"It used to be," said Timlin. "I wanted to be master of the bow and the arrow, but now I guess I'll fight with whatever weapons I'm given."
"You'll fight with the weapon you're most comfortable using," said Oaran, "but not the bow. We fight in close combat."
"How did you end up here?" Timlin asked.
Oaran's eyes narrowed. "You want to know my business? Knowing a man's business can be dangerous."
"I just wondered," Timlin added quickly, "if you were taken prisoner like me or if you chose to come here."
Oaran stared at Timlin as if he were insane. "No one chooses to come here. Even a madman wouldn't choose this. I drank too much ale in the tavern above and fell asleep. I woke up down here. That was three years ago."
Timlin lowered his voice so the guard wouldn't hear. "I think we can escape. I know how to pick locks, if I have the right tools."
Oaran shook his head. "Sorry lad, but it's not going to happen. The cells are guarded day and night. We're watched carefully. Your only chance of escape is to do what you're told and win your battles. When I started, my food was terrible. I could barely swallow it. I was given no dressings for my wounds. No blanket, even." He patted the thick quilt beneath him. "Now I eat good, I sleep good, and I'm given a little ale now and then. I even have my own money."
"But you're still a slave," said Timlin.
"And so are you," said Oaran. "What of it? You think I choose this life? No, I want to see my wife and children again someday, who live in the city of Gravendar. I must stay alive for them. Who will you stay alive for?"
Timlin shrugged. The pain of loneliness wracked his heart, but he tried to hide it. "I have no one. I don't really care."
Oaran seized his shoulder and smiled. "You care deeply. I see it in your eyes. You've suffered much. So, you fight for yourself-and that is good enough. You can make a new start here, but you will be forced to kill. Goblins at first, and then later you will face human warriors."
Timlin flinched away from his touch. "I won't give up on trying to escape. And if I get a chance at that Dwarf…"
"Doesn't matter," said Oaran. "I was the same way as you three years ago-desperate to escape and see my family again. But the harsh punishments for disobedience are not worth the effort. Save your energy for the arena. You'll need it." He tapped his bald head. "Use what's in here, lad. Fight until you are free, and then never look back. Today is a new day."
"Not for me," said Timlin. "Today is the same old thing."
Oaran gazed at him with a curious expression. "You've known some troubles in your life, for sure. Something very dark and bitter lurks in your soul. Is that why you're no longer at Dremlock?"
Timlin looked away. "I've seen worse than this dungeon." He wasn't lying. He had seen worse-endless days and nights spent living below ground, with barely the space to crawl about. The constant beatings and lashings, the hopelessness of his existence. He'd been treated worse than most animals were treated, but he'd survived to eventually crawl forth into daylight.
"Don't disrespect them," said Oaran, his face deathly serious. "If you do, you'll be forced to fight me. And I don't want to have to kill you. I take no pride in killing a skinny lad who has suffered a hard life. No pride at all."
"I won't be treated like a slave," said Timlin, his hands shaking.
Again, Oaran tapped his head. "Keep calm now-and be free later. Or make a stand now and there will be no later."
"We'll see," said Timlin, shifting about uncomfortably on the stone floor. "I may not look like much, but I'm dangerous."
Oaran's eyes glittered, and he smiled. "I sure hope so, my little friend."
Eventually, the guard served them food and drink. Timlin's meal consisted of moldy food and water that tasted odd. Oaran, however, was given a large platter covered in venison and vegetables-so much food that Timlin doubted he would eat all of it. Timlin's mouth watered as he stared at the platter-the dripping meat, potatoes (Timlin loved potatoes), and a large jug of milk. Oaran glanced at Timlin while he ate, but did not offer to share.
Timlin nibbled on a piece of stale bread, then tossed in back on his plate. "Are you going to eat all of that, Oaran?"
"No," said Oaran. "I'll probably leave some of it. My leftovers will go to the Goblins that fight in the arena."
"Goblins?" said Timlin. "Why would you want to feed them? I'll gladly eat your leftovers. I haven't had a good meal in ages."
"I'm sure you would," said Oaran, "but you won't get them. When I'm done, the guard will take my leftovers to the Goblins."
"Because it's not allowed?" Timlin asked.
Oaran shrugged. "There is no rule that says I can't feed you. Prisoners share food all the time. But I'm not going to feed you."
Anger rose inside Timlin. "Why not? I thought you were a kind-hearted fellow, giving me that advice and all."
"You thought wrong," said Oaran. "I'm not going to be kind to you, because kind will get you killed. You want to eat this good? Then you better win your battles. This food is a reward for hard work."
Timlin tossed his plate aside, scattering moldy crud across the floor. "I refuse to eat this. I'd rather starve."
Oaran shrugged. "If you say so. But I'm still not sharing. Nobody shared with me, and the desire for better food kept me going in here. I fought for what I have."
"Yet you're still a pathetic slave," said Timlin.
Oaran nodded. "I'm alive, though."
Timlin sat down and sighed. "Not even a small potato?"
Oaran lifted a tiny potato, studied it thoughtfully, then popped it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his gaze fixed on Timlin.
Timlin leaned against the cell bars and closed his eyes. But a moment later, the guard seized his head through the bars and shoved Timlin away. "No touching the cell bars!" he growled, as he pushed Timlin.
Timlin turned with instinctive, blazing speed and seized the guard's arm like a striking snake. The stocky fellow's eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe he'd been snared. Immediately, Timlin released him and backed away.
"Keep your filthy hands off me!" the guard muttered. But his eyes showed a glint of fear. "Grab me again like that, and you'll get the whip."
Timlin bowed. "Sorry, it was instinct."
"Instinct will get you killed," said the guard, walking away shaking his head. Moments later, the guard bellowed and smashed his club against something metallic, clearly frustrated by Timlin seizing him.
Oaran frowned. "You're a quick little devil-like nothing I've seen. There is a lot more to you than meets the eye."
"I was well trained," said Timlin. "But who cares? It was all a waste."
"Not a waste," said Oaran. "Not yet."
"What do you mean?" said Timlin. "I've already betrayed Dremlock. I've pretty much sealed my fate."
"You've still got a heart," said Oaran. "You can still use those fine talents to do some good in the world."
"Whatever you say," Timlin mumbled. Soon he would have to fight for his life for the amusement and profit of others, and the notion sickened and terrified him. Timlin wasn't afraid of ordinary combat-such fears had been diminished by his training. But something about fighting to the death in an arena made his stomach feel like it was full of boiling acid. He realized he was trembling from head to toe. He wasn't just afraid to die-he was also afraid to kill. He didn't want to slay a foe in close quarters for no honorable reason. He pondered that realization, deeply confused by it. As part of the Blood Legion, he would have been expected to kill whoever they told him to kill-even innocents if need b e. But Timlin realized his Knightly training, and his conscience, was still affecting him deeply and demanding he only take a life if given no choice.