All a relatively standard pattern for a large city. It was almost sad Doldimar, feared Dark Lord plagued by insanity, could run a city better than his counterparts across the sea, although perhaps this relative prosperity could be attributed to the region’s Enforcer instead.
The only oddity he’d noticed while on his way to town hall was when a loud bell had rung, filling the air with its peals. People on the street had scattered, and within moments, the city had seemed deserted. Thumb had faded into an alley, determined not to stand out, and it had been just in time too.
Howling Conscripted had chased a group of terrified men and women, herding them toward the enormous depression Thumb had observed on his way into Nephiron. When the last of the enemy soldiers had disappeared, the city had woken, trickling onto the streets, and Thumb had continued.
He neared the front of the line, his long wait mitigated by his fascination with the mosaic on the receiving chamber’s wall. Here, the men and women who wished to make deals with Doldimar’s army came before his servants to make their cas. Here, Thumb would determine if Nephiron was a city worth capturing. In the meantime, he’d attempt to understand the pattern of the broken tiles on the wall.
The woman had to clear her throat twice before Thumb took notice of her. He stood at the front of the line.
It culminated in a table piled high with a mess of papers, rising in columns to either side, behind which sat one of those strange people covered in black. The King and Spymaster Middle had touched on these ‘Kiraak’ in the past, specifically mentioning the only viable way to kill them was to cut off the head.
Thumb hadn’t seen any of the monsters since his arrival to Nephiron, but he took this new development in stride, considering how best to behead the woman if the situation turned.
“Name,” she demanded upon his approach.
“Marcuset,” he answered.
He couldn’t wait to observe the commander’s reaction to the knowledge his name had been added to the enemy’s records.
“What’s your business?”
“I’ve grain for the army’s use. If you see fit to compensate me, I’d be forever grateful.”
“Grain currently goes for fourteen gold a cart. Bring yours to the stables outside town hall, and you’ll get your money.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
Bowing, Thumb turned on his heels. He’d only obtained a fleeting glance at the contents of the papers on the table, but if they were any indication, Nephiron accumulated and stored much of Auden’s resources for Doldimar’s army. With the city’s capture, the Conscripted would quickly go hungry, and without the weapons accumulated here, the Dark Lord’s soldiers could only fall before a properly armed force.
It had taken three such waits in lines of equivalent length, but Thumb had found that for which he’d searched. He could go home now. Maybe ‘Sin would be back, and they could spend a quiet night together. Those happened so rarely nowadays.
He strode through the doors into the entrance hall, and immediately, a handful of Conscripted flanked and surrounded him.
“Can I help you?” Thumb asked, never ceasing his stride.
As expected, none of them replied, and they subtly guided him from prying eyes and into a small room. They gave him privacy, although a pair of Conscripted stood guard outside.
Thumb briefly considered incapacitating the two scrawny men before departing, but such violence didn’t seem required as of yet. He hadn’t noticed a pattern to indicate the Conscripted meant to do him harm, and until that became the case, he’d wait to see how the situation played out.
Eventually, the woman who’d given him the price of grain glided through the door, took a single look at Thumb, and turned to call, “This is the one.”
Another vine-covered man joined her and patted her on the back. “Nicely done, my dear.”
Beaming, she departed as quickly as possible. The new Kiraak approached until he was a pace away from Thumb, never wavering in his perusal of the spy’s body.
“Can I help you?” Thumb asked.
“Tell me, Master Marcuset, have you seen much combat?” The Kiraak circled Thumb, looking him up and down.
“Nothing serious,” the spy replied.
The King and his men had fought a sizeable force of Conscripted and Kiraak upon first landing on Auden’s shores, but by the time the battle had begun, Thumb had been dispatched further afield for early reconnaissance. He’d missed the bloodbath, and before that point, no large-scale battle had succeeded to pull him into its deadly embrace.
“Have you ever been in a fist fight, then?” the Kiraak asked.
