The Grimly Gladiator
Impetia 8th, 542
Null was panting inaudibly, bobbing with each breath in part due to weariness from the exertion of the past day. The crowd let their displeasure be known, unleashing an onslaught of jeers and boos at the performance that was being put on display at the final hour. There were only two fighters left within the Colosseum’s lower arena, and Null’s opponent was a crafty one who had, up until that point, relied entirely on picking people apart from afar while hiding behind Null’s large frame.
This opponent’s ingenuity was something worth appreciating, as he had recognized that a powerful opponent who wielded a laggardly great sword would be simple enough to avoid on his own. All he’d have to do was lure his opponents into Null’s range and then pick them off with his crossbow. Now that the job was done and the two of them were the only ones left, he had decided to continue playing with his food by kiting around the slow fighter and firing bolts.
It was no surprise, then, that the match had stirred so much bitterness within the crowd. After all, they had filled out half the seats in the Colosseum just for the opportunity to watch the infamous “Blue Devil”, whose appeal was a combination of an entertaining battle-style involving brute force and cat-like reflexes, coupled with the personality of a silent, masked gladiator in a tailored black suit. The warrior had been especially popular with women, who typically did not come out to the Colosseum in comparison to men, so the stands had been packed for what was essentially a throwaway fight.
Null had been fatigued, and not simply due to the cat and mouse game that was being executed by the bowman. The unfortunate reality of the situation was that work had taken its toll on the fighter in the hours before the match had even begun.
Null recalled the night and morning leading up to that moment on the dirt grounds beneath the roaring fans. For the entirety of the nine hours Null had spent in that room, thick vines of cigar smoke hung in the air, intermingling with the murmur of dice occasionally dancing along the center of the table. The room was extravagantly outfitted, ornamented with magic crystal-powered light fixtures as opposed to common candle ones, a floor covered in a fur carpet of pitch black, and tasteful paintings of great Vulturian battles that were imported from Qormani.
An unusual tension had taken hold of the closed space as eight individuals in suits gathered at the red oak table draped in a purple cloth textured by intricately hand-woven patterns. Fort Raid was the choice of game at high stake tables such as this one due to the game’s source of national pride as The Baening’s first and largest cultural export.
Though the material and means to mass produce the high-quality cards, dice and chips used to partake in the game were unavailable within The Baening, a role which had fallen to the neighboring technocratic principality of The Tillows, makeshift dice, chips, and scraps of paper with drawings of cards on them filled the role at the more rundown casinos within the country. High stake games such as the one taking place in that particular room, however, usually unboxed a fresh set of manufactured cards and dice in order to avoid tampering and cheating, granting the players confidence that the matches were generally up to professional standards.
Four players in the room had already lost, having had their initial wagers swept up by their unfortunate gambles. Another two of the eight suited figures stood above the rest and acted as overseers, whose jobs were both to ensure that no cheating took place, as well as to step in if any violence or theft broke out over the game. This is all to say that there were only two active players still seated at the table with chips next to their hands of cards. Their showdown was a clash of irony as the two were the physical antithesis of one another.
The man with the gargantuan pile of chips laid out beside him was a feeble rat of a fellow in his thirties whose suit wasn’t tailored to the size of his skinny body, folds forming at every point of tension along his jacket from his abdomen to his elbows, his sleeves hanging slightly above his wrists and his pants blooming outward at his shiny black shoes. Null, who had been tasked with overseeing the game, thought him a monkey in a suit at first, wondering how in Peregrine’s name a sad looking man like him managed to buy his way into the room, but his success in the game had clearly spoken for itself.
The other player, a large man, black tinted sunglasses riding his nose, proudly carrying excessive body fat in his gut within the confines of his newly tailored suit, the red patterned undershirt that contrasted with the plain white that everyone else had chosen to don, holding a cigar in one hand and his cards in the other, wore the cocksure grin of a seasoned Raid player.
His confidence betrayed the diminished arsenal of chips at his side, especially in comparison to the monstrosity that the first man had amassed. As it had fallen onto him to make the first move this turn, it was entirely possible that he would end up losing this round due to his low chip count, especially considering the extraordinary stroke of luck his opponent had come upon throughout the game, essentially wiping everyone else out single-handedly.
The difficulty of the situation truly lay in the rules of the game. To play Fort Raid, each player must buy into the game by purchasing chips, half of which become a part of a “pot” known as the central fort or the main fort located in the middle of the table. The other half becomes their own personal war fund that they may wager by playing one of the three cards they’re granted, cards that function as metaphorical “tickets”, in order to carry out a raid. These cards are drawn by a player whenever it becomes their turn to play in a round.
