…
Southend was a rowdy and rambunctious little town. The town’s two Inns did a thriving business catering to all the merchants and travelers along with the mercenaries who made Southend their base of operation. At the edge of town was a blacksmith shop. The smithy was pounding away on a horseshoe as Bazur walked into town. Stopping, Bazur watched the man work for a few minutes. The burly man was strong, his bulging chest and arms covered only by an apron attested to his physical prowess. The layer of sweat on the man’s body attested to the heat of the forge and difficulty of the work. The smithy was a hard worker, Bazur could see.
“What can I help you with?” asked the smithy as he took a break from hammering to examine the shoe.
“Looking for a meal and a drink, and a bed for the night. What’s your recommendation?”
“My recommendation is to turn around, go back wherever you came from, and don’t return.” The smithy gave Bazur a cold appraising look. “You don’t look the type to take that sort of advice, so you have two options. Granny Bev’s Inn is small, crowded, and the food is terrible on a good day. The Empress Inn is large, has plenty of rooms, has excellent meals and all the entertainment a man could want. Granny Bev’s you’ll wake up tired and cranky cause of the piss poor beds and a stomach ache, but at least you’ll wake up. Stay in the Empress and show too much coin, or look at someone the wrong way and you might never see morning.”
Bazur smiled. The smithy’s comments were exactly what he wanted to hear. “The Empress it is. Thanks, friend.”
“It’s your funeral,” said the smithy with a dry cackle. “But you might want to pull the hood up on your cloak before you go in. Charles Peltier was a loud mouth and he made his brag before leaving town that he’d be coming back with the head of a certain half-orc from the badlands of Pera. Now, you might not be the half-orc in question, but Charles has a few drinking buddies in there that might take it personal that you are here and not Charles. And one more thing you should know about the Empress. Anything goes in the Empress, but it has one strict rule, any challenges are to be met and the winner can’t be harmed.”
“Sounds like a certain bar in Pera,” said Bazur. The combination of fighting and gambling was one Bazur knew well.
“Yes, but in the Empress, there are no fist fights. It is whatever weapons you bring, and it is not often where more than one man leaves the pits alive.” The smithy looked to the weapons on Bazur’s back. “It seems you’re at least prepared. Nonetheless, I would keep my identity hidden until you find what you are looking for. They’ll honor a challenge, only because the crowd loves a fight so much that if anyone interfered, they would be killed. But I would watch my back anyways. Many in there will stab you first chance they get. Charles wasn’t the only one hired to hunt down the blue-eyed half-blood orc.”
Pits fights to the death. It was distasteful. Bazur had grown up with the orcs, where fighting and killing were a normal part of life, but even among the orcs killing for sport was frowned upon. Bazur’s own moral code was a mixture of human and orc, and fighting in the pits was something he normally wouldn’t consider, but in this case it might serve a purpose. “You are exceedingly helpful.”
The smithy shrugged. “I got no use for that lot. Especially the general. Ever since he’s taken up residence here, the number of mercenaries staying here has doubled, so has the number of robberies on the road. The general might not be behind the robberies, but the men he keeps around for his raids… well, they like to keep busy.”
“Perhaps that might change soon.”
“Here’s to hoping,” said the smithy. “The general has a booth at the north corner of the bar, but he has a dozen men between him and the crowd at all times. However, if a certain half-blood wanted to challenge the general, all he would have to do is notify the bartender. The Empress takes its rules seriously, even the general must follow them. Of course, after he dismembered the first five or six men to challenge him, not many have found reason to do so, aside from the odd glory hound looking to make a name among the mercenaries.”
Bazur nodded. The smithy had laid it all out on the table for him. Now all that was left was the doing. “Thanks again. I think I shall go have that drink now. If you haven’t had your supper yet, I’ll buy.”
“I’d join you, but there will be many who won’t be pleased when you make your challenge. If they saw me with you, they’d be none too pleased with me.”
