Miraculously, I reach solid ground without taking a tumble down the creaking stairs. The top floor of the Barracks is my office, the bottom the training ground. I limp my way past the training squares; just a few minutes ago, Ysa had finished going through the moves with the handful of fighters that remained to us; a few flakes of dust are still afloat, the familiar sour odor of sweat. More fighters are supposed to arrive tomorrow. Supposed.

  I open the main gates, the sun floods in. I wait for my eyes to adjust. A group of smaller buildings squat nearby: the infirmary, the kitchen, the forge and weapon storage though all the weapons we had left were stored in the Barracks now. Above it all, the immense bowl of the Arena.

  The sight never ceases to amaze me. I often wonder if Duron was a genius or batshit crazy to build such a place. The intricate stonework, the graceful curves… like seeing a woman for the first time, except this woman didn’t age.

  Fine, she aged. I can see the cracks in the plaster from where I stood.

  A group of men come into view, trailing a mule cart. They approach the infirmary and stop in front of the door. They wear bright green robes.

  I hobble closer; didn’t take them long to notice me. “Are you a patient?” one of them asks, glancing at my bad leg.

  “Could happen someday,” I say. “Today, I’m your employer.”

  As if commanded, they all face me. “You are Luggo the Lame?”

  “In the flesh, putrid as it is. And you are?”

  He makes a slight bow. “My name is Ermalic but you may call me Balm.”

  I smile at that. “You’re that good, eh?”

  Balm smiles back. “So I’m told.” He introduces me to the others. All are young men, nearly boys, but I can see the milestones in their faces.

  At the height of the Halmurri Incursion, the need for skilled healers became most dire. Those who showed promise were pushed through the lessons and thrown on the battlefield. A healer did not survive unless he was made of the right stuff. What they lacked in formal education they made up with plenty of practice, particularly in the final days when the Halmurri pressed even more relentlessly than before.

  With the Incursion over, the Hegemon's Army had more battle surgeons than they could afford. By chance and through some machinations of an acquaintance of mine, this squad ended up here.

  “I’m glad Gaston was able to deliver on his promise,” I say as I fish through my pockets until I find the right key. The lock rebels on me at first but I manage to subdue it. The door of the infirmary screeches open. They begin to unload their cart, efficient as an engine of war.

  “It was either this or working in a hospice,” says Balm, unloading a box with glass bottles rattling inside. “As much as I can appreciate helping those that need it, we were trained to treat battle injuries.”

  The team quickly takes the infirmary as their own. Supplies in the back, emergency kits under the medical beds. I wince when I see the surgical blades. Battlefield ready indeed.

  “I thought Gaston would be with you here today,” I say.

  “Busy putting the Society back together,” says Balm, wrangling a bag of bandages.

  I frown. “I thought he’d retired.”

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “He thought so too. They called him back in.”

  And here I thought Scholar Society was immune to the joys of post-war recuperation. They were hit just as hard as us in that final day if not more.

  It was pleasant watching the lads at work but I had business of my own in the city. “The infirmary is yours. Take good care of her. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  The mule gives me a whiff as I limp past. I leave Balm and his boys behind and head east, along the Road of Triumph.

  If only everything about Arena's troubles could be solved as easily as this. But I only have so many people I can call upon for favors, even if half the City owes their lives to me.

  I have the most elemental rule of all, buried so deep in my upbringing I couldn’t even remember where it came from.

  Never.

  Borrow.

  Money.

  And yet here I am, in the dark waters of debt, struggling for breath.

  As the Arena's repairs drained my coffers dry, I sniffed out some of the wealthier Arena patrons and appealed to their sense of community to get them to finance the repairs. It worked… at first. A few of my sponsors were so old they died while the repairs were still underway. When their heirs took a look at the ledgers and saw how much money went into rebuilding the Arena, they crossed out ‘donation’ and wrote ‘loan’ underneath. Interest rates and deadlines were fished up. Most of them have come and gone; the darling heirs were getting impatient to receive their returns.

  I stop by my house. A small wooden shell of a thing but far more pleasant a dwelling than the reeking shanties around her. Problem is it's on lease and I was already late with the rent. Didn’t look like I would be paying it anytime soon.

  I rummage through the clothes in my drawer until I find a small box. Inside is a silver pin in shape of a cluster of grapes, a sigil of Katalia, famed for her vineyards. Also famed for being the birthplace of Luggo the Lame. This pin was all I had left of my beloved mother, dead for nearly thirty years, gods grant her eternal rest. A good woman she was, to raise a lout like me without a father around. Seeing this pin on her blouse was one of my earliest memories. Strange how that was so clear in my mind while I could hardly remember what her face looked like.

  And now I was about to sell the one thing I had left of her. For a bloody Temple offering. Damn you, Ysa.

  I lock the door behind me, return to the Road of Triumph and merge into the noisy, smelly current of flesh that roll through the streets of Koriantal.

  Ah, Koriantal. The Great City. The magnificent jewel that held the great Hegemony together and produced the most glorious civilization this world has ever seen. Pah! Might as well call it the insatiable gullet that everyone was forced to please or face immediate devouring.

  Whatever the case, mighty Koriantal had turned into a cesspool before I'd arrived here twenty-four years ago. Still couldn’t bring myself to call it home; I simply learned to tolerate it and the city learned to tolerate me. It was a wonderful agreement of mutual disdain, no need to speak of it out loud.

  At first sight, one would think the City hasn’t changed. Buildings were run down before Halmurri had come; occasional fires smudged the walls of brothel, temple or home; earthquakes would never be far away to level the most run down places. I knew all that and yet every structure I passed that was either damaged, gutted or toppled, reminded me of how close to annihilation we came two years ago. I believe most people felt it too; that’s why the mood in the City hasn’t improved even though the Hegemon had called it Victory.

  A short walk through the miasma of the City streets brings me in sight of the Temple, perched on top of Holy Hill. Even for a non-believer, the building was a remarkable feat of architecture, hosting gods of every tribe or kingdom that had joined Koriantal’s Hegemony (consent not required). The Temple of the Hundred Gods it was called though the count had passed a hundred long ago.

  But that was the past. When Halmurri had entered Koriantal, Holy Hill was the first in their bloodpath. They’d turned the place into a bonfire and covered these steep steps in blood of those that came looking for refuge.

  I join the procession, leading up for the evening ritual. Hundreds line the steep causewalk, most of them poor, some recently impoverished due to the war. The poorest wear little more than rags and they haven’t seen a decent meal come their way in a long time. Some labourers and craftsmen in between but most of them don't have the time to be here. No highborns here, they have their own shrines and don't have to come among the poors.

  When did I stop believing in the gods? Can't remember, must have been ages ago. Ysa sent me here to find solace, to quench my fears. But I don’t beg from anyone, not even the gods.

  I turn away from the sorry establishment and leave the ripe smells of its worshippers behind me. I won’t find any hope in that place, I just wish I had figured it out sooner. Now I have to walk the whole way back for nothing.

  What will I say to Ysa? Well, she said I need to make an offering. She never told me which Temple to go to or which god to pray to.