Despite the crude name given to it by the common folk, The Pits was not some unkempt hole in the ground. It was an open cavern within Mur named Blood Coliseum, Manslayer Arena, and Warpath Theater by its noble guest. At its center was a thin layer of sand mixed with blood, bone, and teeth at the center. On its edges were seats filled with rowdy patrons, each paying ten coppers to see tonight's entertainment.
Just above the first floor of seats, was a second row, but unlike the first, the seats were few and far between. Exquisite leather adorned every surface, and fine food on display begging to be sampled. The patrons enjoying the lavish decor only paid in gold for the blood about to be shed. They were kept separate from the howls of those below thanks to smartly done magics, but the announcer currently standing on the sands could be heard by all.
“Honored guest, I'm proud to announce tonight's entertainment. There will be many men fighting for their lives this night. Feel free to put your money on any one of them.” The announcer paused for dramatic effect. “I know I will be,” he said, turning to face Brand’s opponent. “The first battle will be between Calif the bone crusher.” Then turning to Brand he said, “and Brandy, the black.”
Brand yelled for all to hear, anger dripping off every word. “My name isn't fucking Brandy, It’s Brand!”
“Oh, my mistake,” said the announcer, playing it up for laughs. The crowd hooted and hollered louder than before, riled by the banter before them.
Brand looked up to where the foreign siblings were seated, annoyed at seeing they also laughed with the crowd. “The faster I finish these fights, the faster I go home. Well, this is more of a performance than a fight,” he thought, walking to the center area at the same time as Bone Crusher.
Tonight would be his first match against Calif but had seen the man fight several times. He was tall with more fat than muscle which he used to overpower his foes. Like Brand, he wore no shirt, forced to show the world his impressive size with only wool pants for proprietary. He'd gained his title by breaking the bones of his opponents, an arm or leg, usually after the match had been decided. This made Brand want to give the barbarous man the same treatment, sadly he could not.
Calif, like Brand, was on the payroll. Whether they won or lost was up to Hoder. The only fights in which either could do as they pleased was when a new fighter tried his luck in the pit. If Brand were to somehow lose, Calif could not harm him further unless empowered by Hoder to do so.
Luckily, Hoder gave permission for him to win every match but the last two by a landslide. Brand was to do marginally well in the semi-final and barely lose the last fight, losing all bets placed on him based on his previous fights.
When the two competitors met a few passes from each other, they came to a halt. Calif started speaking in his grizzled smoke-filled tone, but Brand could hear the pleading in his words. “Take it easy on me ok boyo.”
“He’s seen me fight too,” Brand thought gleefully.
“Sure Crusher,” Brand said with enthusiasm. “I won't break a thing.” Brand's expression took on an air of harshness as if looking at something disgusting. “But you're going to bleed.”
Calif stuttered, taking a step back around the same moment a loud ringing was heard across the cavern signaling the two competitors to fight. Thoroughly enjoying a chance to pummel the bully, Brand lunged forward taking advantage of Calif’s fear and hesitation.
Brand's first strike came as a blur flattening Calif's nose before he could react. As blood gushed from the man's face, another blow came an instant later adding a handful of teeth to the sands. Calif tried throwing a punch of his own, but Brand sidestepped out of its way with ease and continued beating the man like a helpless animal.
The crowd came to life as the sand grew red bringing their excited screams to new heights and a hint of a smile to Brand's face. Their response became game to him like in so many matches in the past. The harder and more ruthless he was, the louder the crowd became like he was playing an instrument that covered his hands in blood.
Calif's legs gave out as his consciousness started to fade, but a dark hand grabbed a fold of fat by his neck helping him stand up.
“Don't fall asleep on me,” Brand said, never losing his cheerful tone.
“I giv-,” was all the bleeding man could say before an open palm bounded across his face, sending blood across the floor, some landing on the nearby audience.
Brand brought his mouth to Calif’s ear speaking in a whisper. “You're not getting off that easy.”
A fist struck Calif’s stomach, forcing him from his stupor with a new wave of pain. Helplessly, he took several more strikes to the gut before being thrown to the ground like trash. A large knife appeared in front of him, sent from the top floor seats by Hoder, who added a weapon for the excitement of the crowd or his own amusement.
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Calif grabbed the knife immediately thrusting it at Brand. Catching the knife arm and kicking the feet out from under him, Brand threw the man over his shoulder, slamming him into the sandy floor.
As air departed his lungs, Calif was once again unable to speak. He tried desperately to inhale, but sweet breath refused to answer his call. A moment later, Brand’s foot collided with his head, finally sending the man into the mercy of darkness.
“We, have, a, winner!”' exclaimed the announcer.
Brand took a quick look at the crowd. They were in a frenzy, jumping up and down, some women without their tops chanting the only name people seemed to remember. “Brandy! Brandy! Brandy”!
