031 - NO CHAOS OR ORDER, ONLY THE ARENA
Mitch ushered Conrad, unresisting, into a cell at the edge of what appeared to be a sort of ready area. There was open space enough for movement and a few men sparred with training weapons in the light of flickering candles and torches. Along the walls were benches, a few cots, racks of training weapons, but with the cage secured to the wall the overall feel of the place was that of a jail.
The cage itself had thick iron bars that joined seamlessly with the stone of the wall and, a few scuffs of sand on the floor revealed it too was made of solid rock. The door clicked behind him and Mitch gestured for Conrad to come close to the bars.
He reached through and undid the shackles locking Conrad out of his inventory, and at once his skills and abilities returned to life. For a split second he considered grabbing the man, taking the knife from his inventory and making his own way out, but the men who relaxed, trained, and otherwise used the area all gave nods or waves of recognition to Mitch as they had entered.
The only prisoner here, evidently, was Conrad, and killing a guard might not be taken lightly.
“Boys, watch yourselves with this one,” Mitch called out, giving Conrad a wink whose meaning Conrad couldn’t begin to understand, “He’s a real killer. A merc out of Edge.”
A number of the men looked up, faces a mixture of interest and mocking schadenfreude.
“What’d he do to get himself into trouble all the way out here?” One of the men called.
“Murder, Jace, murder most foul,” Mitch said, causing all the smiles and interest to turn to grim dislike.
Mitch headed for the door to the outer walll through which he had brought Conrad as he called out, “You have a pleasant night, Conrad,” he grinned then snapped his fingers as if remembering something, “There another fight tonight? Who’s up next?”
A big armed man who had been idly flipping a large smith’s hammer in his hand looked up, “I’m finishing out the night. Exhibition.”
Mitch pointed at the man and said seriously, “Kill em, Tanner. Be cheering you from the stands.”
The sturdy man, Tanner, pulled out a small pouch and tossed it to Mitch, “Place a bet for me. Can’t do much with it if I don’t win, right?”
Mitch caught the bag, gave it a shake and nodded, “Hype this man up! Drinks on Tanner the Hammer tonight!”
The prospective gladiators all cheered, clapped and whooped, several of them surrounding Tanner to, by turns, slap him around and rub his shoulders in a brotherly approximation of a massage. Mitch waved and walked out, and Tanner stood and approached Conrad, face a bearded mask of disdain and try-hard confidence.
“Killing’s for the arena,” he said, “But I’d make an exception for a murderer.”
The man was clearly well liked, maybe even favored to win the match. But sizing him up and looking at his weapon, Conrad wasn’t immediately impressed. If The Tower was top tier talent out here in Great Pines, then he had nothing to fear from this man.
“Self defense,” Conrad said, then trying another tactic, he invoked Silver Tongue, the easy confidence granted by the skill letting him take in the situation from another angle. Big man, likely a smith or an apprentice, not a prisoner, but also he was missing the sort of eagerness for battle Conrad would have expected from a professional gladiator.
The whole tone of the area was one of grim determination, not of celebrity fighters heading out confidently to put on a show.
Then he noticed, beneath the beard and furrowed brows, Tanner’s youth. The man wasn’t much older than Conrad.
“Maybe you didn’t notice the cage,” Conrad said, nodding at the bars around him, “Or the shackles I had on, but that’s what it took to get me here.”
“All the criminals come in like you,” Tanner said, missing or ignoring the implied question.
“Self defense,” Conrad said, “Look I’m not here to fight you. You got a plan? What are you even facing out there?”
“Something worse than you,” the man said, spitting at Conrad. It hit the thick bar, not even misting him so he just raised an eyebrow.
“Hope not,” Conrad said, “Good luck. Come back and maybe I can teach you a thing or two so you can do it again.”
The man scoffed and looked about to retort when a great door at the far end of the room began to swing open. The sound of chains clanking through gears echoed through the space and the cheers of the crowd along with the flickering orange light of torches flowed in through the space, open now to the night sky. And alongside all of it, the Announcer blared his welcome.