“More than I’d care to admit,” Thumb answered.
That was an understatement.
“Fascinating! You’ll do quite nicely!”
“Quite nicely for what, sir?”
Best to continue displaying deference and civility, even if this other man had done nothing but unnerve him.
“For the pits, of course!”
Hmmm. The pits. Thumb had heard mention of these but couldn’t remember the context. An overheard conversation? A report he’d scanned?
“Even more fascinating!” the Kiraak exclaimed. “Most candidates break and plead by now.”
“Why would I do that?” Thumb asked. “You’ve no intention of outright killing me. This current pattern of behavior doesn’t call for it, and if that changes, I’m confident in my ability to defeat you and escape.”
The Kiraak burst out laughing. “Nicely indeed!”
A Conscripted interrupted the man’s glee. Upon receiving permission, he whispered his news, and the Kiraak reddened.
“Deliver this one to the pits now. No need for the usual routine,” he commanded the soldier before departing at a near run.
For a moment, the two men just stared at one another.
“You going to make this hard for me?” the Conscripted asked.
“I’ve no intention to at the moment,” Thumb replied.
“Then I’ll let you keep your weapon. How much good it does you remains to be seen,” the Conscripted muttered. “Come on. Let’s get you to the pit.”
They emerged onto Nephiron’s streets, and immediately, Thumb understood why the Kiraak who’d eyed him like a piece of meat had been called away.
As with most cities on the coast, Nephiron climbed from the ocean and onto higher ground. Town hall rested on the summit of this gentle incline, and from it, one had an unobstructed view of the blue mass which stretched uninterrupted to the horizon. Contrary to the perfect view Thumb had enjoyed before venturing inside, a new line of specks marred the join between the sky and sea.
“Are those…?”
“Ships, yes,” the Conscripted confirmed. “I haven’t seen such a sight in years.”
“Where did they come from?” Thumb asked, more to himself than for an answer.
The Conscripted must have recognized the question as rhetorical because he resumed their paused journey. Thumb followed, thrown by this break in the pattern. Most people on the opposite continent nursed an unholy terror of Auden’s shores. No one would brave a journey to this cursed land except…
No. No, it wasn’t possible. No matter that if fit the pattern, he wouldn’t accept it!
“Must I drag you with me?” the Conscripted drawled, hand on hilt.
Thumb shook his head. When had he halted? He couldn't afford such distraction now!
“I’ll follow willingly.”
Despite the city’s regularly intervaled streets and intersections, Thumb lost a precise sense of his location, if not his way, until his surroundings grew familiar once again. He’d traveled this road upon ambling into the city earlier. Did the Conscripted plan to let him go?
When they took a left instead of continuing straight, that theory crumbled to dust. No, this way led to…
They stopped at the depression’s edge, and the pattern which had so mystified Thumb clarified. Tall, curved blocks carved a stepped incline into the depression’s
walls, all leading into a perfectly level floor in its sunken center.
“An arena.”
Thumb remembered where he’d heard of the pits. The briefing he’d perused before agreeing to this mission had included references to it. Apparently, Doldimar found it highly amusing to force his subjects to fight without rest until the victor tipped into insanity or made a mistake which killed them.
“I see why most beg and plead,” Thumb commented.
Chuckling, the Conscripted trotted down the steps. He disappeared into the gaping hole in the pit’s far wall, probably assuming Thumb would follow since he’d been compliant to that point. Would he prove the man wrong? Walking away would be simplicity itself, but an old, familiar itch had made its presence known.
Thumb patted at his tunic, reassured to feel glass against his skin. He could indulge his habit for a short period. It had been such a long time…
His feet dragged across the pit’s floor.
In the dark, cells lined the hall. People filled them to capacity, some blankly staring into nothing and others gibbering nonsense. One crazed woman slammed her body against bars as he walked by, her hands darting through them in an attempt to grab him.
