Chapter 4

The cell was just little more than a hole in the wall. To Damas' left, the way he had entered was now blocked by a crude door made from rusty iron bars. If it had not been for the armed guards on the other side, and if he wasn't still tied up like an animal, he could probably have been able to get it out of the way.

To his right, the hole ended in an uneven wooden trapdoor in the wall. Light filtered through the cracks, its flickering quality indicating more torches. A murmur of human voices and the sound of many, many people moving about also made it through, half muted by distance and the wood. There was also a hollow echo to the noise. Whatever was out there, it was in a large area.

Damas had a suspicion about what awaited him, but he had not asked. And none of the marauders dragging him to this cell had felt like sharing.

The only comments he had heard for quite a while were mockery about his own lack of struggle as they brought him down here. If anyone recognized it as an attempt to save his strength, they didn't say anything about it.

Damas felt quite sure that he would use every last ounce of stamina he could muster, very soon.

He sat still, eyes closed and doing his best to ignore the smug mutters and jeers from the guards. Focusing on his breathing and the tiny trickles of light seeping through his aching body.

The eco was nearly exhausted, but there was just enough to ease him up and remove most of the pain. A slow process it was, one that took a great amount of concentration to muster. He was not as good at this as his forefathers were said to have been. But if he could just have a little more time, he should be… not good, but well enough to put up a fight again.

The cell was dark, the air heavy and filled with the choking smell of mould. Outside, the murmur of hundreds of voices grew louder in excitement. People who had not quite known, or believed, were being informed by their friends.

Damas breathed in through his nose, out slowly through his mouth. Trying to forget that he faced a pathetic death.

Breathe in.

Sig would have to quit his search to take care of Spargus. With that, Damas' last hope for his son would be unable to keep up the search.

Breathe out.

Was this supposed to be the end of Mar's legacy?

Breathe in.

What Praxis started all those painful years ago would finally reach full circle.

Breathe out.

A bitterly amused chord struck, and for a moment Damas thought that if he ever told this story to anyone – in the afterlife, it would certainly be – he would at least have enough pride left not to let these thoughts slip. But nobody knew what he thought now, alone and waiting for whatever his enemies planned for him.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

There was no eco left. He leant his head against the hard, dirty wall. Nothing more he could do, now.

He could not have sat like that for more than a minute before his solitude was broken. With a heavy scraping, the metal door opened.

"And hurry up!" one of the guards snarled.

Damas glanced aside, just in time to see a slave woman pushed through the opening. She stumbled, glaring over her shoulder with her teeth bared. The guards threw a couple of curses at her, standing just outside the door to make sure nobody could flee.

She spent little time on rage, however, quickly turning back to the prisoner. The anger fell flat from her face, replaced by nothing but an agonized despair.

"Your Lordship…"

She mouthed it, stumbling forwards blindly, falling onto her knees by his side.

Damas watched her, not responding.

Another familiar face, another name he could not recall. But her failing anger made him feel sick to his stomach. Any shred of remaining resistance against her captors, shattered at the sight of him like this.

He could not hate her. Only that idolization - it was not what a King of Spargus should be. Had he only managed to become something so precious, so vital to his people, he must have failed to raise their spirits.

If they all would react like that to the loss of him, nothing could be more dreadful.

"Let me…" she croaked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He straightened up, turning to let her reach the ends of the ropes on his back. Her fingertips and blunt nails brushed his back as she worked on the knots that held him fettered, some little pulls frantic and others forced patient. The guards threw in a harsh demand for speed when they thought that the work was going too slowly.

Finally the ropes trapping his arms fell, and Damas rolled his stiff shoulders while the woman pulled the rough cords to the floor. Silently, she reached further down and started on the knot holding his wrists bound.

If the marauders were letting the ropes be removed, they could not intend to simply execute him. It was not much of a surprise, but in the end it may only mean that he got a few more minutes to live. It all depended on what they planned.

The ropes loosened and he shook them off, bringing up his arms in front of him. Holding back a sigh of relief he grasped his right wrist to massage some feeling back into his numbed hands. Blood rushed through his veins, violently prickling, but it would fade soon enough. He felt better just being able to move again, even if it did not solve anything in this situation. The guards held their swords ready, blocking the small exit perfectly well.

They still feared that he may try something.

Damas could have curled his lips in a wry smirk if he had felt like bothering. Even knowing that there was too little space in the hollow for him to get any leverage, they were still nervous. But they could and would cut him down as soon as he got close.

He glanced at the other exit. The noise remained, but it had settled down into a steady murmur in the last few minutes.

