036 - PLACING THE FIRST FINGER ON THE SCALE
The Arena put off the fight until night fell the following evening. “Drama!” the Announcer had told him, “This is a big fight for The Merchant of Death!”
He wasn’t wrong. The Chieftain had been beaten before and so it wasn’t the fear of a sudden loss that gave Conrad a sense of apprehension for the fight - it was what came afterward. That way was unexplored territory. Even the fighters who were not forced to continue past the fourth tier, as Conrad was, could not leave the Arena once they decided to challenge the fifth.
And so far, all who had beaten the Chieftain had chosen to walk away.
It was the smart thing to do. A set of tools, pallets of building materials, plans to build a new mill, and adding to all that whatever he got here - walking away could net a man in Conrad’s position enough money in this town to live comfortably for another year, maybe two if he was frugal.
But outside of and apart from the apprehension, there was the crowd. He could hear them shouting and calling out there, shaking the stands with their excitement. And whatever else he felt, he couldn’t help but feel some of their excitement for himself. Conrad was glued to the commentary of the Announcer as he called out each strike of the fight of another gladiator he didn’t recognize, likely from another preparation area.
Mitch came in through the side door and approached Conrad’s cage, “You ready? Chieftain’s a tough bastard. I’ve got half a mind to skim a little off the top of all this gold you’ve made me.”
“What’re the odds on my winning?” Conrad asked.
Mitch paused a moment before answering, “3 to 1 for the Chieftain.”
Conrad laughed out loud, “That good and you want to take some off the table? Mitch, why do you hate money so much?”
Mitched looked a little sheepish as he said, “The others you fought were new, nobody knew what to think, but the Chieftain…”
Conrad held the man’s eyes as he tossed his dagger around in a series of flashy spins and maneuvers - practice had been going well. Mitch’s eyes lit up. The move didn’t mean anything, it could even cause him to lose his knife in the middle of a fight, but these early fights were still about show.
“You’re going to triple your money if you put it on me. In fact, you should lock it up and earn interest - are the bookies here that sophisticated?” Conrad asked nonchalantly, “It’s basically free money.”
“I’m sure they are but…free money?” he unlocked the gate and moved aside gesturing toward the broad doors where he would be entering the Arena shortly, “Why isn’t everybody doing it?”
Conrad pointed to his head and winked, “They’re not smart like us. Ask the bookies, you’ll see.”
Mitch shrugged and grinned, “I’ll say the Merchant sent me! Give ‘em hell.”
“Good man, Mitch,” Conrad said, pulling some more gold from his inventory and handing it to him, “Put a side bet for me too. I’ll give you thirty percent of the winnings.”
“Forty,” Mitch said, taking the gold.
“Schemer,” Conrad said, but he smiled and nodded. It wasn’t about the money after all - just one more hook in the man to make sure, if the time ever came, he was invested in Conrad’s survival. And if he locked it up, well he wouldn’t be the only one forced to keep participating then.
The Announcer called out a human victory - it had been handing out more of those lately and crowds had been increasing - and Conrad stepped up to the gate. Mitch wished him luck and left the area, there wasn’t really any need to monitor him anymore, everybody involved knew their role.
The voice of the Announcer called out, reverberating through the arena underworks.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT’S TIIIIIIIIIIME! RETURNING TO THE ARENA AND ONCE AGAIN DEFENDING THE FOURTH TIER, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE GREEN MENACE, THE TAKER OF HEADS, THE CHIEEEEEEEEFTAAAAAAAAIIIIN!”
It was with some measure of pleasure that Conrad noted the cheers for his would-be executioner were met with severe opposition by boos. The people who wanted to see him live, see him continue and go all the way to the twelfth tier were no longer hopelessly outnumbered.
The gates to the arena began to open before him, and the light that shone through was surprisingly bright. It wasn't just the torches positioned around the edges of the Arena and the magically lofted ones that drifted overhead - there was a ring of nearly unbroken fire with a single entrance, and it was through it that Conrad strode forward.
The Arena was experimenting once again, learning how the crowd responded to its attempts at drama - and in this case, facing an opponent it didn't need to fabricate anew, it had instead played with the visual spectacle of the fight.
That was good - this soon-to-be upset needed something to give it the strength necesary to propel Conrad past the final opposition of the people who still thought this would be an execution.
The heat of the ring was intense, the fire was real, and the Chieftain seemed not to care at all. He stood near the center, close to seven feet tall of green-skinned muscle with armor protecting only vital areas over his heart and neck, with a spiked bone pauldron on a single shoulder. It raised a huge maul in preparation, bearing teeth that protruded tusk like from a huge mouth.
“STEPPING UP TO BE THE FIRST TO MOVE BEYOND THE FOURTH TIER, WELCOME TO THE RING OF FIRE, THE CRUCIBLE IN WHICH A CHAMPION MAY YET BE BORN, IT'S CONRAD, THE - MERCHANT - OF - DEAAAAAAAAAAAAATH!”
The crowd roared in anticipation of the fight. Conrad turned to each quadrant of the audience and saluted, and to his shock, he saw he could see exactly who among the audience had come to support him. Many among the seated or standing crowd stood at stiff attention, fists banging their chest in concert with his own.
He noticed a new feeling. Not only did he want to win, to escape from this bloodsport he had been forced to take part in, but he also didn't want to disappoint these people. Something about his being here, standing against the Arena and Barrett and this place's simulacrum of law had meaning to them. And he wouldn't let them down. He took out Mara's knife and begain working it through the routine he had developed, eliciting cheers from his supporters. He was ready.
