Chapter 4: Plans

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." ~Oscar Wilde


Basher slept. His mind plunged into perfect blackness as deep as a pit and recognized nor realized anything. He then awoke easily, his eyes carefully opening in a tactful action, for he still remembered where he was. It was no surprise to look at the dim stone ceiling.

He sat up. He had no idea how long he had slept, but his body had needed it. Now he felt fine, his body strong and refreshed and his injuries even aching a bit less. How much sleep would he require to feel better? To get his memory back?

The events of before flowed through his mind, and he accepted them with tolerant defeat, though it was hard not to look at his own hands and wonder what they had done.

Revenge. Bolt and the others had spoken of revenge. And what form of revenge? A mad rush of chaos to see how many guards they could wound before they were all struck down? He laughed weakly.

A tray of food was ready for him, more or less the same thing he had eaten earlier. It was still tasteless. He had barely finished eating it when the healer woman entered the room.

She smiled at him, her red hair all the brighter with the candle she held. "Ah, a return to a healthy appetite, is that what we have here? That's a good sign if I can't think of any others."

Basher nodded and picked up the last few crumbs with his fingers. "It's good food."

"Good food?" she echoed in derision.

He shrugged. He was certain he had eaten better, much better. "It's not much in the way of flavor, but it feels the stomach well."

She laughed and began to check his wounds. "Well, I don't know if it has truly satisfied anyone in these parts, but it keeps us going, if that's what you mean."

"They should feed us more if they expect us to fight."

"Ain't that the truth. Lemme see that shoulder of yours."

He let her pull his shirt away.

She smiled at what she saw. "It's healing wonderfully. Am I good a healer or what?"

He thought of what the girl Punch had said, about not trusting the woman. "You are. I want to thank-you, for all of this."

She tilted her head to the side, studying him as she smiled. "It's one skill I can offer and I'm more than happy to do so. Though sometimes I think I'm merely prolonging the inevitable."

It was impossible to ignore the ice that bit the air after that comment.

"Don't think of it that way," Basher said. "Isn't life better than anything?"

She sighed and shrugged. "I really don't know anymore, to be honest with you. No one suffers much—death does come pretty quickly, cases like yours the exception."

"You're bringing hope."

She seemed to like that thought. "Enough about what I do. How is your arm?"

He held it up for her, and she firmly patted it. There was pain, but it was dull and seemed to fit the situation.

"If only you can keep out of the ring long enough for it to heal correctly."

"Does the crowd really like seeing easy matches against cripples?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes a good malicious mauling is what they want."

"That's terrible. Who are they?"

"Who? The crowds?"

Basher nodded.

"Favorites of the Shadow Lord. He has more than his monsters, he has those with minds of their owns who truly care for his plans. And this is the entertainment with which he rewards them. It's a beautiful system and I mean that in full sarcasm."

He laughed even though there was nothing particularly funny said. He supposed he just wanted to laugh.

His laugh made the healer woman laugh. Her face was almost pretty when she laughed. "Now that's what every healer wants to here, the sound of healthy laughter! We will get you thriving soon! Any chance of that memory returning?"

That ended the laugh. "Not a thing. But I found out about Capra."

She frowned for a moment, then shook her head as if she didn't want to think about any such things. "Capra should be a lesson to us all. Don't fight against the arena, just fight to stay alive. Nothing more."

"I heard he wanted to free us all."

"He wanted a lot of things. He was a fool."

"That's what you think?"

"Oh, I thought he was brave, if that is what you mean. I'm grateful for the hope he gave to people, but I think he gave them a little too much hope and that's not a good thing around here."

He studied her face, thinking once more of how he was not to trust her. He wanted to trust her. She was a healer, she had to be good. What sort of wicked person would devote an entire life to learning to heal? What sort of person had she been before she had been brought to this awful place? "This place needs you."

She laughed sharply. "It sure as hell needs me! It might be wrong of me and it might be pointless but I promise you, old timer, that I will do all I can to help anyone who gets injured out there."

Then she lowered her face to his, and in a voice as cold and as sure as steel, she continued "I liked Capra. Everyone did. Yes, I think he was a fool and figured he earned what he got. But I will never, ever do anything to harm any soul in these pits."

Basher had no response to that. He stared back at her, wondering how to read her eyes and wondering if he even remembered how to do so correctly. Was he wrong in his sudden realization?

