The Mages Guild is warm. The fireplace is decorative. Glass spheres float in the air, each one enclosing a flame. The fires are a multitude of colors.
Shelves line the entrance hall. Each one is filled with potions and alchemical ingredients. A shelf along the back wall has some staves. A glass case nearby has some spellbooks. The mage behind the counter wears a nondescript blue. He’s a lizardman. He has brown scales with green markings and a crest of spines curving back over his head.
“Can I help you?” he rasps. I note a faint accent.
“What are the requirements to join?” I say without preamble. I don’t approach. The floor is polished wood. I was fine tracking crap all over that nice marble in the previous place. But this is an institution that I want to join. I must respect it.
“You must have one level in the mage class and no open bounty on your head.” The lizard man waves a hand in front of his face. He opens his mouth to speak but starts coughing.
“Okay. And I hear there are magic colleges in Zephyr. What do I need to join those?”
“You need,” he pauses to cough. Between coughing and gasping for air, he manages to choke out the requirements. “You need… recommendations from… all the mage schools. Then you may access… the university.”
His coughing deepens. He vanishes under the counter and returns with a cloth held over his nose. In his other hand is an aerosol can. Without waiting for me to leave, he sprays it over himself, the desk, the floor… He walks around the desk and strides up to me.
“S’cuse me, sir.”
He moves his arm in a horizontal slash, spraying me with odor killer. And the rug. And the air. And I take my leave.
“System,” I say after closing the door. “How much does magical equipment cost?”
“There are many different kinds. The cheapest spellbook is several hundred gold. Wands often come preloaded with spells. They are less expensive. Mages cannot wear armor, therefore most do without or use enchanted robes.”
“Learning magic is expensive,” I complain. Still, I’m not surprised. I walk across the street to an open store. The owner takes one whiff of me and gestures for the door.
“Get lost,” he says, pointing.
I leave.
“The baths are two streets over. You have enough coin.”
“Where is the Spiral Order?” A long walk through the twisting streets leads me to an alleyway between two buildings. “This is the Narrows.”
“The Order is on the other side. This is the swiftest path,” the avatar says.
“Mama,” a tiny voice says. “That man is talking to himself.”
“Don’t make eye contact, sweetie.”
I turn my head. Two giant mantises see me looking at them. They hesitate for a half-second like deer caught in a headlight. Then they run for it. I shake my head and walk into the crevice. As expected, the Narrows are, well, narrow. The buildings form an airless tunnel that twists and turns. I follow a line of stones down the middle of the road. They are arranged with the long edge parallel to the path, whereas regular bricks are perpendicular.
The effect is nice. The central path meets at intersections. More than once, the road skitters off in multiple directions, but the path stays constant. It is an effective form of navigation. Good, because the one thing keeping me safe is my smell.
Homeless people crowd the street. Some women, but most are men. Some of the patrolling men give the women lascivious looks, causing their male guards to glare. All people take long looks at my clothing. My stride is brisk. My clothing isn’t like theirs. The material is thin. I am chilled to the bone. I shiver.
It is my smell that keeps them away. For once, the revolted looks are welcome. I turn a bend and come to a halt. A sound like screaming emanates from a tunnel down. No, not screaming. Cheering.
There’s an armed bouncer standing by the ramp. A neon sign hangs on the wall. The lights flicker.
“Can I go in?” I ask him. I point for emphasis. He looks me up and down.
“You a fighter?”
“I’m gonna go with ‘no,’” I say. “I’m curious.”
“You know what they say about cats,” the man grunts. He jerks his head. “Don’t stay long kid. In ‘n out, quick-like.”
“Thank you, sir,” I offer to shake his hand, but he gives me a flat look. “Sorry.”
I walk down the ramp. This section of the city appears to be a renovated underground parking garage. The concrete ceiling is close. The floor is swept, but that doesn’t make much difference. A short way in I find the source of the noise. An arena.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
What I took to be a parking garage is an excavated pit. The walls are concrete. Steel towers dot the room, the kind used by construction cranes. But there are no cranes. Spotlights flood the area with light. Catwalks crisscross overhead. Hundreds of screaming people cheer and stamp their feet.
My nose picks up all sorts of scents. Sweat, blood, pee, and poop. My own odor is lost in the haze. No sewer pipe extends from the walls. This is not a section of the Sewers. This is something else.
There are no open places to stand. The people are packed six deep. Therefore, I scale one of the metal towers. I’ve always wanted to climb one of these.
“System,” I say, though my voice is lost. “What is this place?” I climb to the top of the tower where it intersects with the roof. Up high, I can peer over the heads of the spectators. I press my glasses against the bridge of my nose and suck in a breath.
A simple railing is all that protects spectators from falling. Beyond the edge, the ground drops more than fifty feet to a dirt floor. Half-pipes, over-turned carriages, rusting boats, and even a few cars litter the ground. Scattered between them are spike pits, blade pits, pits filled with glowing acid, and more.
Flamethrowers poke from the ground, spouting fire at preset intervals. Between the hazards lies a maze of staircases, platforms, walls, and corners.
A pair of nets stand at opposite sides. Between them, two teams of adventurers duke it out for control of a ball. Most of them seem more interested in killing each other than scoring points. The field is a bloodbath. I narrow my eyes.
