The handlers returned, blood specking their black leather tunics and boots. Things were going quickly tonight which did not surprise Ulrik. This ancient, decayed building was not a normal Pit. It was buried in the ruins at the edge of the city, a secret shameful place. This was not an official contest but an illegal one, with no rules, nothing forbidden. The decadent aristocracy of Typhon paid well for such things.

Tonight men fought with monsters, demons, all the products of the darkest sorcery. Under the circumstances swift, spectacular deaths were not only to be expected but savoured.

Nervousness tingled in his gut. The only thing he had to look forward to was survival and that meant only another fight. For him the Pit was a death sentence. His right to a portion of the victor’s purse had been denied him as part of his sentence. Those who had pronounced the verdict had intended that he would have no chance to buy freedom for himself. He would fight until he died.

Ulrik clenched his fists tight. His lips twisted into a hard sneer. Screw the bastards; the magistrate who had sold him into slavery, the whole corrupt system that had condemned him. His real crime was never mentioned, and that was being born poor and hungry and not wanting to stay that way, and taking the only way out available to him. He glared around, a trapped animal searching for a way out it would never find.

He raised his heavily muscled arms and inspected his shackles. No change! The slavestone still glowed a gentle green. If he moved too far away from the master stone blazing agony would reduce him to a mewling wreck. He had learned that lesson in the early days after his capture.

The bell sounded again. The handlers dragged out three more prisoners in quick succession, including the man with the demon claw. Something bestial greeted them with a growl like subdued thunder. A minute later there were screams of pain and the roar of a crowd unable to contain its excitement. Over the last year Ulrik had learned to hate that sound.

A shadow fell through the bars.

“Master Valerius,” said Moth in tones respectful enough to make Ulrik look round. A cloaked aristocrat and his cat-girl paramour stared back. Behind them were four purple robed bodyguards. Masks and cowls hid the strong-arms’ faces.