Master Toriem squared his shoulders. "We have come to get a sword."

"Certainly, Master...?" Baratien trailed off, raising his eyebrows at the handler.

"Toriem."

"Master Toriem?" Baratien's half-smile slipped, thin lips dropping into a weathered line.

"Yes." Master Toriem lifted his chin slightly. If he had not been standing so close to the handler, Imalroc might not have seen Master Toriem's shoulders tighten and the muscle in his jaw flex again. The handler had not missed Baratien's recognition of his name.

"Excellent, excellent." Baratien rubbed his hands together, massaging the swollen joints of his fingers while staring unblinkingly at Master Toriem. "I have a few pieces you might like, sir." He swung around with uncanny speed, loping with the crutch under one arm and leading them to a long table beneath the awning. Scattered across it lay a mess of jutting hilts and bright winking blades, each wrapped in oilcloth.

Master Toriem stepped up to the table, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. Imalroc's eyes dropped to where the handler's fingers were twisting around each other over and over again. Imalroc leaned a little closer to the blades.

It was Bartien's usual assortment of crude gear. Short swords, a few wicked-edged dirks, throwing daggers and the occasional axe, all stacked on top of each other.

Master Toriem turned to Imalroc."So...what do you want?"

"None of these are my traditional weapons, master," Imalroc murmured, slipping behind his deferential mask. On the other side of the table, Baratien's eyes narrowed and he grinned. Imalroc knew that his act did not fool the old man, but he carried on with it. The swordsmith had always liked him. He'd play along.

"You fight with a long sword, don't you?" Master Toriem asked. Imalroc nodded.

Baratien's smile gleamed brighter on his face."I have just the thing for your fighter, sir." He stumped away into the dark of the forge. When he reemerged, he carried a long sword with a jet-black blade pouring like the world's deadliest stalactite from the slender pommel.

"Newly made, sir, and the finest work I've done in some time," Baratien said as he passed the blade grip-first into Master Toriem's hands. The handler held it awkwardly, and then made a motion to give it to Imalroc.

Baratien coughed in alarm. "Er, sir...I don't think we should...ah...arm the battleboxer when he is not...ah..." Baratien stuttered into silence. Imalroc gave the smith a withering glance that he managed to wipe off of his face when Master Toriem glanced at him.

"There is no need to worry. He will be perfectly obedient," the handler said. Baratien met Imalroc's eyes almost on accident, and then looked at the ground. When Master Toriem handed him the sword, Imalroc saw at once why Baratien had not wanted him to get a closer look at it.

This was most certainly not something Baratien had forged recently, if he had made it at all. The blade was perfectly balanced and longer than most Inofaran swords. Inlaid in the braided black leather of the grip was a thin silver snake, its eyes set with tiny green jewels. That snake, coupled with the black steel of the blade was a dead giveaway. Baratien was trying to sell them a Draalish sword.

Imalroc twirled the sword in his hands. The smith was undoubtedly trying to get the weapon out of his shop before it got him into trouble. Imalroc did not much like his trickery, but then again, he was not the one being tricked. It wasn't his fault if the handler was too clueless to recognize the traits of a Draalish sword. Master Xavian had always insisted the Draalites made the best weaponry anyways.

"It's perfect, Master," he said, swinging the blade to hear the musical whistle as it sliced through open air. Baratien's smile popped back into place.

"Fine. How much are you looking for, swordsmith?" Master Toriem asked. His hand traveled to the top of the little pouch inside his cloak.

"Well...for you sir, I might be able to go a little lower than normal. I'll give it to you for fifty onyx," Baratien said. Imalroc almost burst out laughing. Nothing quite like watching a puffed-up handler get swindled.

"I think that's a bit steep, my friend," Master Toriem replied. "I'll give you ten for it." His fingers tapped against the outside of his cloak. Imalroc let the sword swing like a pendulum, keeping his eyes fixed on the blade.

"Sir, I have a wife and children to feed!" Baratien blustered. "I can't give away my best work for such a low price!"

"I'm not paying fifty onyx for a blade somebody snatched from a Draalite warlord. Throw in a plain scabbard and I'll give you fourteen for both," the handler said. Imalroc looked up sharply.