Rounds are carried out clockwise on the table, and the player who goes first in each round shifts in that direction with every full rotation. The success of each raid is determined by the roll of two six-sided dice which is pitted against either the central fort’s minimum number, which begins at 4 at the start of the game, or against the roll of the player you’re aiming to raid. Numbered cards are a ticket to raiding the main fort, and faces are tickets to raid the player who played before you. Aces, while uncommon, can be used to redirect a raid aimed at the owner towards another player in the game.
This means that the player who goes first is only capable of raiding the main fort, and even playing a face in that situation results in a main fort raid. To successfully raid another player, the attacker must set a wager, and the defender can either forfeit and give up half the wager, or accept it and roll for the entire thing.
The two must roll against one another, and the higher number determines the winner. The other difference between raiding a player and the main fort is that, should your raid fail against another player, your entire wager is lost, whereas only half of your wager is lost should you fail to raid the main fort. Ties are considered even, and no chips are exchanged, and double six earns you twice your wager while double one loses you twice what you would have lost.
It should also be noted that there are diminishing chances of success on raids on the main fort, as the required roll to carry out a successful raid increases each turn by one after each successful raid, and each failure reduces the minimum roll by one. When analyzing the current game state where the man in the sunglasses was going first, he was forced to raid the fort, which meant that his opponent could raid him should he own a suit card in his hand.
“Look at this guy, eh? All luck and no balls. Looks like he’s just about pissing himself right now, ain’t he?”
The man in the sunglasses shot a glance over at Null, whose gladiator helmet was a deep blue steel. The edges of the visor resembled a devil’s horns, horns which had spawned the moniker “Blue Devil” by the audiences of the Colosseum. There was a slit at the center of the visor that granted the warrior some vision. Null also wore a white fur scarf whose strange properties also functioned as armor against sharp blows. It was a strange material whose origins were unknown to the gladiator.
The man standing next to Null who stood tall in their own suit while wielding two blades, one a longsword drawn on their back, and the other a small dagger on their left hip, hadn’t so much as budged in response to the player’s comment.
“Don’t be such a hard ass, man. Here, I’m all in on this fuckin’ fort.” The player in sunglasses placed down the Swordsman of Red face card, signaling what could very well be his final raid, then pushed all his chips forward.
“You’re just going to lose faster Gen,” one of the losers said, his bald head catching the light of the fancy magic bulbs on the ceiling. The fort had required a minimum roll of ten at that point, which meant the chance of him escaping unscathed was slim as his only options were to tie at a ten, or roll an eleven or a twelve. There was also a one in thirty-six chance of him losing the game outright due to the snake eyes rule, but Gen hadn’t even considered the possibility that his luck would be that terrible.
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“Shut the fuck up,” Gen said. “Pay attention to this.”
Gen rolled his wrists with a cocksure grin then threw the dice down.
And as he had called, a four and a six joined hands to shun his defeat narrowly as the room was filled with audible exhales with more purpose than merely expelling cigar smoke. Their fear of the double one roll had them scared stiff. Gen himself had only gazed upon the roll with indifference as he took a draw from his cigar. “Go on then Tiff, raid me if you’ve got the balls.”
The man across from the table who went by Tiff, offered a scoff laced with barely disguised neurosis. “Hmph! Suit yourself.” He placed down a biker card, one of the other three face cards, then shoved 10 chips worth 10 gold coins forward, an amount equal to Gen’s remaining balance.
“Hmph, it’s always that damn black biker. Just my luck,” Gen said with a playful sigh. He picked the dice up, rolled them around in his hand once more, then tossed them down with a certain controlled vigor as they came spinning down onto the table. A three and a four made themselves present at the final hour. It wasn’t a terrible roll, but it wasn’t anywhere near a guaranteed win.
“Tough luck Gen,” one of the losing players said. Certainly, if Tiff’s luck streak were to continue, then the man’s condolences were warranted. After all, the man across from Gen at the table hadn’t rolled lower than a nine when raiding other players.
“Shut the fuck up, I might still win.” He turned back to face Tiff. “Start rolling already. I’m gonna devour you fuckin’ whole, boy.”
“Keh, we’ll see about that…” Tiff picked the dice up and shook them with two hands, then cast them down at the table, allowing them to spin in search of a decisive killing blow to end the game. It should have been over there, and Tiff had thought as much. And it had been, only, rather than the signal being the sight of a roll of eight or over, it had been the excruciating pain he’d found himself in the second the dice left his grasp that led him to realize just how over this all was.