Punch was wrong. He trusted the healer.

But before he could respond, there was a sharp rap at the door.

A guard. Cold and towering and horrible-looking, a sword in his hand. "The arena awaits."

"He's still hurt, sir, he can't—" the healer began.

But the guard shook his head, eyes seeming not to care about anything either of them said. "Not the man."

Basher's heart went cold.

"You." The guard pointed his sword straight at the healer.

The color drained from her face.

"No!" Basher leapt to his feet. His broken arm swung out before he remembered it was broken, and it wrenched itself back to his side in pain. But he did not sit back down. "You can't take her, she's the healer, the only one this place has got!"

She nodded. "They need me!"

The guard spoke without emotion. "You would prefer another to die in your place?"

"No!" she cried. "That's not what I meant at all. I only meant—"

"Then come. It is your turn to fight today."

"She's a healer!" Basher shouted.

The sword moved fast. The reflection of a candle glittered in the metal before the broad side smacked into Basher's head. He fell hard.

He shook away the dizziness and the redness, but it was too late.

The healer woman and the guard were gone.


Basher didn't remember how he made it to the little balcony above the arena, but the next thing he knew he was there, standing with a handful of others watching the excitement beneath them.

The healer woman carried an axe. Her face was steady, not a trace of fear in it. What had she said before? Her time to go to the Deadlands? But she was strong, maybe she could hold her own here.

Her opponent was another woman. Middle-aged, strong. Mona. Funny how he could so quickly recognize people and yet not remember anything of his past. Had anyone spoken to her about Bolt's plans? Mona carried a club. She was as expressionless as the healer woman.

They were circling one another, weapons out, like two dancers.

The healer struck first. She leapt forward with surprising grace, pounding her axe toward Mona.

Mona dodged it easily, her club striking away the axe with such ferocity the healer nearly lost hold of it. Then Mona made her own move, whirling in several large circles until she was behind the healer, her club raised.

The blow sent the healer right to the ground.

Mona paused, waiting for the other woman to stand up again, which she did within a minute, legs and arms trembling as she picked herself up. Blood dripped from her forehead where she had smashed into the ground.

But the healer's held firmly onto her axe. She heaved her shoulders back and with a gasp even Basher could hear swung the axe. The blade glinted once.

"No, Mona," a man near Basher whispered. He was like her. Tyderith.

Mona moved fast during the time. The club was like an extension of herself, another brutal arm. Just before the axe blade dropped into her, the club moved, knocking the axe.

The blade sunk into the healer's shoulder, just next to the neck.

Silently, she crumpled to the ground.

The crowd loved it.

And that was it.

Tyderith's head dropped into his chest and he muttered something that sounded like a prayer.

The comparison was strange. Here was a man who was grateful for the survival of a friend and all Basher could do was stare in shock at the fate of the healer woman.

She stared up at the arena ceiling, eyes open, face blank.

The Deadlands. She was finally there.

May it all go well for her.

"Basher." It was Tyderith who had spoken. "You're the one they call Basher."

Basher nodded, wondering just how many people knew this name while the healer woman had not.

Tyderith's blue eyes widened in delight, and he nodded fervently. "It is you. My wife and I-Mona, right down there…. We're new here, we heard of you."

Apparently someone had spoke to them.

"I already told Galton we would help. Anything. We can't handle it anymore. Mona cries herself to sleep every night she is forced to kill another."

Had Basher cried in such a way?

"We will fight," Tyderith continued desperately. "We will fight, we will kill again, we will do anything you ask us to do. Even stay in this hellhole. We don't even ask to be taken from it, just an opportunity to fight back. We're good at that, my wife and I."

"Do you enjoy killing?" Basher wasn't sure why he asked the question, but there it was, out in the open.

"Oh, no, sir," Tyderith said in horror as he shook his head. "But we're fighters. We like fighting. For sport, of course. As long as no one gets hurt—I mean, not terribly hurt. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"I saw your faces when you and your wife fought those two boys. There was no pleasure in your faces."

"Only sadness. I don't even know if that's shows."

Survival. The only way to survive around here was to kill others.

"All we care about is the fighting!" a loud voice boomed. Galton pushed his way through and clapped his big hand on Tyderith's shoulder—a strange look as Tyderith was a good two heads taller than Galton.

