Midway down the main hallway, a bottleneck had been created by a strategically placed hawker of ale and jerked beef. Three casks of ale rested upon wall-mounted brackets, one was even now being replaced with a fresh one. By the end of the night, if it was a good night, each bracket would see five or more separate replacements. James had once thought of broaching the idea of t-shirts, foam fingers, and bobble-heads with Scar and Potbelly, but considered that might be pushing things a mite.
Father Tullin led them through the bottleneck and had just reached the last pair of hallways leading to The Pits, when Scar appeared coming their way. Deep in conversation with a short man wearing a brace of throwing knives, he passed by without so much as a nod. Once Scar and his companion had been swallowed by the crowd, James turned to Jiron.
“Shorty works here, too?” Shorty, one-time Pit fighter, knife thrower extraordinaire, and companion during James’ quest to rescue Miko from slavery, was a face James knew well.
“Yes. He and Stig both work here, as well as Fifer.”
“Fifer?” That was a surprise. Fifer had lost a leg during the campaign to recover the Star. “Thought he was out at The Ranch with Roland?”
Jiron shook his head. “Potbelly called him in to help train the Swodders.”
Swodders, of course, being the combination of the words “sword” and “fodder.” Shorty coined that word during a binge. He had been trying to say “They ain’t nothing but sword fodder,” but his excessive state of inebriation caused a severe slurring of the words and it came out “They ain’t nuth bu’ swodders.” When those with him finally figured out what he was trying to say, they began using the word to irritate him, and it stuck. Now it was an integral part of Pit lexicon.
At the end of the hallway, before a door embossed with a pair of crossed swords, stood two pit-fighters-turned-guards. Though James had never been within the Pits before, he knew that this door was the only access the general public had to the thirteenth pit, and that access was by invitation only. Of course, once invited, you could frequent it whenever you wished, as well as bringing along friends.
Father Tullin was well known to everyone connected with the Pits, and when the guards realized his destination was the door, they opened it for him.
“Father,” they said in unison.
The priest gave them a friendly smile and nod. “Thank you.” He caught them eyeing his two companions. “Have a couple friends here who might be interested in what lies beyond the dragon’s eye.”
“Of course,” the guard on the right said.
“I hear the match tonight will be a good one,” the other commented.
“We’ll see.” Gesturing for his two masked comrades to follow, he passed through the door and into a well-lit, narrow passage.
Once the door closed behind them, James asked, “What’s this about what lies beyond the dragon’s eye?”
“It’s a code Scar implemented after an assassination took place below. The assassin forced one of the Pit’s regulars to bring him past the guards and then proceeded to kill a rather influential trader. Seems the man’s competitor wanted to secure a bid and had him taken out.”
Jiron nodded. “Caused quite a stir, almost shut this place down.”
“So now,” continued Father Tullin, “if you bring anyone that they don’t know, or is masked, you give them the password. If you don’t, expect to experience a delay in reaching the Pit.”
James laughed. “I could imagine.”
The narrow passage opened onto a room wherein waited another four guards. Father Tullin nodded to them as he crossed to the head of a circular flight of steps leading down. The guards were engaged in a game of dice and hardly gave them more than a cursory glance before returning to their game.
From out of the stairwell came the sound of many conversations, laughter, and curses. At the bottom, they exited into a Pit area twice as large as any of those above. It was filled to capacity with a plethora of masks, hoods, and helms. To James’ surprise, there were quite a few who didn’t have any sort of concealment at all.
Father Tullin took his arm. “Stay close so we don’t get separated.”
“And keep a firm hand on your coin pouch,” Jiron added. “Though thieves are dealt with harshly in the Pit, often forced to face the greenest of fighters, thefts do happen from time to time.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
The actual Pit in which the fights take place was at the center of the room. A bandstand of sorts encircled the fighting area with six rows of benches. From three satellite rooms branching off from this one came the aroma of roasting beef and fresh baked bread. Scar and Potbelly really knew how to bilk their customers for all they were worth. James wondered if the previous Master of the Pit had been as devious.
“I tell you he has never been beaten!”
“Bah! Tinok will hand him his liver in the first five minutes.”
While Father Tullin paused to converse with a man in a dark hood that hid all but the tip of his nose and the fact that there were piercing blue eyes beneath, James turned his attention to an argument unfolding nearby.
A helmed man, dressed as a guard with black bands encompassing where his employer’s insignia would be, stood toe-to-toe with another in a bright orange robe with a mask comprised almost entirely of feathers.
“They say no man has ever lasted more than five minutes against him,” Helmed Man asserted.
“And I tell you, there is no one able to withstand Tinok’s knives,” Feather Mask argued. “He’ll have this newcomer sliced and diced before sustaining a single blow.”
“Five golds say you’re wrong!”
“Ten!”
“Done!”
Similar conversations were in progress throughout the viewing area. Jiron took James by the arm and worked them closer to the edge. Already, the railing had filled to capacity, but Jiron managed to shove aside a smaller man dressed in a brown cloak wearing a rat-head mask to make room. The man looked ready to say something, but backed down upon realizing Jiron was not alone.