The woman beside him remained silent and unmoving until he turned to look at her again. Then she turned her head a little to the side, as if to look at the guards even though she did not crane her neck far enough for that.

Suddenly, she flung herself forwards, wrapping her arms around his neck. Damas didn't pull away, though his naked eyebrows shot upwards. The guards guffawed at the desperate display – but her whisper was far from distressed. Close to Damas' ear and hardly more than a breath, it could not reach the guards.

"We're trying something, please stay alive as long as you can, Your Lordship!"

Damas' expression did not change. He merely lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement. His heavy heart suddenly felt a lot lighter with the ray of hope, and more importantly with the realization that the woman's meekness had been merely an act.

As suddenly as she had embraced him she pulled back, quickly removing a small flask from her belt.

"Water…" she muttered.

He looked at her for a moment, fully understanding that the bottle probably contained all of the water her captors allowed her for the course of the long, hot day. She looked straight back however, dejected expression cracking in a wild grin.

I'll be free or dead by sunset.

There was no mistaking that look. He had seen it many times.

It was difficult not to answer with the same expression – the guards would notice and as skittish as they were, they would get suspicious.

Without a word Damas accepted the flask and quickly gulped down the meager amount of warm water. He finished it just when the trapdoor began to open from outside, lifted upwards.

The guards took the chance to order him who had been a King around, growling at him to get out there. They were a little late however, because Damas was already getting to his feet. Handing the empty bottle to the woman, he gave her a brief nod in thanks and then turned to walk outside.

He knew what it was before he had stepped into the audience's sight, and kept the muscles in his face under perfect control.

This was supposed to be some brutal kind of poetic justice, wasn't it? The wasteland's favorite kind.

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, leaving him trapped inside the arena.

It was nothing like the one in Spargus, much smaller and nothing but a wide circle of stomped sand and earth. Light came from bonfires and torches, leaving the far off ceiling in obscurity and throwing dancing shadows all around.

High walls separated the ground from the three rings of people sitting high above, looking down on the lone man. His entrance only raised the noise, catcalls, threats and snide shouts raining down.

On the opposite end of the wall from the trapdoor was a much bigger opening, covered by another crude door made of iron bars.

Something moved in the darkness beyond, something that had a glowing, egg-shaped orb on its head. And it wasn't alone. That much Damas could tell that much even from his distance. He bit back a curse.

A sudden call from above made him turn his head quickly.

"Hey, old man!"

Damas paused, letting out an annoyed breath.

"I'm thirty-five," he said.

Reaching up he tapped his wide scalp and flicked a white braid.

"This is for having subordinates like Kleiver."

"Feh!" the mountain of a man scoffed over the hardly subdued snerks. "Wif' all due respect, lordship, you were gettin' them white hairs when you came here."

Damas leant back, gazing at the ceiling as he folded his arms across his chest.

"Yes," he said. "But then I met a lot of people like you."

He rocked back suddenly, slamming his palm into the table. Large parts of the audience recoiled in surprise, both at the sudden violence and the glare the King threw around.

"People who leave Spargus defenseless for half a dozen prisoners!"

"Says the guy who'd'a been eaten by stingers if we hadn't come along," Kleiver said, taking a calm gulp of his beer while everyone else were still taken aback.

Damas gave him a hard look, but then threw his gaze towards the ceiling and sat back.

"You gotta cut 'em some slack, big man," Daxter piped up after clearing his throat. "It's just a sign that everyone likes you more than Kleiver." He thumbed his fuzzy chin. "Of course, that isn't saying much."

When Kleiver growled, the ottsel just idly shuffled a little farther away. The blue eyes had caught sight of Jak's face, causing Daxter to grin and jab his elbow towards his best friend's hand.

"Now look who wishes he'd been there, eh?" Daxter said. "Ooh, them poor marauders…"

Jak blinked and tried to compose his fascinated look into a neutral one. As usual with his expressions, however, it worked neither too well nor quick enough. He threw a half glare at Sig when the big man lightly punched Jak on the arm, chuckling agreement.

The tension dropped completely as people cracked up in chortles and concurring murmurs from those who had not been present in the battle. Those who had been there, of course, only grinned at the complaints.

Jak caught Damas' eye in the middle of it all. The stern look was gone as the King watched the young warrior, replaced by a glint of approval.

Of course the King of Spargus did not disapprove of his people's loyalty. It was simply a matter of the city, the people themselves, being more important than the lives of a few.

They all knew that.

It made it perfectly alright to rush out and take a risk to save those precious few. That was what separated them from Haven. And their King from the usurper.

But of course, Damas would never admit that.

