The journey from Grafen to Hikmar felt like walking into an oven someone forgot to turn off after roasting a goose. The steppe wind was replaced by scorching heat that cracked the skin on our faces and melted our thoughts. Sand gritted in our teeth, reminding us that we weren't on a stroll, but on the edge of civilization.

  But we weren't just walking. We were Smugglers.

  On our carts, under carelessly piled planks—leftovers from the "Wooden Voyage"—lay barrels of wine from Grafen.

  "Remember," Gunther instructed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag. "In the Southern Cities, alcohol is not welcome. Officially. If the Vizier's guard finds the barrels, they will fine us so heavily we'll have to sell ourselves into slavery. If we sneak them to the black market buyer, we will be kings. Risk is 100%. Profit is 400%."

  We stood in line at the gates. The sun beat down mercilessly. Guards in turbans and with curved sabers lazily poked spears into merchants' sacks, looking for contraband.

  Vain, our "staff alco-medic," knew what was inside the barrels. And this knowledge was driving him mad. He hovered near the cart, checking the corks, and his hands were shaking not just from the heat.

  "It's evaporating!" the Anatomist whispered in panic. "In this heat... I must check the seal. Precious fumes are escaping!"

  Gunther didn't see as he was preparing a bribe, counting coppers, but Jem saw.

  Vain pulled out a hollow reed and attached himself to a crack in one of the barrels. He drank greedily, in long gulps, knowing this was his last chance before the strict control zone.

  "Next!" a guard barked.

  Gunther pulled the mule by the reins. The cart creaked.

  The guard stepped close, squinting from the sun.

  "Cargo?"

  "Construction debris," Gunther handed over a fake declaration, trying not to look at the barrels. "Planks from Dunkel. For repairs at the Arena."

  The guard didn't look at the paper. He looked at the cart. He struck the top plank with the shaft of his spear. It shifted.

  Underneath, with a dull golden glint, treacherously bright, shone the damp side of a barrel with a winery brand.

  Gunther's heart skipped a beat.

  At that moment, the cart lurched. Vain, losing his balance from drinking in the heat, collapsed onto his knees right in front of the guard and smiled broadly, blissfully.

  "Hey, you!" the guard got distracted from the barrel, looking disgustedly at the crawling man. "What’s wrong with him? Is he plagued?"

  "Sunstroke," Jem interjected quickly, shielding the drunkard and the barrel with his body. "See? Pale, glassy eyes, loss of coordination. His brains are boiling. We're taking him to the shade before he croaks."

  The guard narrowed his eyes. His fingers moved toward his saber. Mistrust read in his gaze.

  Jem, feeling the sand sticking to his sweaty palms, pretended to help Vain up and sharply, briefly kicked the Anatomist with his boot in the knee, right in the bad joint.

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  Vain howled. From his mouth, opened in a scream, trickled a stream of saliva mixed with red wine, looking just like blood.

  "Oooooh..." the Anatomist groaned, blowing bloody bubbles.

  "Pfeh," the guard stepped back in disgust. "His insides are burning. Give him water, you idiots. And get moving. You smell sour."

  We rolled into the city. Gunther exhaled only a minute later. His hands were shaking so hard the bribe coins jingled in his fist.

  The deal went down at night, in the back room of a spice shop.

  Gold flowed from the buyer's hands into Gunther's bottomless sack. We sold the wood, a deficit in the desert. We sold the wine, a forbidden fruit.

  Gunther sat on the sacks in our camp outside the city walls, under the cold southern stars.

  "Nine thousand five hundred crowns," he whispered. "We can retire. We can buy a house... We can buy lamellar armor..."

  "We are going to the Mercenary Market," said the Captain. "We need a Champion."

  There, in a separate "golden" cage, stood He.

  Talah. The Gladiator.

  He was massive. A shining helmet with a mask, a gilded cuirass, a scimitar curved like a crescent moon. He looked like a god of war bored waiting for the end of the world.

  The slaver named the price: 9,500 crowns.

  Gunther turned pale.

  "That is everything. Everything we earned. And... his daily wage... 75 crowns a day?!"

  "Buy him," the Captain ordered.

  Gunther approached the cage. He looked Talah in the eye through the bars.

  "Do you know how not to die?" he asked.

  Talah looked at Gunther like a bear at an ant.

  "I hit," the Gladiator rumbled. "People scream. Gold clinks."

  "I asked: do you know how NOT TO DIE? Do you understand that you are worth more than my entire life?"

  Talah blinked. The process of thinking reflected on his face like heavy physical labor.

  "Sword sharp," he said finally. "I swing. Enemy fall. I live."

  Gunther turned to the Captain. Nodded doomed, pouring the contents of the sack onto the merchant's table.

  "We buy. If he dies in the first fight — I will die of a heart attack first."

  Talah, now our employee, stepped out of the cage. He stood in formation.

  He looked at our "Veterans". At Adler, one-eyed and pot-bellied. At Vain, shaking with a hangover. At Knut with his pitchfork.

  "Little men," the Gladiator boomed, poking a finger at Tobias. "Flimsy. Why pitchfork? Where sword?"

  "This is your Bodyguard Detail," said the Sergeant.

  Talah opened his mouth, closed it. Then laughed.

  "Bodyguard? Them?" he patted his belly. "I will eat them if I get hungry."

  Gunther walked up to the giant and knocked a knuckle on his gilded breastplate.

  "Listen to me, you Mountain of Muscle. You cost 9,500. You don't have the brains to be afraid. So we will be afraid for you."

  Gunther turned to the squad.

  "Knut, Tobias, Dieter! You are no longer fighters. You are Living Shields for the Investment. Your task is to catch any arrow flying at him with your face. If he gets scratched, I will deduct the treatment from your rations."

  "Boring," Talah yawned. "Want Arena. Want chop."

  "You are the Golden Chicken," Gunther cut him off. "You will stand where I say. And hit whom I permit. And not a step forward without an order. Understood?"

  Talah looked at his reflection in Dieter's shield. Adjusted his golden pauldron.

  "Shiny," he said, letting the entire instruction pass through his ears. "I am ready. Where enemies?"

  We stood in the center of Hikmar.

  Pockets empty.

  Food running out.

  In the center of our formation towered a stupid, narcissistic giant worth a fortune.

  "This is no longer a business," Gunther groaned, sitting down on the hot sand. "This is a casino. We put everything on Zero."

  "No," Jem corrected, tuning his lute. He stopped smiling. "The Captain put us on a tightrope over an abyss. And I think he just pushed us in the back."