Chapter 58
A Little Over Five Feet Of Pure Murder
No one has ever accused me of thinking overly far ahead. In fact, Old Man BloodRock has called me ‘bad in the blood’ ever since I was little, which apparently means I’m overly aggressive or something. Whatever the reason for it I’ve always tended to get myself in trouble by talking or acting before thinking things through.
As Muraab and Harrk beat me to the floor of BloodRock’s office with weighted saps I think this might very well be the perfect example of my impetuousness fucking me over. The Master of guards and his second in command are both solidly built men, well-equipped and talented as warriors. Not to mention they are both furious with me. If the houselord didn’t call for them to stop I think the two of them might have crippled me.
Instead, I’m only left heavily bruised, and bleeding from split lips, a split eyebrow, and I think one of my pinky fingers is broken. Pretty good considering the number of houseguards I left bleeding, crippled, or maybe even dead. I guess I’m lucky that BloodRock doesn’t care about his employees any more than he does his slaves. The blessed former mercenary cares about winning his bets, and any other way he can make money while drunk off his ass, and that is what's protecting me.
I’m still dragged by the pair to the punishment room below the manse. I suppose you could call it a dungeon, but it isn’t really. There is only the one room and it's more set up for torture and interrogation than storing someone for any amount of time. This place used to give me nightmares, and it's also where they would have tortured Gori. Thinking of the antlered boy I wince. The pair of guards have already told me I will be spending the night chained up down here. Doubtless tomorrow I will go straight from my incarceration to the arena, and that means I won’t know if Gori survived his match tonight until at least after the tournament ends.
“Fuck” I say to no one after I’m chained up and alone. “This is going to be a long night.”
I’m right about that, constantly moving so the restrictive chains don’t cramp my muscles too much. Not to mention I can’t get Gori off my mind. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s called himself a genius or said something like ‘My genius cannot be stopped.’ While the antlered boy is pretty smart, smarter than me at least. I have never really taken his claims seriously. Right now I pray to every god I can think of that he was telling the truth.
Maybe just maybe if Gori is as smart as he says he is he can think his way through a match when he can barely walk. Even as I have the thought I know it won't matter, having the best plan in the world won’t help someone whose body can’t actually enact it.
I’m sore and jittery by the time Muraab lets me out in the morning. The master of guards is still angry with me. I can tell by the way he doesn’t say anything but does shove me into the waiting arms of four other guards. All of whom are covered head to toe in plated armor.
‘That seems a little excessive.’
I would have liked more of a chance to stretch but before I can enjoy my freedom of movement I’m grabbed and chained up again. I don’t fight back, at least not at first. Even I am smart enough not to antagonize Muraab or the other guards right now, when they bring out the muzzle my eyes widen and I start to struggle. “No Not that thing again!” I shout and kick. Muraab is grim-faced and silent as he locks the device in place. My eyes prickle like I’m going to cry though after a few sharp breaths through my nose, I manage to hold the tears back.
This is so unfair, I proved I can be trusted outside the compound without this metal thing locked around my jaw. It isn’t like I’m going to attack some random person at the arena. I was set off by a very specific thing….the almost certain death of my friend.
Next, I’m strung up by the chains around my limbs to the back of the covered wagon I usually get to ride into the arena. Still beats pulling the thing though, which truth be told I have expected I would end up doing.
‘That's a stupid idea, Muraab won’t risk me getting hurt or pulling a muscle before the final match of the tournament. I could have killed half the guards and BloodRock would still make sure I get to this fight in good condition.’
After that though I am less confident about how I’m going to be treated. My only recourse there is to win and hope it increases my value enough to extend the protection.
Besides I’m pretty sure the men I injured all survived, they might not be much use as soldiers without some Forspoken stone healing. Oddly enough I don’t feel a whole lot of sympathy on that front. If I have to live with being slowly turned into an artificial monster, they can deal with a fake knee or something.
The ride to Prime Arena Two is uncomfortable in the extreme but I must admit It’s sort of interesting to watch the city as I pass. More than one person recognizes me, or more likely the BloodRock flag painted on both sides of the wagon, and then figures out who I am from there. Whatever the reason I get waved at or cheered numerous times. If I wasn’t hanging by shackles digging into my wrists, and jostling my broken finger I might even be enjoying myself.
Arriving at the arena I’m not even unchained, Muraab lets me down but the shackles and muzzle remain until I’m locked in my own little one-person cell that they have set up on the pit floor right up against the Arena wall beneath where I normally watch from the viewing cages.
I have the best seat in the house to watch the matches I guess. I can barely walk around and the sun is blasting down on me but oddly something else happens from it too. The crowd as a whole start making a bit of a fuss about me even before the preliminary matches for the day begin.
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I catch more chants of “North” and “The Beast Of BloodRock” than I have ever heard in my life. On the downside, I’ve also never had so many people in the crowd throw food at me before either. Most of the things tossed at me go wide or fall well short, but every now and then an apple core or the like catches me on the shoulder or the side of the head.