Looking at the King now however, Jak was reminded of a question that had risen in his mind when Damas talked about his imprisonment. More specifically, the mention of the meager healing process working through his tired body in the cell.

Though Jak really wanted the story to continue, the new curiosity got the better of him.

"Are you a white eco sage?" Jak asked, waving a finger at his own hair to make a point of Damas' pure white braids.

The room fell silent as people heard the question and turned their heads towards the king in renewed interest.

The corner of Damas' lips twitched the tiniest bit.

"Not quite," he said.

He held out a hand, palm up, and narrowed his eyes. A flare of white eco flashed upwards from his palm, curling into a misty orb floating in the air above the King's fingers. He caught it as quickly as he had created it, snapping his fist shut. The light disappeared back into his skin without a trace.

Somebody didn't like to show off but did it just once to make a point. It was enough to cause a few whistles.

"There have always been powerful channelers in my family," Damas said. "I have some abilities."

He quirked a bare eyebrow at Jak, lip tilting further upwards. You are on a different level.

But the King would definitely never say that aloud.

"Whichever the case," he started instead, throwing a glance around the room, "you will simply have to believe me regarding the rest of the story."

"Hey, old man!"

The leader of the marauders grinned down at Damas. He leant over the side of the wall's top, from what the prisoner could see sitting in a rough-looking chair adorned with claws and fangs.

In the next moment the marauder raised his hand, holding up a plain wooden staff.

"Look alive," he sneered, flinging the very basic weapon into the ring. The jeers exploded into cruel laughter.

Damas caught the staff in one hand, turning his head quickly at the sound of grinding gears. The iron bars on the other side of the ring crept upwards. The creatures inside snarled, annoyed and confused – and more angry than usual.

At that moment, the fallen King of Spargus allowed himself to mutter a string of words that would have made even Kleiver blink. Especially with such expressions leaving Damas' lips.

It did not matter now, anyway.

But, he was, or used to be, the King of a people who made "survive" a way of life every day. And with the slave woman's words in mind, he damn well would stay alive for as long as he could. Just to piss off the audience, if nothing else.

He took the staff in both hands, raising it to the height of his chest and moving his feet further apart to prepare for the first attack. His opponents lumbered into the light – metal head grunts, and two of them.

Catching metal heads were a difficult matter. How many prisoners had these creatures already devoured?

They did not even seem to exchange a glance to confirm a plan. Instead, they simply began moving in different directions along the wall, intending to surround Damas. Normally ones to attack swiftly and brutally at the first sight of a human, they seemed to take some pleasure in the loneliness of their intended victim. Their rage was still apparent in their growls, but there was also a speck of interest now.

The bars clattered down.

Damas clenched his fingers tighter around the hard wood. He had not fought with a staff in years, though luckily it had been part of his training a long time ago.

And if you're really trying, you can use even the simplest weapon to kill anything.

Or at least, Damas knew that he could hurt them. But to do that, he couldn't let them attack him on their terms.

Patience has its place, and this was not it.

Taking in a deep breath he rushed towards the grunt moving in from the right. It reared up on its legs with a snarl, the sound mingling with the roar of the marauders.

Damas ducked under the sweeping claws and whipped out the staff in one hand, striking the grunt hard across its upper, unarmored legs. It shrieked in fury, stumbling. Spinning around Damas caught the back of its knee with a kick, sending the metal head to the ground face first. From the corner of his eye he saw the other grunt sprinting towards the fight, unwilling to be left out.

Two of them at once would be too much.

The fallen grunt started to push itself upwards, but Damas would not let it. Leaping onto the furious beast's back he managed to knock the air out of its lungs, and while it was still confused he continued the downwards movement. The staff fell out of his hands and bounced against a dark, flailing arm. Damas no longer cared about the weapon. Crushing his foot down between the metal head's shoulder blades, he grabbed hold of the beast's head and twisted for all that he was worth.

A disturbing but satisfying crack answered him.

The metal head slumped, silent. The cheering stopped.

Half a second later the skull gem popped free and fell into the dust, even as the grunt's flesh began to dissolve into dark eco. With a few quick steps Damas moved out of reach for the dark substance, trying not to stumble.

One could wonder if the now dead beast, its friend, or the audience were the most surprised. Even Damas himself could hardly believe that it had actually worked, though his arms burned from the force he had used to make it so.

The stunned silence did not last long. The remaining metal head roared on top of its lungs and charged. Seeing this, the marauders caught themselves and shouted enraged approval to the monster.