“OWWW!!!!” He let out a harrowing scream as the small blade as long as a pen, a deep purple amethyst gleaming from the hilt, plunged through his hand. The blade punctured the center of his soft palm, cleanly exiting through the other side and hooking onto the oak table through the cloth. His blood splattered onto the embroidered design as if adding the organic stains would make much needed touches to its handcrafted beauty. Null had waited precisely for the moment he cast the die to strike, as it was when he would be the most preoccupied.
An onlooker whistled. “Pair of sixes. Can’t believe it.” Sure enough, the roll had turned up the highest possible outcome, meaning Gen had lost.
“W-w-w-w-what was that for?!” Tiff screamed, barely stifling his whimpers. “I-is this how your high-stake games are ran?! Bitter… bitter losers!”
Gen hadn’t said a word since the stabbing, he exhaled in what was yet another contribution to the smoke-heavy room with razor-focused eyes on the roll. He hadn’t been smiling. His bottom lip hung open, as if he’d been deciding between speaking and awaiting the cigar’s return to his mouth as he held it near his face. His gaze then suddenly glanced up at Tiff, whose own eyes were squeezed tight as he tried to stifle the pain of the stabbing on his own.
“Tiff,” he said finally. “You rolled a twelve, yeah?”
“YES!! You can see it right there, you absolute buffoon! It’s a twelve! Everyone sees it! Just look at the dice!”
“Looking? Why yeah. I am looking,” Gen said. “Question here is, are you?”
“W-w-what are you…” When Tiff pried his eyes open to look at the dice, he gasped audibly in surprise. His beautiful pair of sixes had morphed into a two and a three before he knew it.
“I-it was a twelve! T-that man over there said it himself! You all saw it! Someone moved the dice!”
“Someone moved it, eh?” Gen said, squashing the butt of the cigar into the glass ashtray next to him. He looked over at Null, then tilted his chin upward for a brief moment. The signal told the masked gladiator to slide the knife out of Tiff’s palm, causing more blood to spurt out.
“A-auughh…” His eyes were nearing the same crimson red that his bloodied palms were dying the tablecloth in. He reached into his pocket to grab some cloth of his own to attempt to slow the bleeding.
“I-I’m gonna bleed out now… someone… hurry up and…” His eyes fell to the dice, and he found his mouth hanging open despite the pain he was in. “W-what? Why are the… sixes back?”
Gen clicked his teeth. “You spoke too hastily, cheat.”
“Ch-cheat? What are you…”
“You see that dagger over there?” Gen pointed to the dagger Null was holding. “Yeah, that one. The one the overseer stabbed you with. You see that glowing amethyst at the hilt? That means it’s cutting off the flow of magic essence in the body.”
“F-for magic? But…”
“Yeah, yeah. You familiar with them? Blades of that make are called “Circuit Breakers”. Think of it as a stopgap for magic. You get it? You were slingin’ illusion spells to make us see two sixes. That’s why when the overseer stabbed you, the blade put a cork in your magic and the real numbers started to show up. Then, once the blade’s removed, your illusion came back. Want us to stab you again or are you gonna cut the spell on your own?”
“N-no… I mean… Here.”
Tiff waved his bloodied, shivering palm, and the illusion warped once more, revealing the two and the three from earlier.
Gen nodded with a sly grin.
“Well, would you look at that. You must think we’re a bunch a fuckin’ morons, don’t ya, Tiff? Or Tiffons is probably more accurate, eh?” Tiff’s eyes widened when his full name was called.
“How did you…?“
“A mage from the Tillows, hired by some bumfuck noble to go use illusion magic to hoodwink the barbarians playing dice for coin. That it?”
It wasn’t the first time Null or Gen had experienced such a thing. It was an uncommon type of magic to be sure, and difficult to deal with as it could potentially create both visual and auditory illusions to distract and deceive others. However, those who raided high stake games were usually too obvious with their usage of the magic, often winning far too many important dice rolls than are realistically feasible. And with the blade, it was possible to prove it.
“I-I swear sir, I meant nothing of the sort. I-I just-“
Gen waved his hand, and Tiff reflexively silenced himself.
“Relax, relax. I’m not your enemy. I get it.” Gen stood up. “We’re gonna find a way to work this out, alright? Mages are more than welcomed into our services.”