“PLEASE WELCOME BACK TO THE SANDS FOR HIS THIRD EXHIBITION MATCH, THE MAN WITH ARMS OF STEEL AND A HEART TO MATCH-”
The men around Tanner gave him one final set of slaps and began clapping and whooping as he turned to leave. He gave one final rude gesture to Conrad, then jogged out onto the sands of the Arena, armed with a hammer and no armor to speak of.
“ITS THE UP AND COMING, TANNER! THE HAAAAAMMMEEEEERRRRRR!”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The gate began closing behind Tanner and Conrad called above the din of the chains rattling down the heavy wooden barrier and the crowd cheering and chanting, “Does he always fight alone?”
One of the other gladiators called back, “Arena rules. Single combat. It likes the drama.”
“Ever try to cheat?” Conrad quipped.
The gladiators gave each other looks that clearly said “can you believe this guy?” before one of them said, “Gates are for show. Try to enter through any of the Arena doors and it pushes you back out.”
Single combat only? What did that mean for his opponent? Or opponents? The last fighter, the one that had faced the Chieftain seemed to have been fighting only one
“FIGHTING OUT OF THE SOUTH GATE, A NEWCOMER FORGED IN THE FIRES OF THE VOLCANO ISLAND OF TIDANA, STANDING AT TWICE THE HEIGHT OF A NORMAL MAN, AND WIELDING A SPEAR THAT’D MAKE WOMEN BLUSH, IT’S THE DEEEEEMON PRIIIINCE, CATAPHRAAAAAAAAAACT!”
Immediately all the faces around the room fell, looking grim, “Who’s he?” Conrad called out, “Didn’t Hammer even know who he was fighting?”
“Nobody knows!” One of the men snapped, then a moment later his nerves seemed to loosen his tongue and he added, “The Arena chooses. We think it’s sort of random, hard to say but when it’s a monster we haven’t seen before it’s never good.”
Another rule added to the bank. Conrad leaned forward, focusing in on the Announcer’s voice as he painted the picture of the fight.
“He’s going to need to get in close,” Conrad said, “If Cataphract has a spear, and Tanner can slip around it, he can win.”
The others stood or sat variously, looking nervous but all of them had their full attention on the fight commentary.
“HAMMER’S BEEN WORKING ON HIS SPEED! LOOK AT HIM GO! LEFT SLIP, SWING AND NO CONNECTION - MIGHT BE TRYING TO BREAK CATAPHRACT’S SPEAR! THE DEMON PRINCE LOOKS UNBOTHERED, TESTING THE EXTENT OF HIS OPPONENT’S ENDURANCE!”
“What about fighting skills? Something to push the range of his hammer or keep Cataphract from pulling away.”
“Where the fuck do you think you are with this shit?” One of the gladiators yelled, stress evident in every syllable, “Skills? Tanner was apprenticing to the smith before he decided seven years was too long to wait to make anything of himself.”
And this was only his third fight! It was insane, but Conrad had to be honest it wasn’t quite as crazy as the son of a Merchant following a group of adventurers into the Warren Dungeon. At least Conrad had had backup - or so he thought - but Tanner’s story wasn’t altogether unfamiliar. Dungeons offered the path to power, wealth, sometimes even fame if you lived long enough. And all of that much faster than any apprenticeship.
“ANOTHER CLEAN DODGE BY TANNER…AND HE’S INSIDE!”
All of them exploded into cheers, even Conrad found himself standing, gripping the bars of his cage, caught up in the excitement of the moment.
Through it all the Announcer’s commentary never slacked, “HE’S SWINGING FOR ALL HE’S WORTH! THE ONLY THING THE DEMON PRINCE WILL RULE AFTER THIS FIGHT IS A SET OF BROKEN RIBS IF HE CAN’T - OH!”
The crowd screamed in a chorus of shock and mutually experienced vicarious pain.
“THE HAMMER HAS BEEN BROUGHT DOWN AND IT ISN’T THE PRINCE WHO’S FEELING IT! THAT FIRE BREATH CAME OUT OF NOWHERE AND NOW TANNER’S STRUGGLING TO HOLD ON BUT THAT HAS GOT TO HURT! HE’S HOLDING THE CLINCH BUT HE’S LOST HIS WEAPON AND, FOLKS, I’M NOT SURE HE CAN SEE WELL ENOUGH TO FIND IT!”