Indicating two doors on either side of the pit below, Jiron said, “Tinok and his opponent will emerge from opposite sides. They will pause and size up each other while the particulars of the match are announced, then the fight will commence.”
“Bring back memories?”
Jiron nodded. “I miss it, though I would never tell my wife that.”
Chuckling, James slapped his friend on the back.
The pit itself had a diameter of roughly fifty feet with an earthen floor. A wall seven feet tall with the railing at the edge adding another three feet, prevented any combatant to flee before the match was over. The floor was earthen and looked to have been recently raked smooth. To James, the place felt like the Roman Coliseum, but in miniature.
“How soon before it begins?”
Jiron shrugged. “It will when it does. Though judging by how crowded the place has become, they won’t want to hold off much longer.” He glanced to James. “Keeping important patrons waiting is bad for business.”
“I understand that,” James said.
Off to their left, Father Tullin conversed with three men in various stages of disguise. The way people gravitated to the priest led James to believe that he must be a favorite among them.
James sought faces in the sea of masks and hoods, not for any real desire to see who was there, but for something to do while waiting for the match to start. The expressions encountered ranged from excited to solemn. His gaze continued in a slow sweep until something about a man from the Empire registered familiarity. It took him a moment to recall the memory, and when he did, his eyes narrowed.
Nudging Jiron with his elbow, he surreptitiously pointed across to the man. “Isn’t he the one we saw Tinok with earlier?”
Jiron saw the man standing with two fellows and nodded. “Yes, it is.” He remembered very well seeing this man walking with Tinok when they had sought his whereabouts before.
“Wo
nder what he’s doing here?”
Jiron glanced sidelong at his friend and shook his head.
James turned toward Father Tullin and caught the priest’s attention with a wave and motioned for him to join them.
Breaking off his conversation, Father Tullin was soon at their side. “Sorry about that. Everyone seems desirous in entering into discourse this evening.”
“Not a problem,” James assured him, then directed his gaze to the man across the pit. “Have you ever seen that man before?”
Following the discreet gesture, the priest sought the man in question. “Which one?”
“The unmasked fellow from the Empire.”
Father Tullin shook his head. “No. Can’t say that I have.”
Keeping his voice low, Jiron said, “He’s been in Tinok’s company of late.”
“He has?”
James nodded. “I don’t suppose you could wander over there and find out who he is?”
Slapping him on the back, Father Tullin said, “I can but try.”
While the priest worked his way through the crowd and the number of people who were, as he said, “desirous of discourse,” James and Jiron kept a surreptitious watch on the man and those he stood with. When James happened to glance toward the priest, found him to be mired in a conversation with two people in hoods. “I guess there’s no hurry.”
Jiron saw the priest’s predicament. “No, there isn’t.”
The sudden sound of bolts being thrown and the subsequent creaking of poorly kept hinges announced the match was soon to begin. Within the pit, the doors on either side swung open.
Chapter Five
Out of the door to the right strode a figure familiar to many. Shorter than average, two knives on his belt, and stripped down to nothing more than a pair of pantaloons, Tinok emerged onto the sand. Flanking him were two men bearing fancy, filigreed halberds suited more for ceremony than war.
From the opposite side of the pit emerged a man easily a head taller and twice as muscled as Tinok. His head was shaved but for a shoulder-length ponytail of the darkest black. Tattoos wreathed his topknot and cascaded like a dirty river down his bare back. Dressed in naught but pantaloons just like his opponent, the man’s muscular physique was clear to all. In his hands, he held a very long, two-handed sword.
Cheers erupted throughout the onlookers, some shouting Tinok’s name, while others hollered for the newcomer. James was curious to discover that the man across the way did not participate in the enthusiastic display. His mood appeared more somber than the occasion warranted.
Another man emerged into the pit from the wall directly beneath where James and Jiron stood. Arrayed in armor with a sword at his side, the man made an imposing sight. James figured him to be one of Scar and Potbelly’s pit fighters. As he strode toward the center of the pit, conversations quieted until by the time he came to a stop, all talking had ceased.
The man looked upward to those ringing the pit. Turning clockwise, he swept the onlookers with his gaze. Coming full circle, he raised his hands.
“Welcome…to the Pit!”
Applause, shouts, and other gesticulations met his declaration. He allowed it to continue for a few moments before waving for silence.
“Tonight, we have the privilege of presenting two combatants of legendary prowess.” He turned and gestured toward Tinok. “The skill of the first is known by many. Two blades, one man, and death is his hallmark. I present to you, Tinok!”
As Tinok strode forward two steps, a roar surged from the onlookers as a hundred voices cried their adulation. Tinok was quite obviously a favorite. The sound was deafening. Raising his hands, the man in the pit subdued their exuberance. He then turned to face Tinok’s opponent.
“From charnel houses deep within the Empire, comes a man steeped in death. None who have faced him have survived. Merciless, heartless, and soulless; I give you Aknor, Warrior of the Cystak!”
From across the way, the Empire contingent of onlookers exploded in a rowdy hurrah, though less intense than what Tinok had received.