I can’t do anything about the rowdy spectators but I assume they are fans of the HighSail pair. If that is the case well then I am going to get a chance at petty revenge on their beloved duo in a few scant hours.
The finals of any tournament are more than just a fight, they are a spectacle of excess. A demonstration of Far Mantyian grandness. Well before a single pitter takes to the sands the pit floor is populated by dancing girls performing feats of acrobatics whilst wearing basically nothing.
As close as I am I can smell them, and honestly, the girls might be pretty in a way that leaves me dumbfounded. Their scents aren’t very pleasant though, if I had to guess they probably bathe about as often as I do.
After them is a cavalcade of exotic animals, more pretty girls doing tricks, and of course sorcerous magery. The BlackMist spellcasters craft grand images or throw elements back and forth like jugglers. It’s spectacle enough that I find myself just as engrossed by the pageantry as the crowd above me.
It's during one of the displays of magic that a familiar set of faces pop their heads over the wall separating the sands from the stands. In spite of my tiredness and severe agitation over both my upcoming match and Gori’s fate, the five children looking down at me draws a genuine smile to my face.
The so-called One Directioners have somehow worked their way down here. It probably had something to do with the Lion-Cursed Bodyguard Mauri has following him.
“Hey, North!” come the calls and waves.
“Heya kids” I call back still smiling. I don’t think I’ll ever quite understand the group that has declared themselves my fan club, but the fact that they keep coming back honestly warms my heart.
Mauri says something to me that is drowned out by the gasps of the crowd as a man leaps between trained horses that are sprinting around the pit. The rich little dog-boy rolls his eyes and tries again when the noise dies down a little.
“I know you probably just want to focus on your fight but is there anything we can get you?”
I’m briefly stunned by the consideration my fans have for me. Collecting myself I call back up a single word to him.
“Water!” I don’t think he knows I can’t keep food down on fight day. Fortunately, I don’t have the same issue with water and frequently drinking a bunch of the liquid is how I stave off hunger pains while I’m waiting for my match. As hungry and tired as I am today I’m going to need all the little tricks like that I can think of. Well, better than that honestly. After all, I can’t go into a fight with a gut sloshing water around.
The One Directioners return just as the first round of fights is starting. These matches have nothing to do with the outcome of the Storm Herald Invitational but they serve to offer more entertainment and more fights for people to bet on.
The crowd has grown so large and so unruly in the meantime that I am honestly a little worried for the safety of my young fan club. Talking to them when they get back is entirely out of the question but Mauri tosses down a wineskin that is around three-quarters full.
Nodding up at him I try to magically will my gratefulness into his mind from my own. No mystic ability manifests but I think he can tell from my expression just how big of a help this was. With more than a little gusto, I drink down about half the surprisingly chill water.
The first few preliminary matches are little kids but don’t follow any sneaky ‘safety’ rules like Saffron employed against me. They are savage affairs as little boys and girls that don’t really understand they can actually die here throw themselves at each other,
I don’t pay much mind to these fights as I’m focused on finding ways to stretch and warm up in my tiny one-man cage. I wouldn’t call it a grand success or anything, but by the time the final match that doesn’t matter rolls around, the stiffness in my muscles has been worked out.
It's the team of five condemned convicts who made it to the end of their own little tournament. Over the weeks of the event they have developed their own fans, and I hear multiple names chanted and signs waved for these men.
I can see the spark in them has grown into a roaring bonfire. They have stepped into the role of pitters truly by now, what's more, freedom is close they can taste it. I can imagine the conversations they would have had leading up to this.
‘Just one more match, just one more and we can walk out of that arena free men!’
I wouldn’t want to be one of those poor bastards right now. Condemned means condemned, these men are supposed to die and the houselord of BlackMist will send out the scariest monster he has under his command to make sure they all do.
I wonder what it will be? Does he have another Ettin? Maybe a True-Hydra, or Demi-Dragon? He might even send out Poe, the creature from the world of shadows radiates both power and threat.
The convict pitters gather together at the center of the pit floor, waving to the crowd or doing some last-moment stretching. Soon though they are lined up in a defensive formation every one of their eyes nailed to the gate at the far end of the arena.
They aren’t alone the crowd has gone silent and they wait with bated breath to see if their favorite doomed man has any hope of surviving against what will come through.
As soon as the gate rises I know that they don’t. The crowd figures it out a few heartbeats after I do, but I recognize the shine of those black eyes before the figure is even revealed from the shadow of the tunnel.
It’s kind of funny I think to myself, I was both right and wrong. The creature that steps out onto the sands is the scariest thing BlackMist can lay their hands on, an absolute death sentence for the convicts. I’m right about that part but where I erred was my own feelings about it. I would trade everything I have, everything I have ever had to be out there with a weapon in hand right now.
There is a collective gasp when the fans realize just what they are looking at, followed by a cheer that makes the reception the fire witch gets seem tame. A little over five feet of pure murder has entered the killing fields and it's accompanied by a repeating chant every man woman and child in Far Mantys has heard a thousand times at least.
“YOU CAN’T STOP THE RUSH!!”