“Oh, Order preserve him,” one of the gladiators said, drawing a circle over his heart.
“WHAT HEART! WHAT HEART! THE HAMMER HAS MANAGED TO TAKE DOWN CATAPHRACT, HE’S MOUNTED, AND IT’S GROUND AND POUND! BLIND OR NOT, YOU DON’T NEED EYES TO PUNCH WHAT YOU CAN HANG ONTO!”
Again they all erupted into euphoria, hope of a victory once again rearing its head. All fear of entering the Arena himself was forgotten as Conrad, suddenly one with all the others, found himself joined in solidarity and cheering for team Order in Tanner the Hammer’s fight against Chaos.
Then the crowd moaned again and went silent as a man’s cry of agony made its way through the thick outer door and echoed around the preparation chamber.
“IT COMES WITH CLAWS! AND WITH THAT MUCH BLOOD, IF WE HAD A REFEREE HE’D BE CALLING THE FIGHT RIGHT NOW. LOOKS LIKE THE WINNING STREAK STOPS HERE FOR THE MAN WE ALL KNEW AS THE HAMMER. CATAPHRACT ON HIS FEET AGAIN, HE’S PICKING UP HIS SPEAR AND -”
More screams, this time from the crowd.
“IT’S OVER! NOBODY WILL EVER SAY THIS PRINCE IS WITHOUT MERCY, PUTTING IT STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HEART OF HIS OPPONENT AND ENDING THINGS QUICKLY.”
“THANKS FOR COMING OUT TONIGHT, FOLKS! MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE EXITS AND LEAVE YOUR OFFERINGS IN YOUR SEATS!”
The sound of the crowd stomping, shuffling, and grumbling their way out of the Arena was loud overhead, and yet the silence of the men in the chamber around Conrad was somehow louder.
Nobody looked at anybody. Nobody could. Conrad had felt it too - that triumph, that taste of victory not even of somebody he knew or liked, but of a fellow human, a warrior, an adventurer taking on Chaos. And then the loss. Snatched from them only to be replaced by the grim reality that all of them, or at least Conrad, would soon be out there. And maybe their luck would be as bad as the Hammer’s.
“Fuck this,” one of the would-be gladiators said, taking off a sword belt he had on and tossing it to the ground. He approached another door, one different from where Conrad had come in, put a coin into a small dish, which vanished a moment later and precipitated the door opening to the outside.
Then he left, and Conrad remembered what the Announcer had said - to leave their offerings… It wasn’t just the gladiators then, who were training and feeding the Arena dungeon, it was the spectators. They brought in with them some kind of offering as payment for the spectacle.
“Turns out dungeons are greedy…” Conrad muttered to himself. And greed he understood. Greed was a Merchant’s best friend. Greed could be exploited.
The Announcer, or the Dungeon, whoever or whatever it was that made up the consciousness governing this place, had found a way to guarantee it would grow. This dungeon had offering locations, like the dish where the gladiators could pay to leave, but dungeons like the Warren Dungeon also absorbed whatever was left inside them after some amount of time had passed. The difference was that they could only take on new material growth if adventurers left something behind or were killed.
But if the spectators above were leaving offerings in their seats, then it stood to reason that this dungeon could also absorb unattended items left in it as well. In much the way Barrett had described Great Pines as always winning, whether it was through fines paid or deaths in the dungeon, the Arena had also found a way to always win. It was the only dungeon Conrad had ever heard of that had created a means to grow through non-violent contributions of regular people.
Then, sure enough and in confirmation of at least part of his theory, out of the corner of his eye Conrad watched the sword on the ground, abandoned by the man who had left and given up. It shifted slightly, then gradually began to sink into the sands of the preparation area floor.
“Very greedy,” Conrad mused, as he opened his inventory screen.
“So,” Conrad said out loud to the dungeon around him, not sure if it would hear him or not, “What kind of offering is going to get you good and curious about me?”