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Sangjo lifted his index finger. “First, the tour.”

He led them down a ramp into a dark, curving corridor. Its ceiling was formed from the underside of the stone seats, and its walls were lined with cells fronted by thick iron bars. The floor of the corridor pitched inward to drain the waste of the things that lived in the cells.

“What’ve you got in here?” Rytlock asked.

“Everything—krait, dredge, skritt, hylek, human . . .”

“Human?” Logan gasped.

“Murderers, all of them. Convicted and sentenced. Like you, they had the choice of prison or the arena, and they chose the arena. Naturally, you’ll have better lodgings, elsewhere. Unless you try to run.”

The group walked past a cell where a pair of the giant, frog-headed hylek crouched and glared. One shot its mucous-mantled tongue out between the bars to wrap around Logan’s leg. He kicked his foot loose and stomped on the tongue, which withdrew limply. The next cell held three krait—creatures with reptilian heads and human torsos and serpent abdomens. At sight of the group, the krait raised their neck frills and hissed angrily.

“What’ve you got in the way of grawl?” rumbled Rytlock.

“All in good time,” Sangjo replied, “but first—” He gestured into the next cell, in which twenty or thirty rotting bodies shambled around in the darkness. Their rusted cutlasses grated on the ground. “We just got this load of Orrian undead.”

“Undead?”

“Real crowd-pleasers. We let them get torn limb from limb since they’re already dead. Of course, down here, they’re a nuisance. They don’t keep. They stink up the place.”

“Not much of a challenge, fighting undead,” Rytlock put in.

“You’d be surprised. They fight with weapons and with fury, and even after you dismember them, the limbs fight on.” Sangjo slid a key from his pocket and fit it into the door of the cell.

Caithe’s eyes grew wide. “What are you doing?”

Sangjo smiled. “Giving you a test.” With that, he produced their weapons from his robes, handing Caithe her stilettos, Logan his hammer, and Rytlock—

“That’s mine!” he growled, snatching Sohothin in its scabbard and knocking Logan’s hand away.

Just then, the tide of undead hurled back the door of their cell and flooded out.

One monster charged Rytlock, ramming its blade at him. He backhanded the rusted metal and kicked the creature in the groin, crushing its pelvis. The monster’s legs went limp, and it slumped to the ground. Even so, its sword kept swinging. Rytlock stomped on its arm, cracking it in two.

Logan meanwhile ducked beneath another monster’s cutlass, grabbed the beast’s rotting hand, wrenched the blade out of tumbling finger bones, and impaled the monster on it. He let the creature fall on its own sword while he hoisted his hammer. “You might’ve given us a chance to prepare.”

Sangjo stood beyond the fray, a warding wall glimmering before him. “Gladiators must be ready at a moment’s notice.”

Rytlock punched another undead creature in the head, breaking its neck, though the body still fumbled toward him. “Enough!” he growled, unsheathing Sohothin and ramming it into the creature’s guts. Fire burst between ribs, and the whiff of roasted meat wafted upward. Rytlock kicked the cooked creature off his sword and turned to spit two more. “It’s a sad thing when a group of friends can be torn apart by something as simple as undead.”

Logan’s hammer imploded the chest of another beast, which fell on a pile of two more. “That’s three for me.”

“Three?” Rytlock roared as he strode over his victims to impale another. “I’ve got three stuck between my toes, two more smoldering in the corner, and a new one on my blade.” He shoved off his latest kill, which fell to the ground like a turkey from a platter. “Where’s that damned sylvari?”

“Standing on seven.” A monster toppled forward to reveal Caithe drawing her white stiletto out of its brain. The creature lay beside six others like fish on ice. “Pithing is what they call it. Stick in the blade, swish it around, and the brain’s no good—even for an undead.” She demonstrated on an eighth. “Also works on frogs.”