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They shook hands. Then the crowd pushed them forward, and they were out in the daylight. Bloodthirsty shouts and cries filled the air. Warriors beat their weapons against their shields. There weren’t many spectators for these things, just the caliph and his rich, important subjects and their invited guests. They all sat up on the second-floor balconies—away from the warriors, away from the danger of slaves turning against their masters.

But the yard, which normally held only two fighters, swarmed with slaves. They stood in two groups, beating swords and spears against their shields, ready to launch at one another, just like in a battle.

This would be quick and bloody and deadly.

They set off and the audience bellowed.

Shields and swords clashed. Spears flew and pierced live flesh. Blood sprayed and bones cracked. Taken lives disappeared in swirling clouds of dust.

A dark-skinned giant launched at Ian with a hammer. Ian raised his shield, which met the man’s blade with bone-crushing power. He stabbed, and Ian jumped back. His opponent’s sword slashed empty air next to Ian’s abdomen. Ian stabbed from under his shield and struck right below the man’s chin, sinking the blade into his head.

The next blow came from behind, someone’s sword scratching against Ian’s armor. He whirled to see a quick, slender Arab. Ian fought him, but more came from all sides. They all must have decided to finish him. Someone slashed his shoulder, pain burning him. Another went for his neck, but Ian ducked. A third attacked from the left side, and Ian barely managed to hit him with his shield. He fought for a while, losing strength, being chased back. As soon as he fought one, two more appeared.

Abaeze managed to rescue him once, but soon he had to fight his own battle.

Death looked into Ian’s eyes and invited him to come along.

Maybe it was for the better. He deserved death. God knew, he’d taken enough lives. But his body kept fighting, kept clinging to life.

And then everything changed.

Screams rang all around—from behind the walls of caliph’s palace, from inside it. Everywhere. Giant rocks began falling on the buildings. Arrows flew and hit the ground and the men.

Ian’s enemies stopped fighting him, ducking under their shields, running for their lives. The caliph and his guests disappeared inside the building.

“Abaeze! Abaeze!” Ian cried, looking around.

Men lay dead, crushed under the rocks, blood soaking dry dirt. There were men Ian had been sharing a room with. Black, white, brown bodies with gashes and wounds lay around the courtyard.

Something shielded the sun, and a shadow was cast over Ian. He glanced up, seeing a rock fly right at him.

This was it. The great, bloody death.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abaeze leap towards him. They flew to the side, the rock hitting the place where Ian had just stood. Dirt and gravel showered down on them.

“Thank you,” Ian mumbled.

They stood up. The buildings around them were crumbled, corners destroyed. People screamed in pain, some crushed under the rocks, some suffering spear and scimitar wounds. Rocks continued falling from the sky, no doubt shot by distant catapults. Then the arrows flew. Masters, guards, servants, and slaves were scattered on the ground, wounded or dead.

An arrow swooshed past Ian, and relief flooded him at the near miss. Then someone yelped. He turned and froze as an icy wave of horror washed through him.

Abaeze sprawled in the dirt, the arrow protruding from his chest.

“No!” Ian fell to his knees by his friend’s side.

Abaeze gurgled blood and reached out for Ian’s hand.

“You watch you,” Abaeze murmured.

His eyes locked with Ian’s, desperation in them.

“No.” Tears burned Ian’s eyes.

“I am finally free,” Abaeze said. “Go, Scot. Go.”

His eyes stilled, and Ian knew then that his friend would never be a slave again. He pulled him to his chest and hugged him.

Then he saw that the gates were still open. No guards. None alive, anyway. Another rock flew at him, and he rolled onto his side.