Aknor stepped forward two steps, drew his sword and emitted a guttural cry. His gaze settled upon Tinok, sword lowering until its point was directed at the smaller man standing across the pit. There was sheer malevolence in the look the two men exchanged.
James leaned closer to Jiron as he asked, “Think Tinok can take him?” Long ago, James had come to the realization that it was more than size and strength that allowed combatants to prevail.
Jiron nodded. “Of course. And with this Aknor being from the Empire, Tinok will rip him to shreds. His death will not be quick.”
The prospect of blood didn’t sit well with him and James looked out over the pit wishing he could be anywhere else. Seeing the hungry expressions of those round him, he almost expected them to begin chanting, “Two men enter, one man leaves.”
Below, the herald raised his hands again for quiet. Once the murmuring subsided to a tolerable level, the hands were lowered. He then motioned to the pair of halberd-bearers that had accompanied each combatant to depart. Each pair turned about smartly and left the pit.
After they left, the herald turned his attention to the onlookers. “No quarter shall be given. Last man standing will be the victor. Anyone interfering with the match will be dealt with harshly.”
At that, the crowd off to James’ right parted and a man stepped forward. Just under six feet in height and dressed all in black, the man strode to the railing. His head roved back and forth. When it turned James’ way, it was revealed the man wore a black metal mask that concealed everything from the nose up.
“Ti-ke-Orgatha!” he shouted while at the same time throwing his right hand outward. Above the pit, a fireball exploded in a spectacular flash of light and sound.
The crowd ooh’d and ah’d. James on the other hand recognized the man as the “Dark Mage” doppelganger Scar and Potbelly trotted out to increase the notoriety of the Pits. He was also quick to realize that what he had just witnessed held nothing magical. Not only had the tingling sensation that accompanied active magic not been present, but the air filled with the unmistakable odor of sulfur. He couldn’t help but grin. The man was definitely a fake.
Below in the Pits, the man waved the two combatants to approach. When they came within ten feet of each other, the man signaled for them to stop. A few words were then spoken in a hushed voice to the combatants.
“He’s asking who to notify in the event of their death,” Jiron explained. “It’s a mere formality, a holdover from the previous Master of the Pit. There was a time when unknown challengers would appear, but Scar and Potbelly did away with that. They want to know who it is their people face.”
James nodded. “Sensible.”
“I suppose.”
The sound of steel being drawn from scabbards silenced every voice. The herald took two steps forward and gazed up to a scantily clad beauty at the railing. Her position placed her between Tinok and Akron.
“When the ‘kerchief strikes the sand, the combat will begin.”
As he began returning to the exit beneath where James and Jiron stood, the woman held aloft a bright yellow scarf.
“She works here.” Jiron chuckled. “Scar thought beauty went well with mayhem.”
James cast his gaze to those encircling the pit. Every eye was fixed on the scarf. Below, the two combatants faced each other, their eyes locked in the beginnings of a contest of wills, each trying to break the other’s spirit by sheer force of their presence.
The ‘kerchief was let go. Billowing out, it began its slow, almost lethargic descent. As it came near the ground, the anticipation in the air was so thick, one could practically cut it with a knife.
Jiron nudged James in the side. “Tinok’s right foot,” he whispered.
Taking his eyes off the ‘kerchief, James directed it to where Tinok was slowly rotating the front portion of his foot against the ground. “What…?”
“Just watch.”
When th
e yellow scarf lit on the ground, Tinok exploded in a flurry of motion. His right foot kicked outward sending a spray of dirt toward his opponent. Akron easily ducked to the side and avoided a less than honorable attack that could have left him blind and defenseless. Obviously, he was not to be taken out so easily.
Despite his size and the size of his weapon, Akron moved lightning fast. The sword shot out in a double-hand slice, forcing Tinok to dance backward. The blade whisked by his chest with bare inches to spare.
A “ting” sounded as Tinok’s left knife struck the passing blade. As the blow knocked the blade two degrees downward, his right knife shot forward and left a ribbon of red across the big man’s chest.
The crowd went crazy.
“Yah!” Jiron shouted. Keeping his eyes on the match, he leaned closer to James. “Whoever scores first most always wins.”
James nodded. “The psychological effect must be devastating on such a big man.”
“You got that right.”
Breaking off, the two opponents circled each other. Akron’s face registered rage barely kept in check while Tinok remained cool and calculating.
“He’s got him.”
James glanced to Jiron in surprise. “You can tell that from only one passage of arms?”
“Not many can stand against a master knifer. Where Tinok has only the one blade to contend with, Akron has two. He may be good, but Tinok is better.”
Not quite as sure as his erstwhile companion, James worried for their friend. His heart leapt in his throat as Akron went into a complex maneuver with his blade practically singing as it cut the air.
Tinok held his knives at the ready, eyes on Akron’s. When the massive sword finally shot forward for the kill, he twisted to the side and used both blades to catch the sword. For a moment, the two fighters were locked in a struggle for possession of the sword, but then Tinok’s foot shot out and connected with the big man’s knee. The blow didn’t break the bone, but it did cause him to lose his balance and stumble. Tinok was on him in a flash. Before the man could right himself, blood flowed from four new wounds; one on either arm, and on both legs.
Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two Page 6