Not until he snatched up the staff did Damas realize that he had cut his fingers on the first metal head's helmet. He tried to ignore the sharp sting, even as blood seeped from his grip on the staff and formed heavy drops. It was a minor pain in compare to what would be if he could not bear it.

The metal head's hard lips parted and it hissed in delight at the sight of blood. In the next moment it was over its prey, rearing up to attack.

Damas raised the staff to catch the heavy hand sweeping downwards, but the blow sent a bolt of pain through his arms. His hands flared, the pain distracting him – he had no chance to avoid the grunt's second strike. With a backhand to his side it sent him to the ground.

The staff hit the wall with a sharp clack. Gasping for breath Damas rolled and got up, pressing a hand to his stomach. He staggered backwards and the grunt lumbered after him on all four, no longer rushing but moving at its own leisure.

Cat and mouse, now. Otherwise it would have used its claws a second ago.

The audience was delighted.

Blood from Damas' fingers smeared over his rough tunic. The cloth was sturdy, but hardly protective enough. The pain burnt intensively, but at least nothing seemed to be broken. If he could just catch his breath for another precious few seconds, adrenaline should be able to override the pain.

It was only a question of how much the grunt felt like playing with him.

As if reading his thoughts the metal head lashed out again, but Damas ducked backwards and avoided it. The motion held no grace, he had yet to recover.

He needed to get the staff back, it was his only means of defending himself. With the grunt practically standing on the weapon, however, retrieving it would not be possible. He had to get his opponent further away.

The pain, while not fading, had at least begun to grow bearable. Perhaps there was a little bit of eco in his body which he could not control, that still worked its healing power on him. Whichever the case, Damas did not straighten up but kept backing while still clutching his side.

The grunt opened its mouth in a slow hiss, licking its fangs with a dark, slimy tongue. It followed Damas, stepping further away from the staff.

Suddenly the beast leapt forwards, forcing Damas to duck to the side. The metal head followed him quickly, forcing him towards the wall. The moment his back touched rock Damas flung himself aside, and claws slashed the air where he had been. He dove, snatching the staff from the ground and continuing several steps by momentum alone, hearing a hard tail clack against the wall behind him.

Spinning around he slammed the staff into the grunt's face. The beast flinched away with a hiss and lost its balance, but Damas had found his. He didn't give it a moment to catch its bearings, but stabbed the staff forwards, right into the grunt's open mouth.

The metal head recoiled in pain, making gagging noises as it went.

Before it had time to get its act together again, Damas had grabbed its head and twisted. The huge body tumbled to the ground.

The skull gem popped free.

Gasping for breath Damas picked the staff back up and forced down the wish to lean on either the weapon or the wall. His entire body throbbed with violent heart beats and he tasted blood from his ragged throat.

The roaring of the marauders did nothing for the ringing in his head.

So, he lived still.

It took a moment before he actually realized it. Even staring at the dark eco oozing around the skeleton, the armor and the fallen skull gem of the second grunt, he could not quite believe it himself.

This should not have been possible. Had anybody ever done such a thing? Mar himself, perhaps. And maybe one or two others who had been in as desperate situations as Damas just had been.

Still was.

The marauders were screaming for blood, for him to be killed by guns and bows right now.

It would be the logical thing to do, now wouldn't it? Damas clenched his teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of him turning to glare at their leader.

If he had looked, however, he may have seen the furious man make a sign. Then, Damas may have been better prepared for what came next – and then again, maybe it changed very little.

Because of all the roaring he didn't hear the hiss, but he caught sight of something black moving and sharply looked up.

A couple of serpentine bodies tore across the arena towards him, and several more were leaping between the bars that had kept the grunts locked in. Damas had no time to even attempt to count them. The first stinger shot into the air, aiming for his leg. But the staff hit it first, sending it crashing into the wall.

The second one latched onto Damas' thigh before he had time to turn, claws piercing leather, skin and flesh.

He couldn't completely strangle the cry of pain, but it drowned in the roaring of the audience. Hissing through his teeth Damas tore the stinger away and to the ground. The pain hindered him from stomping on it, so he slammed the staff into it and staggered backwards. The leverage wasn't enough and he was off balance – he couldn't kill the monster, only daze it. Even as he backed away it rolled back and rose up on claws coated with his blood.

The others shoot up around him, forcing him to keep backing, bit by bit steering him towards the wall. Playing. But they were not as playful as the grunts, skittering back and forth impatiently even as they worked a simple plan.

The roaring of the audience changed suddenly, as the sound of gunshots pierced through the noise. Damas dared a glance upwards, catching sight of men and women armed with peace makers pouring in through a crude doorway by the upper ring of seats.