With a sigh of defeat, Brand made his way to where the combatants were meant to wait. “Now if they could only get my name right,” he thought glumly as the next match began.
Taking his seat, Brand wiped away the blood from his knuckles with a cloth he readily kept for just such an occasion. Around him sat the other fighters, twentyish fresh ones looking at him with terror.
“Was all the really necessary?” said a man to his left whose name escaped him.
Answering a question with a question Brand asked. “I wonder if you asked Bone Crusher that after his matches? I went easy on that bastard."
“Fair point. He has done worse, but not to any of us,” replied the man, indicating he was a veteran fighter like Brand and Calif. After some time, he continued. “Will you be as thorough with us as you were with him?”
Brand answered immediately while tucking his rag in a pocket. “No need to worry. That fat bastard is the only one I plan to beat bloody tonight with Hoder’s say so. The rest of my wins will be the same as usual, soft hits and exaggerated moves.” Breaths of relief could be heard around the men after Brand’s declaration.
“I did not ask for me,” said the man. “I asked for everyone else.”
Turning to see whom he was talking to, Brand frowned at the man. “Oh, Blood Beard. I guess you're winning tonight.” Blood Beard just smiled in response.
The rest of the melee proved to be much less one-sided than Brand’s initial bout. Every few brawls, some kind of rage would engulf the minds of one or both of the challengers. Their breathing would become fast and frothy with spittle. If one looked closely at their eyes, they’d see white transforming into a deep pink. The recipient of this peculiar phenomenon would then fight in a manner most patrons of the pits happily spent liberally to witness.
Gone was any sense of self-preservation, remorse, or civility. Every fight involving these possessed men would end bloodier than most folks with weak stomachs could handle. The men knew not what afflicted them, or even that they were subjected to any form of influence, but it did not matter. As each battle started, it was instantly clear which contender was a true berserker.
All seasoned fighters like Brand knew what compelled these men to action. It was a root of poor reputation, nasty effect, and an acrid taste that could easily be countered with sugar; the very same sugar used in the drinks Hoder provided only to his new contenders.
It was called Damon Root. The root would steal fear and pain replacing them with absolute determination and increased strength for whatever was first on its user's mind. In this case, it helped many a first-time fighter do what needed to be done, instead of cowering in fear.
The problem for some was all coordination and strategy was lost in the torrent of passion awarded by the drug. There was also the tendency to kill your opponent mercilessly or anyone else that got too close.
Brand nearly fell victim to demon root the first time he fought for the people's entertainment. Luckily, he noted how many men didn't even look towards the offered refreshments, so he abstained.
Now some poor bastard was high on the concoction, swinging a gifted spear wildly at a long-time fighter, sometimes even a champion. The once champion was defending the attacks with a lone shield. Hoder never made things easy for his men. It upped the tension and increased the rewards if they were handicapped.
Bashing the spear away, the shielder came in close slamming his impromptu weapon on the face of his savage foe. Not even feeling his broken nose, the crazed spearman swung his weapon as a club. The shielder quickly blocked the swing, but the increased strength of the demon-rooted man sent him flying to the sandy floor.
The berserker never relented, leaping at his prey spear first. The shielder rolled, once again avoiding the spear, but was caught on a second thrust. He accepted the attack on his shield that gave way with a loud snapping sound as it was pierced.
The spear tip carved right through the arm holding the shield stopping right before entering the fighter's chest. If this were a normal man, the shielder, or whatever his name happens to be, could surrender. But for someone bewitched by Demon Root, such requests fell on deaf ears.
With a snapping of wood, the berserker wrenched his weapon free then sent it back down with all his crazed might impaling the shielder. He didn't stop there, plunging the weapon down again and again without mercy.
The shielder couldn't scream as his throat and lungs were shredded, but he tried all the same, making wet gargles. Finally, the spear took him in the eye, ending his struggle and sending him to whichever plain of death would have him. The berserker, still blinded by fury, only stopped striking after a full minute. The sandy floor drank in the blood, adding to the endless sea it had already consumed.
“Damn,” Brand muttered to himself.
He hoped… Shield Guy, would have won, or at least survived. It was always better to fight one of Hoder’s men than the initiates hopped up on the root, as some would say. Brand would have to try especially hard not to kill the temporary madmen. Pain could not quell their will to fight, so knockouts were the only way to win, leaving many accidental deaths by night's end.
Hoder usually only drugged three or four men each night, but it seems these foreigners made him want a bloodier showing. Every single new fighter had been drugged. While not fighting, they shook while hugging themselves. Some looked about spasticity, while others closed their eyes curling up into a fetal position.
The berserker that made his adversary into a pincushion was now being led back to a waiting area via the announcer calling him softly from far away. One could never be too conscious when dealing with a demon-rooted man. Once the ring was free of corpses, and sand had been shuffled, it was once again Brand’s turn to fight.