Gen’s presence was like the weight of heavy armor on the body. No one, not one of the outed players nor Tiff, were immune to the grip of command he suddenly had over the room. Only the two overseers, who acted as his swords in such situations, appeared to retain some semblance of calm as he finally walked over to Tiff.
“Do you know who we are, boy?”
“Y-you’re… you’re the Canes.”
“That’s right. I am Gen Cane, and the silent fellow who just introduced that magic blade to your hand is Null Cane, my right hand. Do you know what I love about Null, Tiff?”
“N-no sir.”
“Loyalty.” Gen grabbed hold of Tiff’s left wrist, an act which caused him to gasp as he held onto the cloth with his right for dear life. “As far as I see it, you’ve got two choices right now. You can swear an oath to me and become Tiffon Cane. You’ll be as loyal and as subservient as my right hand over there. You’ll have no more freedom, and your magic’s gonna be something you use only at my whims, but you’ll be allowed to walk out of this room alive. Or, I can drag you out once Null is done carving you two or three more assholes. So, which is it gonna be, tough guy?”
There was no hesitation in Tiff.
“I-I’ll do it…”
“You’ll do it? Do what? Which one are you talkin’ about, huh? Hey, ya hear that Null? This guy wants you to carve him a new one.”
“N-NO! Not that! That is… I’ll become a Cane…”
The words brought a smile to Gen’s face, who patted his back then turned to the rest of the players with a grin, then returned to facing Tiff. “Good lad. Now here. Let go of the cloth. I’ll take care of your little wound.”
Tiff’s eyebrows furrowed. His expression was growing fuzzy. He looked like he would pass out at any moment. “B-b-but…”
“Shhh, it’s okay. We’re family now Tiffon. You should learn to trust family, yeah?”
“R-right…”
He reluctantly removed his hand and allowed Gen to apply pressure.
“Do you know healing magic, Tiff?” he asked.
“Y-yeah, that’s what I was about to tell you. I’ll be fine if I just-“
The sudden scream, which had even surprised Tiff despite being the one who’d let it out in the first place, came due to the fact that Gen had taken the opportunity to plunge his thumb into the inside of his wound. He grated and twisted his finger along skin, bone, vein and artery alike.
“You motherfucker. Ruining our game... Where’s your fuckin’ respect, huh?!”
“I-I’M SORRY, PLEASE! A-ACK, IT HURTS!”
He squirmed in his seat desperately, sliding off the chair and grabbing onto Gen’s hand in a desperate move to pry the man’s grip away.
“YOU’RE SORRY, HUH? YOU’RE FUCKIN’ SORRY? WELL MAYBE YOU SHOULDA THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE YOU CAME IN HERE TRYING TO ROB US LIKE WE’RE A BUNCH OF DUMB FUCKIN’ ORCS!”
Gen tossed the man to the ground by his arm with a visceral disgust. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a cloth which he then used to wipe away the blood on his own right hand.
“You Tillies think you’re so much better than us with your fuckin’ magic trinkets and your money, huh? Well what about our fuckin’ money, right guys?”
Gen’s anger had fueled the other suited men, who had essentially wasted an entire night playing a rigged game thanks to Tiff, who was now desperately casting healing magic on himself as he felt his grasp on his consciousness slip due to the blood loss. Null could still hear his screaming in tandem with the sound of his body being kicked and beaten by the men who used violence to vent their frustrations out on the bloodied man before them. And, as if the five minutes of torture wasn’t enough, they all took turns urinating over his downed body, soiling his clothes, his hair, and his face, as was the culture when high stake games were disrespected.
Once everyone had successfully vented their frustrations, Gen returned to his seat and contemplated lighting another cigar, before eventually deciding against it.
“Mikk, take Tiff to wash up then get him in a suit. We’ll be workin’ him later.”
The unmasked overseer whose gold earring jingled with his nod, glanced over at the urine-soaked mage who was just beginning to regain his footing.
“Just to be clear, if I catch wind of any hint of magic, I’ll cut your head off,” Mikk said.
“I-I get it…”
Illusion magic was tricky, but an illusion larger than mere dice manipulation would appear more obvious to a pair of trained eyes during its cast. As long as Mikk stayed alert, then he would be able to strike before Tiff could make an escape.
Once the two had left, the remaining four players turned back to Gen.
“So, should we continue the game?” one of them asked.
Gen shook his head. “We’re done for now. We’ll return your wagers and split the Tilly mage’s buy-in, but we can’t play anymore. Null’s got a performance to put on in two hours.”
Their party in the night had ended, but Null’s was only just beginning.