Bazur understood. The smithy had given him all the help he could. Bazur turned and headed towards the bar. Remembering the smithy’s warning, he pulled the hood of his cloak up and over his head before entering the Empress. The main floor of the Empress was a large rectangular design. The outer walls all had benches built into the walls, creating booths that seated six to eight people. Along with the creative use of wall space, the inn also had the normal assortment of tables sprawled around the building with a long mahogany topped bar that dominated the far wall. The most unique aspect of the Empress was the sunken floor in the middle of the room. Six feet deep and a good ten feet wide and double that in length. The blood stained floor of the pit hinted at its purpose.
The inn was busy. Busy enough that no one gave a stranger walking in wearing a hooded cloak more than a second glance, but Bazur knew this wouldn’t last long. The more time he spent in the Inn, the more danger he faced. He put his head down, and walked around the room. In one corner of the Inn, the corner booths had been blocked off from the others by a group of tables. Around the tables were a large number of men, mercenaries no doubt from the look of them. Bazur quickly surmised that was the general’s booth being blocked off. The smithy’s information to this point was accurate. Bazur turned away from the general’s table to avoid being prematurely identified and made his way to the bar. The long mahogany bar was well-polished and clean, a stark contrast from the impression the fighting pit in the middle of the room gave. Bazur slipped onto an empty stool and sat waiting for the bartender to make his way down to his end of the bar.
The bartender, a pudgy nosed fellow with a wild flowing halo of straw colored hair that admirably covered the sides of the man’s head but did nothing to cover the scalp on top, gave the bar counter in front of Bazur a quick wipe of his cloth. “What’ll you have?”
“I understand challenges can be made here?” asked Bazur.
“Sure,” said the bartender. “Name your man and if he is here, you meet him in the pit. Fight till first blood. Of course, some fights are known to go past first blood, but that is a risk you take stepping into the pit.”
“In that case, I would like to make a challenge and order a meal.” There was zero chance this fight would only go to first blood. Bazur might as well enjoy one last meal before the fight. He was now fully committed to the plan, as soon as he mentioned the general’s name, there would be no turning back.
“Sure, tell me your name. I’ll have your meal ready for the end of your challenge. I’ll take your coin for the meal now, just in case you’re not around to eat it.”
Bazur slid a silver coin across the bar. “I challenge General Vargas.”
The bartender paused and then took the coin. “In that case, I’ll have your meal brought out right away. It’s likely to be your last. The general doesn’t lose and he don’t fight till first blood. Take a seat in that empty booth off to the right. It’s the challenger’s booth. Only challengers may sit there. It is the only safe seat in the house. Sit there and eat your meal. When it is done, you meet the general in the pit. What do you want to drink? Challengers drink free.”
“A honey mead, if you have it.” Bazur liked the idea of having a honey mead. If it was the last drink he had, it was more than appropriate it was a drink from his homeland.
“Honey mead it is, and who shall say is challenging General Vargas?” asked the bartender.
Bazur took of his hood, revealing his identity. “Bazur Zargha.”
The bartender grinned. “Well, ain’t you sneaky. The boys will be disappointed to
hear you’ve made your challenge. There is a pretty penny to be paid to the man who takes your head. Better take your seat in the challenger’s booth before someone recognizes you.”
Bazur nodded, stood, and walked over to the empty booth. A few men gave him second glances and looked like they wanted to make a move, but when he removed his weapons harness and sat down in the challenger’s booth, he was left alone. The normal din of the crowd quieted as more and more of the patrons noticed someone sitting in the challenger’s booth. A few men swore when they saw Bazur sitting there. The bartender walked out from behind his bar and made his way over to the corner of the room and the general’s booth. The bartender then disappeared into the back, only to return a minute later with a plate of food and a jug. “Roast tenderloin with a red wine reduction, mushrooms and villo peppers in cream.”
“A fitting last meal if that is to be the case. My compliments to the cook.”
The bartender snorted. “Just don’t die and the cook will be happier than a pig in the muck. He actually intends to bet on you.”