The swordsmith's swallow was audible. "It...it may appear to be...somewhat Draalish in style, sir, but..."

"Oh come on," Master Toriem said, "I'm not quite that much of a fool. It's stolen from Draal. That's not going to stop me from buying it. But I'm not going to pay full price for it, either."

"It's not stolen," Baratien muttered, his expression dissolving into a scowl.

"Fifteen, with a scabbard," the handler said.

"Very well."

Imalroc had never seen the swordsmith give in quite so quickly. He wanted them out of his shop. Baratien's gaze was almost baleful, and fixed unerringly on the handler.

They were on their way soon afterwards, with the Draalish sword safely hidden from view in a plain scabbard slung across Master Toriem's shoulders. Imalroc floated along at the handler's heels. They did not speak to each other again until they were safely inside the gates of the Toriem estate. The handler led the way back to the cellar door but stopped Imalroc before he went inside.

"Were you going to tell me about the sword at any point?" Master Toriem asked. Imalroc shrugged.

"Why should I? I don't care that the blade is from Draal. It makes no difference to me."

"But if I had not known it was from Draal, you would have let me spend fifty onyx on it?" the handler pressed.

"It's not my problem."

"It is your problem. I spend fifty onyx on a sword, and you are fifty onyx further away from earning your freedom," Master Toriem said. He took a step closer to Imalroc. The handler's eyes were the same brilliant emerald of the snake on the sword.

"Do you understand?" Master Toriem asked. "We're on the same side here." He waited, his eyes dancing over Imalroc's face.

The fighter cloaked his feelings in the safety of silence. The handler could say whatever he liked, but Imalroc knew that they would never truly be on the same side of anything. He'd heard that foolish idea before. He'd seen what it had done to battleboxers who believed it. They were the true slaves, and he would never be one of them.

"What do you need in order to train?" the handler asked, breaking the silence.

"I'll need to practice with the blade. And you've got to let me out of the cellar. I can't train in there."

"I see," Master Toriem said. He turned away from the fighter, staring around the empty courtyard. Then he nodded. "Anyone comes through the main entrance, you need to stay out of sight and get into the cellar as soon as possible."

"Fine. Another thing. I'll need better food. None of that prison gruel you've been giving me."

"That prison gruel is what we eat too. There's not much to be had. But I'll see what I can do. Anything else? I have an evening hunt to get to."

"The cellar is pretty damn cold at night. I don't sleep well there. Lack of sleep is problematic when fighting."

"I don't see what we can do about that. The manor house is just as cold."

"Yes...but the grounds house..."

"Not a chance," Master Toriem said with a sharp laugh. "You're not getting in there."

"Worth a try," Imalroc replied lightly, shrugging. He held his hand out, waiting for the sword. The handler unlashed the scabbard from his back and passed it to him. Imalroc buckled it into place and tugged it into a snug fit. When he looked up, Master Toriem was already walking away from him, toward the grounds house. He was on his own.

Imalroc worked alone until evening fell. He began as Master Xavian had always taught him, by running. Legs and feet. Lasting for longer than a few heartbeats in the battlebox was all about the legs and the feet. He ran in endless loops around the courtyard, following the ivy covered slabs of stone that walled the estate. The air got colder the longer he ran, and his breath puffed out ahead of him through the lengthening shadows.

His thoughts ran in circles far faster than his leaden feet. Every move he made now had to be carefully calculated. If he hadn't spent the past few battles beating his own reputation to death, it would be a lot easier to earn the onyx that the Toriems needed. As it was, he knew not a single battlebox on the East Outer Ring would let him in for a fight.

He'd have to go back to the old stomping grounds. Balgotan, maybe. Or Kysburg. Gods be damned, even they might not take him and if not, there was one that he knew would let him into the battlebox. The Arble. Where fighters slipping too far into old age crossed blades with the unschooled fresh blood desperate to claw their way up into the elite houses. The Arble's body count had surpassed the fatalities in the Southland Wars, and it climbed higher every night. They'd let him in. They let anybody in.

Imalroc's muscles burned with every stretching stride he took. He realized he had sped up unconsciously. He slowed to a walk, breathing hard through his nose. As he turned the corner closest to the grounds house, he saw Lady Toriem standing outside the open door.

