesn’t hate Rattwater, I don’t think. He would just rather be traveling, that’s all.” He looked around. “But I love it here now that I know people. The woods get lonely sometimes.”

“Us, you mean?” Dylk asked.

“What? Oh yeah, I love you guys.” Ballin said this with such nonchalance that Dylk didn’t know how to feel, much less how to respond, so they continued quietly.

Soon they were on the high street, surrounded by the wet, stinking masses. There, among the crowd, Dylk saw something he didn’t expect. In front of them, walking in the opposite direction, were Bauwls, Salman, and Voolio. And walking beside them was a tall, muscular, bald man he didn’t recognize. Voolio was the first to spot them and nudged the man by the shoulder. It wasn’t long before they were all reunited, right outside the market.

“Hey, guys,” Dylk said, looking around at them.

“Hi!” the mystery man said, giving a toothy grin to them.

“This is Balder,” Salman said, “the man who saved my life.” Dylk’s brain sparked with the memory of Salman’s campfire story.

“Oh! Hi, Balder, I’m Dylk Willum.”

“Hi, Dylk!” he said.

“And I’m Ballin,” said… well, you know.

“Hi, Ballin!” Balder said. “Are you gonna be my friends, too?” Dylk and Ballin looked at each other.

“Yeah,” both of them said, unsure.

“Guys, guys, Balder is awesome!” Voolio said, putting a green arm around Balder’s shoulder. “We’re taking him to the mansion.”

“The mansion?” Dylk asked.

“The mansion!” Voolio said. “He’s gonna live there with us! He’s part of the group!”

“Alright,” Dylk said, still uncertain. “We’re going to the coliseum, wanna-”

“We’ve had enough violence, master three-quarterling,” Salman said. “I’m sure you understand.” There wasn’t any aggravation in his words, at least any that Dylk could tell.

“Of course,” Ballin said. “We’ll be back soon, we’ll see you all then.”

“See ya!” Voolio said. Then, Dylk and Ballin were alone again.

The coliseum loomed over them like an enormous building over two people of varying sizes. The lines in front were much more active then the last time Dylk had seen them, which made him suspicious of the whole thing. He could see the dripping sign above the entryways through the pouring sheets of rain. In large, red letters it read: “Return of the champion! Seventeen wins! Don’t miss it!”

“I don’t know about this,” Dylk said, whispering to Ballin.

“Did you hear there’s betting?” Ballin asked.

“Betting?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Dylk rushed to take a space in line, with his lizard-like amigo close behind.

“So, Dylk,” Ballin said as soon as they got a spot.

“Mhm?”

“What do you think of that Balder fella?”

“His name is too close to yours,” Dylk said. “And your name is already too close to Bauwls to begin with.”

“But that’s all you think about him?” Ballin asked.

“I guess so. I don’t know enough about him to say.” In his mind, Dylk was suspicious but he couldn’t understand why.

“I trust him,” Ballin said, as if sensing Dylk’s thoughts. “He reminds me of someone’s little brother or something.”

“But how did he end up in the same place we did? And why did he save Salman’s life like he did? How was he there to save him in the first place?”

“Maybe it’s Moosa’s doing,” Ballin said out of the corner of his mouth.

“You too?” Dylk asked, flabbergasted. “What’s with everyone and this Moosa guy? Just because Bauwls came back to- oh…” At the same moment, he was interrupted both by his own realization and the ticket booth clerk.

“Hello!” he said in a crackly voice. He couldn’t have been older than 16. “How can I help you today?”

“Two tickets to the fight, please,” Ballin said.

“Ok!” The clerk tore two red tickets off a roll (of tickets). “That’ll be four silver.” Dylk looked in his coin pocket and saw only his share of the gold they’d gotten from the council. Before he could ask for change, Ballin slammed a gold piece on the booth surface, smirking deviously.

“Keep the change,” he said, satisfied with himself. The clerk eyed it for a second.

“Um… I can’t take that,” he said, turning faintly red. The cracks in his voice were getting worse. “They don’t let us take tips.”

“Oh… alright,” Ballin said awkwardly. The clerk took his precious time counting out the change while the two of them stood trying not to stare.

“Here you go,” he said, handing over the change with the tickets. “Enjoy the fight!”

“You, too,” Dylk said. Why did I say that? he thought, walking through the archway. Maybe that made sense since he’ll be watching too. No, that was just stupid to say. Gods damn it.

The arena opened in front of them and Dylk almost fainted. He’d never seen nor heard so many people at once before, not even in the second phase of Dun Day. There must have been thousands, ten of thousands there. And the sound, oh the sound. It reminded him of the dragon’s rumble inside the crypt. He shivered.