The howls faded the deeper into the earth they trod to be replaced with silence and the occasional quiet sob. Thumb recognized the people in the last occupied cell. He’d watched them flee from soldiers earlier that morning. He stopped short.
“There’s a child in there,” Thumb grumbled, pointing at a boy huddled in the corner.
Returning to look, the Conscripted dismissively waved. “Old enough to fight.”
“Really.” Thumb’s fingers twitched. “How old are you, kid?”
The boy’s eyes darted between the Conscripted and Thumb. “Eleven,” he whispered near silently.
“That’s old enough to fight?”
The Conscripted’s assertion seemed… odd. Most societies followed a pattern which protected children from any form of violence. That protection’s length varied from culture to culture, but most would consider eleven to fall within it. Clarification was required before Thumb could continue.
The Conscripted shrugged. “You’d be surprised what they can do with such tiny hands and bodies. Are you thinking of escape?” he asked. “Because I can guarantee you won’t make it far. The Kiraak will descend on the pit any minute now to watch the fights. If you don’t do as you’re told, they’ll tear you to pieces.”
“You’ll have no trouble from me,” Thumb assured the other man. “I was surprised. The kid doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“Whatever you say, big man,” the Conscripted replied. “Come on.”
They tramped a short measure down the hall to an empty cell. Thumb calmly stepped inside.
“I won’t lock the door,” the Conscripted informed him. “You’ve been more than cooperative, and if you do decide to run, you deserve whatever fate awaits you.”
“I appreciate that. When do I fight?” Thumb asked.
“I’d guess you’ll go last this evening. You scream too much entertainment potential for it to be otherwise. So, you’ve some time to prepare and pray to whatever gods you subscribe.”
Thumb bowed. “Thank you.”
Laughter won out over sobs and screams for a brief moment.
“First time someone’s thanked me for bringing them to the pits.” The Conscripted ruefully shook his head.
When Thumb was alone, he retrieved the bottle hidden inside the pocket he’d sewn into his tunic’s sleeve seam. He extracted charcoal and parchment from within, careful not to break the glass. Sprawling on the floor, he smoothed his writing surface and considered how to phrase his message.
Every missive from the Hand’s members went straight to their spymaster. Middle would then decode it before relaying it to the King, and Thumb knew precisely which code he could use to most frustrate his superior. He briefly described his experience in Nephiron as well as his assessment of the city, ending the letter with his decision to investigate the ‘pits’. Almost as an afterthought, he included the oddity of the ships approaching from across the sea.
As he folded paper into bottle, Thumb smirked. He sincerely wished he could observe Middle’s face while the man attempted to translate what his Thumb had written.
Tucking the bottle into its hiding place in the pit of his arm, he dismissed it from his thoughts. Sometime in the next several hours, the hidden pocket would flatten, the bottle summoned by a Zrelnach in Tiro.
The Esela had certainly speeded relaying reports’ normal rigmarole. Thumb didn’t miss the days of dead drops, and Middle certainly enjoyed receiving reports from his subordinates on a daily basis.
The spymaster could live without Thumb’s daily update until he’d decided to finish with this place. His remaining bottles hid outside the city with the rest of his gear. Without them, he’d no reliable way to get a message out of enemy territory. Not while he was so completely surrounded by adversaries. Hopefully, nothing calamitous would occur before he could retrieve them.
With his tasks as a member of the Hand completed, Thumb settled to prepare for the coming fights. No matter how hard he tried, however, his mind wouldn’t empty. It kept returning to the last time he’d indulged this incessant itch.
His opponent entered the ring. The man was a skinny, little thing, utterly unimpressive, but the lack of brawn didn’t mean this fight would be boring.
Rolling his shoulders, he flexed, hungrily watching his opponent strip clothing until only skin remained above the waist. This evening’s referee stepped between them.
“I expect a clean match!” he shouted. “No funny business! We go until one of you yields, is incapacitated, or the round time expires. Understood?”