She watched him as he approached, one hand braced white-knuckled in the doorframe. Imalroc gave her a wide berth, veering away from the grounds house.

"Imalroc!" she called. He stopped, and she beckoned him closer.

"Milady?" he said, drifting toward the cottage.

"Rerdas said you wanted to discuss your next fight?"

"Yes, milady."

"Then...come in." She swung aside to let him enter the house. She was better at hiding her fear than her sweet-eyed cousin was. Imalroc prowled into the warmth of the cottage and sat in a rickety chair opposite Lady Toriem. They locked blank stares across the table.

"Well..." she began, "I've been looking into other fights, but I've been politely rebuffed from everywhere. You've sunk so far that the battleboxes consider you an indignity."

"Is that supposed to bother me?" Imalroc unhooked the scabbard from his back so that he could lean back in his chair.

Lady Toriem's eyes narrowed. "Do not address me in such a manner. As long as I own your contract, you will show me proper deference." He could hear the anger simmering just beneath the surface, even though she looked bored by the conversation.

Imalroc grinned. "So you're the one who actually wanted to get into battleboxing," he said.

"Yes," she sniffed. "And I will be respected as the owner I am."

"I have never met an owner I respected. Never. I doubt you will be the first."

"You—"

"Listen, milady, I am willing to fight to get you the money you need. That's it. You want somebody to grovel at your rather large feet, go buy one of the broken ones. They have the manners you're looking for. Now...do you want to discuss business or not?"

"I could have you hacked up into pieces and torn apart by dogs if I wanted," she said.

Imalroc stood up."A word of advice? Don't try to threaten a battleboxer with the possibility of death. It doesn't frighten the good ones."

"And I suppose you still consider yourself one of the good ones?"

"Milady, I am the very best of them," he said, a reckless smile tearing across his face. He gave her an elaborate bow and turned for the door.

"Where am I supposed to set up a fight then, oh great one?" Lady Toriem snapped after him. Imalroc turned back towards her. Little spots of red colored her cheeks, and she lifted her chin as he appraised her.

"Have you spoken to anyone at Balgotan?"

"Yes. They quite firmly rejected my proposals. I even offered to put you in a front fight before one of the big championship fights. They were not interested."

"Well...that means Kysburg is out as well," Imalroc mused aloud. Fucking Balgotan. He could mop the floor with any of their fighters, maybe even all of them at once. He stuffed down his wounded ego and turned back to the problem. He knew where he was headed.

"You'll have to go to the Arble. Put me into their next bloodbath."

"The Arble? You want me to set up a fight at that shithole?"

"It's not as bad as Tamasyad. Just make sure it's one of the bloodbaths. A few fights in the under ring battleboxes won't earn any attention from the Inner Ring houses, much less the East Outer. We don't have time to go fight by fight."

"You're sure you can win one of those? You're not as fast as you once were," Lady Toriem said. Imalroc grinned at the jab. He did not bother to reply, and left the kitchen without another word. Back to the run.

His energy was spent when he finally curled up on his stone-cold mattress. Everything was aching, from his neck to his ankles. It was a strangely satisfying feeling. Imalroc dragged the saddle blankets tighter around him, inhaling the aroma of hay and horses. He touched his cheek tentatively, feeling the still swollen skin where Master Toriem had struck him. Guess he could be just as much a fucking shithead as all the other handlers. What small kindnesses he gave Imalroc came from his inexperience, not from any real goodwill.

Imalroc's eyes fell on the sword he had left leaning beside the foot of the mattress. The black blade sat in a band of bright moonlight, and its dark surface offered no reflection. But the brilliant green eyes of the snake in the grip glittered at Imalroc like they belonged to a living thing. He felt his stomach turn over uncomfortably and rolled onto his side.

Imalroc stared at the door for a while, listening to his own relentless breathing. Too quick for sleep. The fighter jerked up out of the bed, flinging aside the saddle blankets and climbing to his feet. He kicked the sword with one bare foot, knocking it out of the light and onto the ground with a discordant clang.

In the darkness, he closed his eyes. Just a few more fights and he'd be out from under all of this. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Just had to keep running.