“Where do we bet?” he yelled to Ballin. They were standing in an aisle between two groups of seats, all packed to capacity.

“That might be a start,” Ballin said, pointing to a man near the bottom of the stairs. He was too far away to hear but he looked to be shouting something. He held a box from a strap around his shoulders, and on the front of the box was written “Bets” in simple text. They walked to him through the crowded aisle and Dylk tapped him on the arm.

“Excuse me!” he yelled. “We want to bet on the fight!”

“Ah, of the gambling persuasion, are we?” He had a strange accent that Dylk didn’t recognize.

“Yeah,” Ballin said, “what are the odds?”

“One and a hundredth to one for the reigning champion of the arena, Dox, and eighty-seven to one for the challenger, Tryndiss of Pord.” The betmaster radiated the kind of charm that Bauwls could’ve used for her cult.

“Dylk,” Ballin said, “let’s bet on the Tryndiss guy.”

“What are you, insane?” Dylk asked, gesturing his arms in an uncontrolled fashion.

“I’m betting big on Tryndiss,” Ballin said to the betmaster. “Twenty gold!” he said, handing over exactly that.

“A true gambler, sir sabro! Very good! Very good, indeed! Will you be betting for the child as well?” He looked to Dylk with soft blue eyes.

“Child?” Dylk yelled in disbelief. “I’m a halfling! Tell him I’m a halfling, Ballin!”

“Another twenty on Tryndiss for the child, thank you,” Ballin said, taking twenty more out of his bag. He leaned in next to Dylk as he did. “You owe me, kiddo.” He winked.

“Very good, very good! We allow box access for such big spenders as yourselves. Follow me!” He put the gold in his box and started up the aisle without checking if either of them were, indeed, following. They went up past the entryway to the top of the seating area, where he opened a door to his left and waved them in.

Inside was an empty, lavishly furnished room, inhabited only by four or five old men. One of the walls was taken up by a floor to ceiling window overlooking the arena.

“Enjoy the match, gentlemen,” the betmaster said, “and take these.” He handed Ballin two slips of parchment then gently closed the door behind them.

With the outside cacophony gone, Dylk felt incrementally more at ease and allowed himself a breath. Ballin held out his hand beside him. Dylk sighed and begrudgingly handed him twenty of his hard earned big ones, saying goodbye to each one as it left his hand. In return, Ballin handed Dylk one of the slips. It said, in no uncertain terms, that if Tryndiss were to win, “the child” would be awarded 1,740 gold.

The two of them took seats right up against the glass and Dylk peered down onto the masses below. Then he looked back down at the slip. Seventeen hundred and… how the f-

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice was clear as day, yet Dylk saw no source for it. The old men chuckled at him as he searched the room with his eyes. “Welcome to the coliseum of Rattwater!” He could hear a quiet roar from outside. “Today’s is an exciting one, folks! It may mark the eighteenth straight victory for our champion, giving him the all time record! What do you think of that?” Another muffled cheer. “And here he is, ladies and gentlemen, the champion of Urkhar! Of the world! The hero of the people of Denn! Dox! The! Giant!”

A gate on the left side of the arena opened upward, revealing a shadowy figure. His size was readily apparent as he stepped out of the darkness, dwarfing the guard beside him in both size and presence. Dylk couldn’t make out his face from the box but the crowd told him enough. Every time Dox looked at the spectators, a whole section would go silent and motionless. He had shoulder-length black hair and a body that would make Dylk’s nana say “I think he’s eaten quite enough!” But Dylk only knew one thing about him for sure:

The people loved him.

“And the challenger of today’s match,” the announcer said, “hails from the Empire of Pord. Once a war hero of the enemy, he now seeks his fortune in our lands. Into the arena walks Tryndiss of Pord!”

The audience erupted in jeers and boos, the volume of which reached even the ears of Dylk and Ballin.

“Shame they allowed him in,” one of the old men behind them said. “Killed 200 Dennish men, so they say.”

“They say he won the war,” another said. Dylk turned to Ballin and he, too, was uncertain of what to think.

Tryndiss wore light fabric the color of fresh snow in place of armor, which matched his long hair. He couldn’t have been much taller than Dylk. He was, in fact, the exact opposite of Dox, almost comically so. But nothing was comical about the look they so obviously gave each other; even Dylk could sense it from the box.