Once he received his acknowledgments, the referee chopped a hand in the air between the combatants.
“Start!”
His opponent immediately began with several jabs to the face, each of which he easily blocked. He made no move to counter. The man’s pattern of attack wasn’t immediately clear. He required more data if he wished to understand, and the other man was more than willing to oblige.
Just when his opponent began to weary of his refusal to attack, he lunged around the man’s now predictable right hook to land a solid uppercut. Blood gushed from his opponent’s mouth as teeth cut through tongue, and the man toppled backward.
“End round!” the referee shouted.
Unsteadily sitting up, his opponent spat blood to the dirt. Metaphorical daggers shot at him, but he ignored them. His opponent’s pattern was known and therefore, had become tedious as a result.
“Marsuvius!” someone called from the ring’s edge.
He reluctantly tore his attention from replaying and analyzing the fight in his head. Plodding to the one who’d asked for him, he frowned at the woman who’d insisted on assuming a role as his promoter.
“Take your punches and bow out next round, big guy,” she advised him.
“Why would I ever do that? The man’s pattern is extraordinarily predictable. I can’t lose to him now that I’ve discerned it.”
“Fuck your pattern!” she quietly screeched. “He’s a noble! Your life will become infinitely more challenging if you humiliate him!”
If anything, his opponent’s social status made him more inclined to ignore her suggestion. The nobility conformed to a pattern of oppression he was continually baffled by as an Audish slum brat.
“If you don’t mind, ladies…” the referee drawled.
“Promise me you’ll take a fall,” his promoter insisted.
He turned his back on her.
“Marsuvius!”
This round, his opponent’s pattern became somewhat more erratic, but it remained much the same as what the supposed noble had displayed before. He allowed the fight to continue for several minutes, hoping against hope he’d mistaken the other man’s predictability, but when his opponent again went for a right hook following a feint, he abandoned his wish. His surprise was c
olossal, then, when cold steel slashed his blocking arm and warm liquid dripped to dirt.
The alleged noble brandished a knife, and the crowd cheered. He looked to the referee to call foul, but the allegedly impartial man said not a word.
His opponent attacked again, and this time, blood followed every blocked thrust. The noble wickedly smiled, and he realized if he didn’t end the fight, and soon, he’d become another corpse doomed to fill a pauper’s grave.
Here came that feint and hook combo once more, but this time, instead of blocking the right hook, he caught the man’s unarmed hand and squeezed. Bone snapped beneath his fingers, and the noble howled.
Confident the injury would prove incapacitating, he retreated, but his opponent followed, jabbing with the knife. Again, surprise bloomed, and it made him slow. He shifted his body enough that the blade failed to reach his heart as the noble intended, but it embedded hilt deep in the meat of his arm, the tip painfully bouncing off the bone beneath.
He couldn’t rip his eyes from the knife’s hilt. This wasn’t right! The rules said weapons weren’t allowed. They said the match was over when someone was severely wounded. For instance, when a fighter’s hand was crushed. They said the referee would enforce those rules.
Rules were the pinnacle of human patterns and patterns, the essence of life. They must NOT be broken, otherwise, chaos took over and society collapsed! THIS WASN’T RIGHT!
If the noble could break the patterns, did that mean he could too?
His fist met his opponent’s nose with a crunch, and roaring, he dropped to his knees atop the fallen noble’s chest. Plucking the knife from his flesh, he slammed it into the other man's face over and over and over and…
Thumb took a shuddering breath. Those memories were of another man, one who’d lived a separate life. They’d no relevance to his current situation.
Still, his thoughts refused to calm, and when a soldier came to escort him to the pit, his mind spun.
The setting sun momentarily blinded him as he stepped outside. Only silence greeted him before his sight cleared, and when it did, his confidence in his ability to escape wavered ever so slightly.
A King's Caution (The Eternal War Book 2) Page 14