“Someone giving good odds?” asked Bazur.
“Ten to one for the general. You care to wager?”
Bazur threw his coin purse on the table. “Take a gold for yourself, and place the rest on me.”
The bartender took the coins and gave a big smile. “Perhaps today is a day for fools and half-bloods. I’ve a feeling you might not be as crazy as you look. I’ll even wager the gold on you. Luck to you friend,” said the bartender as he went off to place their wagers. Ten to one was long odds. It was obvious the gambles felt his skills were unmatched. The coin mattered not to Bazur. If he won, he would do very well. If he lost… well the coins wouldn’t really matter anymore would they.
A man walked up and stood at the table. “Do you mind if I join you? If you’d like to eat your meal in private, I’d understand.”
Bazur looked up at General Vargas. “Be my guest.” Bazur recognized him from the badlands, but this was the first time seeing the man up close enough to look him in the eyes. General Vargas had a strong chin, thin lips, a hooked nose and sunken eyes. His face gave the impression of power. It was not a kind face. It was the face of a killer.
“Thank you. I must admit I was a little taken back by your challenge. I would’ve thought you might try spying on me to find out who my employer is. That is your task isn’t it? To stop the attacks on the prince.”
Bazur cut into the tenderloin and took a bite. The medium rare meat was tender and juicy, and the reduction gave it that extra kick of flavor, perfection. He slowly chewed and savored the bite. “I think I’m better off killing you and worrying about your employer later. I doubt he finds someone better. Your attacks are well planned out. Perhaps a bit brutal, but you have a talent for tactics.”
“Thank you. Although I’m a tad disappointed by the results of the attack at the Devil’s Arm. You and your meddlesome lady friend were not supposed to survive. I had thought an ambush within an ambush was a rather clever maneuver, but it failed. A credit to you, three of my men died trying to follow you across the badlands.”
“You knew we were there the whole time?”
“Yes. I have plenty of spies in Draisha. I knew the route before you did. It wasn’t hard to figure out what you would do once the route was set. There are only so many really good ambush locations along the northern route from Pera, and I knew you’d pick the right one. I hadn’t expected you to climb the Devil’s Arm. That was clever. I was so tempted to kill you then, but I didn’t want to ruin the main ambush. Perhaps I made a mistake not killing you at the first opportunity. You and the woman have proven to be difficult adversaries. Far more challenging than the rest of the prince’s hired investigators. It will almost be a shame to kill you today. I was enjoying our little game.”
General Vargas was a confident man. The way he carried himself let no doubt he expected to win. Bazur would see about that. A true orc—even a half blood would not be intimidated by words. It was likely that one of them was about to die, but it would be a glorious death. One that Bazur would welcome if that was his fate. Yet, if he was victorious there was still the matter of who was behind the attacks. Perhaps the general could give up the missing piece to the puzzle. “I don’t suppose you’d answer me if I asked who your employer is.”
“No. I don’t think that is necessary. Besides, if you did win our little duel, I wouldn’t want the game to end for you so soon. I would want whoever took my place to have a fair opportunity to kill you first. Not that it matters. How was your meal?”
Bazur was taking his last bit of meat and using it to soak up the last of the juices on the plate. “It was exceptional. A pleasant surprise to be sure. Not the ordinary inn meal.” Damn, though Bazur. It had been a long shot, but his life would’ve been so much simpler if the general had spilled his guts. Figuring out who was behind the attacks would have to wait for another day.
“No. The cook here is excellent. The inn owner traveled a great distance to find him. The last cook was rather piss poor and the lads hung him from the rafters. I’ve enjoyed our chat, Bazur. Now finish your drink and let us finish this.”
Bazur nodded and raised his mug. “To your health, or lack of it.”
Grabbing his weapons, Bazur followed the general to the pit. The crowd rose from their tables and circled the pits in anticipation.
General Vargas jumped into the pit, deftly landing on his feet. He then walked to the far end of the pit, giving Bazur space and time to enter the pit without being attacked.