“It’s a rematch from the war, sabro,” one of the old men said. Dylk and Ballin turned again to them. “They fought in the last battle of it, the Battle of the White Sands. Tryndiss killed Dox’s whole regiment and he’s come to finish the job. Shame he’ll die, elvish bastard,” he said, laughing.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Let the match,” the announcer paused for effect, “begin! Right out the gate, Tryndiss rushes and oh! He- oh! Looks like Dox has blocked his hits, but he’s coming for more. Will he- oh! A solid hit to Dox’s armor but nothing serious! And- my gods! Such speed from the challenger! And Dox goes for the swing and he hits- no, he doesn’t, it’s a miss! Unbelievable! And Tryndiss goes in for another and- oo! Tryndiss gets another lick off on Dox. And… and it appears that Dox is bleeding from the side. Yes! Yes, he’s been hit! What a turn of events! But he’s still up! Yes, he’s still up and the elf comes in for another hit and oh! Oh gods! That was a heavy hit! I heard it all the way- what’s this? Dox has! Dox has fallen to his knees! The champion had dropped his sword and now he’s! Oh! Tryndiss is- oh gods, he’s! It looks like… it looks like the match… is over… It appears that Dox the Giant has… fallen… to… Tryndiss.”

With the word ‘fallen,’ the entire arena shook with jeers. Guards carried Dox’s body away through the gate, leaving Tryndiss to tend to the crowd alone. He raised his arms to them, spinning on his heel, sword replaced into its sheath. A beer cup hit him in the face. Then another landed beside him. And another. He just managed to get away before they ran out of beer and started throwing rocks and knives instead.

But not before he swiveled again on his foot and, without a shadow of a doubt, locked eyes with Dylk and held the stare for a few moments.

The stands below the box had turned into a bloody free-for-all, people falling left, right, and center.

“What do we do?” Ballin asked, head in hand. Dylk, still stunned by the heart-fluttering moment he’d just had, eyed the men behind him awkwardly. They were not happy.

“I… I don’t know. Wait!” He spotted the betmaster in the crowd. He was being protected by a group of seven or eight guards but they were falling fast. “I’ll tell you what we do. We get him out with our money and leave,” he said, pointing to the poor fella.

“We could skip the first part and-”

“No! He has my 1,740 gold!” Dylk rushed to the door and kicked it open, sending a man flying down the thirty foot entryway.

Before them was a hundred feet of hot, steamy skin on skin action and, right in the middle of it, their man.

Without thinking, Dylk ran through the crowd, down the aisle. He could hear Ballin trying to keep up behind him but he didn’t slow down for a moment. Around him was the stench of pure, concentrated testosterone and the sound of a million feeble, drunken punches.

But he got as close as he could get to their destination, by some miracle, unharmed, and heard Ballin panting beside him to boot. There were only two guards left around the betmaster, and they fell as soon as Dylk could see their desperate faces. Just as the crowd was to swarm on the poor man, Dylk had an idea.

“Ballin, throw me in!”

“What?”

“Throw me to him! I’ll get him out!” To his astonishment, Ballin complied with great excitement. Dylk was sent flying over the crowd, where he got a moment to reflect on the situation he found himself in. But it went the same way it came, and he landed feet-first on the ground next to the betmaster.

“Hello,” Dylk said.

“Hello, child,” the betmaster responded, kicking a man to his left.

“Come with me!” Dylk said, grabbing his hand and sprinting out of the crowd. He felt a few hands grab at him and a few tugs from people doing the same to his companion, but they went on at full speed.

Then, before he knew it, they were out.

Dylk, taking a second to breath, let go of the betmaster’s sweaty hand. They’d made it across the street, he realized, and it was completely barren. The man was the first to speak:

“I… am in your debt, it seems.” He spoke breathlessly.

“You got that right,” Dylk said, pulling in far too much air. “Now give us what we won.”

“What you won?” the betmaster asked. “Take it all!” He unstrapped the box from his shoulders and opened it. Inside it, Dylk could see, was at least double what he owed them. He slid the box to Dylk and bowed. “I must be on my way, gentlemen, before the academics in the arena decide to follow us. I pray to Haforno our paths cross again.”

“But where are you gonna go?” Ballin asked, concerned.

“Far from here, far from my own home, for they know my home well. I know you’ll miss me, gentlemen,” he said with a wink.

“Hey, hey, wait a second!” Dylk said as he was walking away. “We have a place here with plenty of room for you, and no one will know you’re there!”

“And even if they find out,” Ballin said, “we have more than enough strength to defend you.”

“We killed a dragon once,” Dylk said.

“Yeah, we killed a dragon,” Ballin added.

“Ha! Alright then! You two have better silver tongues than even myself! Tell me, what shall I call you?”

“Dylk Willum.”

“Krerrhenthes Ballin.”

“I am Banan Ryediri, but you may call me anything you like, gentlemen,” he said, winking again.