Not a word passed over Damas' lips, his full focus back on his own battle within half a second. The stingers reared up and he swung the staff at them with renewed strength, sending one flying into two others. It hardly killed them, but at least gave him some space. The others leapt but he threw himself back as well as his leg allowed, narrowly avoiding the lashing tail of the closest attacker.

Doing this he finally threw a glance towards the marauder leader, because he saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

The leader had gotten up, seething with rage and spinning around, drawing his sword. And then suddenly, with his back turned, a violent twitch shook his entire body. Two more followed before he began to fall, more as afterthoughts than anything else.

He toppled backwards, crashing on the dusty ground of the arena. Blood poured into the sand, and he did not move anymore.

The marauders who had time to notice it roared in fury, but most of them were busy trying to meet the onslaught of wastelanders.

"Needin' some assistance, Your Lordship?"

Bullets pierced the air and the stingers shrieked, twisting backwards in death throes. Turning and gasping heavily for breath, Damas met Kleiver's eyes as the huge man took a disturbingly easy leap down the wall and into the arena, followed by three other wastelanders.

Without a word they stepped up around their King, guns held at the ready and their eyes set on the battle above, prepared in case any of the marauders would decide that killing Damas would at least be some kind of victory.

It was worth a sign of weakness. Still trying to catch his breath, Damas allowed himself to lean heavily on the staff.

He straightened up slightly when Kleiver reached backwards without looking around.

"Found this on one'a them bastards, Lordship," Kleiver said. "He di'n't say much when I took it back for you."

Massive fingers uncoiled, revealing Damas' amulet in the palm.

As he grasped the seal of Mar, the King of Spargus silently swore that it would have to be pried from his cold, dead hands by the next person wanting to claim it.

He looked at the familiar symbol for a moment, then turned a sharp glare towards the back of Kleiver's head. His gaze traveled up to the battle on the rings of seats, and finally back to the fat man.

"What the hell are all of you doing here?" Damas snapped.

Looking quite amused, Kleiver threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Saving you, Your Lordship," he said.

"How many of you came along?"

"Y'see, we had a vote…"

"Kleiver!"

The other wastelanders were trying very hard not to snicker by now. Kleiver, of course, didn't even bother trying to hide his grin.

"Yer welcome, Your Lordship."

"And I suppose that wraps it up," Damas said, leaning back in the chair.

Appreciative murmurs from the audience let him know that they were, indeed, impressed. He held up his hands, turning them back and forth.

"I would not recommend trying to kill metal heads like that, however," he said. "I nearly cut my fingers off."

It was probably not by chance that he glanced at Jak at that moment. The young warrior didn't say anything, but the grin definitely said "who me? Wouldn't even think about it". Damas gave a small grin of his own in return.

"Pretty sad you didn't get to wring the leader's neck too, though," Daxter piped up.

This comment earned a lot of agreement from the rest of the room.

"Well, how were we supposed ta' know?" Kleiver said with a shrug.

"I am perfectly satisfied that he got what he deserved," Damas said.

"Stupid goes as stupid comes." Kleiver shook his head with a disdainful snort. "The moron should'a just lopped off yer head. It's what I'd'a done."

The air stiffened in pure disbelief, but Damas only gave his second in command a perfectly deadpan look.

"Thank you, Kleiver," the King finally said. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Yer welcome, Your Lordship," Kleiver repeated, grinning nastily from ear to ear.

Damas rolled his eyes. Then he sat back and threw a glance over the audience.

"Anyway," he said, "that's my version of what happened. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. Now…"

A rare smirk touched his lips.

"Since we're telling stories," he continued, "how about that time when metal heads broke the wall, and attacked again while Kleiver was leading the repairs?"

Kleiver choked on his drink.

"What's the matter?" Damas said, quirking an eyebrow. "I thought it was a really amusing way to break an arm."

Coughing and sputtering Kleiver scowled – as much as respect allowed – at the King. He glared a whole lot harder at those in the crowd who dared to snicker.

"Ooh, what? What?" Daxter gleefully croaked.

"It all started when- oh no you don't."

Damas grabbed Kleiver's arm and pulled him back down on his chair when the huge man made an attempt to leave.

"I think you've been working hard enough lately to take a whole evening off," the king said, teeth showing just the slightest bit in the not too kind smile. "Do stay."

Snarling, Kleiver gulped down his beer and growled an order for a refill. The bartender snatched his mug and quickly returned, placing a mug of something in front of Damas as well.

Those who had been standing until now were fetching chairs during this pause.

This was turning out to be a great evening.

The End.