Monsters rampage between the groups with no allegiance. Most of the surviving adventurers have injuries, but they don’t bleed. Per the system, they have no injuries. A quick scan reveals their levels to be low. All of them are under five. About half have that red text I keep seeing.
It is carnage. Fascinating in the sense that I’m seeing a blood sport played out. Horrific because, well, people are getting murdered in gruesome ways. One guy has a cat-o-nine-tails whip studded with nails. Another has a baseball bat with nails hammered through the end. I stare for a moment because… morbid fascination? Why do people google images of a brown recluse spider bite? Why is it that people stare at gross?
I avert my eyes and study the spectators. No sport is complete without the local overlord drinking a glass of wine. Aaaand, there. Three, no—four figures on the balcony opposite me. Three on cushions, one standing. The central figure is a colossal Slugman. This creature is not Jabba. Jabba was an overweight rubber puppet that six or seven people stood inside. I squint.
Alex. Genderless Slug. Geriatric. Level 17 [Gladiator Lord]. The creature’s flesh is mottled brown and slimy. Wet slimy. Like, pores oozing wetness and glistening slippery skin. His… is it a he? His body is thin, sinuous. Not muscular, but slim like my physique. Almost weak. She… is it a she? She has two arms with inhuman hands. Her head has a mouth and two stalks that wave around, but no eyes. The creature has no shell, either. It sits upright, reclining on its cushion like the Buddha, heedless of the slime staining the material.
To Alex’s left is a snake-like creature with lots of jewelry and colored scales. Salahndrah, male Lamia, middle-aged. Level 15 [Slave Lord]. And on Alex’s other side sits a beautiful woman, a few years older than me. I blink. Her beauty gives me a headache. She’s… I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them, she’s still sitting there. But my Analysis isn’t working. A cheer goes up from the crowd. One of the teams scored a goal. Curiosity satisfied and piqued, I climb down from my perch. I’m covered in dirt and dust. The musty smell adds to the toilet smell. I climb the ramp back to the surface level.
“Well?” the bouncer prompts.
“Illuminating,” I say.
“Go home, kid. Don’t come back.”
I look at him as I walk past. “I’d like to come back and meet the bosses.”
He does a double-take as if he can’t decide whether I’m joking. I pause while he works it out. “You don’t even know who they are.”
“Sure I do,” I grin. Sneaking into a blood sport, seeing real violence, and finding out about mafia dons? The underworld is real here. And unlike Chicago, it’s out in the open. “Leader’s name is Alex. Level 17 Gladiator Lord.”
The bouncer stares at me. Next to him, a bum sitting against the wall raises his eyebrows.
“Wingman’s Salah, level fifteen lamia Slave Lord. There was a lady down there. And…” I trail off. The bouncer has a strange look on his face. The bum’s eyebrows have almost disappeared into his hair. The blood sport’s noise still emanates from below. But besides that, the street is rather quiet. With the buildings so close, the effect is like an open-air dungeon. Which means conversation tends to travel.
I look around. Many people are staring at me. Not at the bouncer or the arena’s entrance. They’re looking at me. Time to go. I take a few steps back. When I’m satisfied the bouncer isn’t going to chase me, I turn and make for the exit at a brisk walk.
No one bothers me. I exit the Narrows and enter one of the main thoroughfares. Ah, I recognize this one. This is where all those shops and restaurants are. The portal to my world should be around here. I pause. But do I want to return? I have been here less than a day. I don’t want to leave. I sort of want to go back to the guild and take those three contracts. I could do them, collect the money, and get something to eat. A hot bath and a good night’s sleep in a nice inn sounds good. But I’d still have the anklet on. It needs to be removed.
I could find some tools. Or use a knife. The city is big, and the multiverse is bigger. I could leave and never return.
“I could leave and never come back,” I mutter. One of the crows lands on a lamppost, not ten feet away. It eyes me as if deciding whether it’ll survive taking a chunk out of me. I debate shooting it. I look up. More crows land on the lamppost. And the mailbox. And the tree. Dozens of them. I look around. The street is empty. What do they see?
I turn around, intent on finding the baths and a nice inn. Screw the contracts. Comfort first, then rest. I’ll think about what to do and then make my decision in the morning.
A man is sitting at one of the outdoor dining tables. Ignoring the pour, his plate empty, hood shadowing his face, he sits motionless. But his coat is open. Under it I see the bulky outline of a bullet-resistant vest lined with ceramic plates. His rifle rests across his knees. He lifts his chin. I can’t see under the hood, but I can tell he’s staring right at me. There’s nothing else to see.
I do an about-face. Shadows move. Black Robes materialize from behind corners. I turn again. Four more spread around the street. And behind them come a dozen more. All of them are armed.
“If I surrender,” I say. I raise my voice over the sound of rain crashing against the street. “Do I get to live?”
They don’t answer. Something hard cracks into my skull from behind, dropping me like a sack of potatoes. My face hits the ground. What’s left of my poor glasses smash on impact. I groan. I raise my head. The world is a blur. Looking up, I see an armored boot rushing toward my face. And then I die.