"Galton," Basher said as well as he could.

"Basher," Galton returned cheerfully. "I see you have officially met our two new recruits."

"Any friend of Capra's is a friend of ours!" Tyderith shouted.

Galton rolled his eyes and put his hand over Tyderith's mouth. "Hush, you fool. You'll give us away."

Tyderith nodded.

Galton sighed and removed his hand, turning his eyes to gaze squarely up at Basher. "When you can get away, find us. Both of you. And bring that pretty wife of yours, Tyderith."

Basher glanced back at the arena. Mona was beneath the balcony, staring up at them. She was sort of pretty, in her own way. Dark hair, a fair complexion save for a tiny beauty mark just beneath her right eye.

"Yes," Tyderith breathed, as if just remembering his wife had just face death once again. "I'll go get her now."

Then, with the memory of the healer woman still haunting him, Basher followed Galton.


They met in what Basher could only call a kitchen. It was larger than the other rooms, with a few pots over a few fires. It caused him apprehension at first, such a public place, but Punch assured him all was well with it.

"It's our own kitchen," she explained as she sat him down next to her. "The guards bring us food supplies, but doesn't do much in the way of preparing it for us. That's our own responsibility."

"Is there no stealing?"

"Sometimes. But when it does happen, the rest of the population doesn't tolerate it. You can't be a thief very long in a place like this." Her expression was sad.

The group was indeed a solid round number of twelve. They sat more or less in a circle, staring at each other and even sometimes chatting. Only those Basher had already met had names. The rest refused to disclose them.

The taboo, Galton had called it.

At last, all twelve were in the room and Bolt climbed to his feet. For a skinny human stork he sure could present himself. All voices went silent and all eyes turned to him.

"We meet in the kitchens for a reason," he said. "Not only does it give us more room, but it is part of our new plan."

A low cheer rose up.

"Capra will not have died in vain. If none of us cannot escape this place, we will make those who would not let Capra leave survive."

Another low cheer. There was joy in it, but still the fear of being discovered. So that joy simmered, almost daring to someday rise to a boil. The energy was contagious and even though Basher still was not sure was happening he did know he wanted it to happen.

"Tell us about the kitchen!" Galton said in the closest thing to a shout the meeting seemed to allow.

"It will all be quite simple," Bolt said. "They bring us the food supply. We will all be there to receive it. And then… we strike."

It was suicidal. But perhaps that is what they wanted.

"Not many bring it. We can take them down. We can move past them. It will all be considered a riot. With any luck, none of us will be killed."

"Punished?" Mona asked.

"Of course. But think of what happened to Capra."

"And what of leaving this place?" another voice asked.

The room went silent. Basher realized that Bolt was looking straight at him.

"A couple of you may recognize Basher," he said quietly.

"Basher can escape!" The whisper spread like wildfire.

Could he? Apparently he had failed before.

"Basher… has lost his memory," Bolt continued. "All of it. A few of you from Capra's grand escape plan will recall that Basher knew all of the plan. But he remembers nothing anymore."

"But you were Basher's friend!" A young man stood up, face shining. "You can think of another plan!"

"Yes!" This time the voice came from next to him. Punch. "Yes! Don't you all see? We attack the guards and Basher can escape."

It sounded crazy to Basher.

"Does anyone know if that old tunnel was closed off?" Boulder asked.

"No," someone said, a woman. "It's still there. The guards pushed some crates in front of it, but I caught a glimpse of it when I was taken out to gather wood. The tunnel remains."

"We will need to find a way to make it so Basher can make it to the tunnel unharmed," Boulder said.

Galton laughed bitterly. "It's like Capra's plan all simplified, all over again."

Pure stupidity, that's what it was. Madness that had cost him his entire memory.

Yet no one else in the room seemed to feel it. How could that be? The very air buzzed with excitement. These people did not care if they lived or died, but there was no depression to that. They were not unlike the healer woman that way, but they still cared. They did not care if they lived or died, but they did care if they fought or not.

He found himself standing up. He found the entire crowd, all eleven other people, staring up at him in stunned and expectant silence.

"I will find a way out," he heard himself say. "And a way out for anyone who follows me. We will do what Capra wanted. If any of us—excuse me, when any of us escape, we will go home and bring back all the help we can. I promise you."

The cheer they made was not very loud, but it was enough.