Landing softly in the pit, Bazur examined his opponent. General Vargas was a strategic genius, and had a reputation as an excellent swordsman. Finding a weakness in the general’s fighting skills was going to be a near impossible task, but it had to be done. Stopping Vargas before he could get to Kyra was worth the risk of dying at the general’s hands. It had been extremely good fortune to find Vargas in Southend and to not take this opportunity to end the attacks would be foolish.
“Shut it, you bunch of hooligans!” shouted the bartender to the crowd around the pit. When the noise of the boisterous crowd died down, the bartender continued. “We have a challenge. Bazur Zargha, the Badlands Savage, undefeated barroom brawler of Pera, and a noted orc warrior once banished from his home of Lagvon stronghold, now royal investigator of Draisha. The Savage is challenging General Jasper Vargas, a veteran of the pits. The general has eight fights under his belt, all were to the death. Bets will be taken at the front bar, credits available but only coin up front on bets larger than twenty gold coin. Gentlemen you may begin.”
Bazur was somewhat surprised by the detailed introduction. There was no way the bartender should know that much about him. Bazur looked at the general, who had a wide, knowing grin.
“You will have to excuse the theatrics,” said General Vargas over the noisy crowd’s cheers and taunts, loud enough for Bazur to hear, but soft enough that the crowd above couldn’t. “Having a large number of cutthroat mercenaries gathered in one place for so long tends to create problems. The pits give the lads a chance to blow off some steam, and I get an opportunity to install a healthy bit of fear into them with the odd challenger. I gave the bartender a little background information of you to spice up the introductions. The lads quit betting against me after I decapitated the fourth challenger. But a healthy half-breed like yourself with such a reputation for destruction, that might encourage a bet or two to be placed.”
It didn’t bother Bazur that Vargas had given the bartender his backstory, but the fact that Vargas knew so much about him was troubling. Did he know as much about Kyra as well? The entire situation was starting to trouble Bazur. Was this fight another of General Vargas’s elaborate traps? Had Vargas planned the whole thing? No, that wasn’t possible. Such a plan was too flimsy and relied on Bazur doing certain things. General Vargas was not the type to rely on such a weak plan. Not that it mattered anymore. He was here now and all that mattered was surviving.
General Vargas was us
ing a short sword and a dagger. The short sword was the staple weapon of the Royal Guards of Draisha. The dagger was certainly not. A curvy blade that reminded Bazur of a snake slithering across the ground, a nasty weapon designed to create wounds that wouldn’t heal easily. That style dagger was often used by orc warriors when they wanted to fight in the same style as he had used against the loud mouth highwayman, Charles: multiple small cuts that would bleed your opponent out. Bazur couldn’t afford to ignore the small weapon, it was just as dangerous as the sword. General Vargas took a quick couple steps towards Bazur and then launched a quick strike. Vargas’s sword came towards Bazur’s neck at a breathtaking speed.
Bazur used his war scythe to slap the attack off to the side. He then used the momentum of his block to move forward and bring his scythe back across his body, the tip flying in front of Vargas’s chest as the general jumped backwards, avoiding the counter attack. The general grinned at Bazur as he circled. Vargas was testing him, sizing up his timing and fighting style.
Vargas attacked again. This time, instead of a single stabbing attack, he used multiple attacks, his blades flying in a complex rhythm.
Parrying the forceful wave of attacks took all of Bazur’s skills. General Vargas was not a good swordsman. He was a great one. Bazur had never fought a man with such skills and speed. The general’s blades danced to and fro, searching for an opening in Bazur’s defenses. The first cut came quickly as Bazur lifted his scythe to block an overhead sword attack. The general relaxed his arm on contact allowing Bazur’s blade to push his back. As Bazur’s blade moved forward farther than anticipated, the general’s knife came up and slashed against Bazur’s exposed forearm.
“First blood goes to General Vargas,” shouted the bartender. “Who scores second blood? Place your bets now.”
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