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“FIGHT!”
Conrad rushed forward. The Chieftain activated a skill, body glowing with a soft flame too red to be real fire.
Traitor or not, Karno had given Conrad actionable advice about this fight. The longer it went on, the more powerful the Chieftain would become, and it seemed likely that this skill it had activated was the reason.
Conrad switched on Adrenaline Rush, conscious he was likely giving it to the dungeon but it was bound to pull it out of him eventually. His opponent was humanoid, and that told Conrad everything he needed to know about how to take it down. This would be like the turtle creature.
Only easier.
The Chieftain raised the huge maul and Conrad, speed easily triple what the mass of muscles could bring to bear, darted in and began cutting. He stepped around the creature as he struck, left then right, swiping high, higher, then low.
It was a dance, a choreography of blood and reflected light off steel as he blurred in, under, and around the monster that may as well have stood still for all the good it's struggling did for it.
The blade passed from hand to hand, Conrad adding flourishing spins, reversals, thrusts into vitals and quick withdrawals into dodges and slips so smooth it might have appeared that the Chieftain were part of it, a willing participant in its own butchering.
The skill finally lapsed and time returned to normal, shocked moans, gasps, screams, and cheers of the crowd emerging from dimmed, almost underwater distance into sharp, real-time clarity.
The Chieftain still stood but the fight was over. What strength it had left was involved completely in keeping it upright. Strips of flesh hung from it like a tattered shirt, tendons were cut leading to bunched, useless muscle, and in many places the white of bone shone through, deep score marks evident even in the flickering of the fire light. Conrad ran forward and leapt, knife reversed, and brought the blade down to sink deep into the upper chest of the green-skinned monster. With the weight and momentum of his fall he dragged the blade down, the steel of the knife crunching through bone as it cut sinew, opening the creature all the way down to its belly.
With a foot hooked behind its ankle, Conrad gave it a light shove, dropping the Chieftain to the ground - dead.
The Announcer calling out the end of the fight was momentarily drowned out by the explosion of cheering from the crowd. If opposition to the excitement of Conrad continuing onward to the fifth tier existed, it was rendered impotent by the almost palpable wave of noise that reverberated around the Arena.
“...WILL BE CONTINUING FORWARD! HIS REWARDS - WHICH WILL BE MADE AVAILABLE TO HIM IN THE READY ROOM - WILL NOW INCLUDE A MIDSIZE BUILDING GROWTH STONE AND A LITTLE SOMETHING EXTRA, A BRAND NEW SET OF IRON CONTENDER ARMOR IN HONOR OF THE CHIEFTAIN HE SLEW TO GAIN IT!”
Armor was good, he would need it. The fires of the ring dwindled suddenly, then burst outward in a ring of magical sparks that drifted over the crowd, illuminating the entire Arena. He made his way to the exit when he noticed something in the crowd, just above the exit door he was heading for.
It was a woman. She was cloaked and standing next to a taller man, cloaked but with his hood pulled up.
There wasn't anything remarkable about her clothing, but her hair was golden blonde, curled artfully in a way that he had only seen on one woman before.
She winked.
“Mara,” Conrad breathed.
He almost stopped before he remmebered where he was, where they were from, and what Barrett might try to do if he discovered them. He continued forward toward the exit as Mara replaced her hood. Daring a single glance upward as he was about to leave he saw her and her companion begin moving toward the exit.
Just inside Mitch was waiting, giddy with excitement.
“Real son of Chaos you are! The way you cut him to ribbons! Con, they don’t even have enough gold to pay me my winnings!”
“Told you,” Conrad said, moving straight for his cell, then much lower, pitched so only Mitch could hear - not that anyone would notice with all the clapping and cheering, “Need a small favor, Mitch.”
“More food? More comfort? Anything!” Mitch gushed.
“There's a woman I saw in the audience-”
Mitch nodded appreciatively, “I'd want the same, I'll see about some curtains round the cell and-”
“No,” Conrad interrupted, “Not like that. She's got curly blonde hair, almost golden. There'll be a man with her. I need to see them.”
The guard looked troubled as he considered, “A woman's one thing but…these are friends of yours?”
Conrad nodded. This was the moment the investment in Mitch had to pay off.
“I could lose my job. End up in there with you,”
“Mitch, what about that bet you placed for me? And did you lock that money up with the booky like I told you?” Conrad asked.
“Course,” the man replied, confused, “Had him lock that bet up with it since you won't be needing it anytime soon,” then, excited he said, “It's amazing, Conrad! Guy said he'll pay me an extra gold per day on top of all our winnings till your fights are over.”
“Good, cause if I get killed in here, you're going to lose it all,” Conrad said.
“What?”
Conrad nodded gravely, “That's the risk. You keep betting on me, you keep getting rich. But as the fights go on the odds will get longer, and you don't have the option to take any money off the table - not anymore. And that bookey is lending your stuff out to every degenerate that scrapes his way into Great Pines. Bets against me are going to begin piling up, and its your gold they'll be using. If I lose, its your gold that will pay them.”
“No, no no that's not how…that's not how it works!” Mitch stammered, “The bookie hangs onto it until I want it back and…”
“And he just pays you for the privilege?” Conrad said, “No. I don’t have time to explain liquidity and interest to you, but suffice it to say if I don't win, you're going to lose everything you've gained so far.”
Mitch looked crestfallen as Conrad pulled the rug out from under him.
“He’s lending my gold out to gamblers…” Mitch said.
Conrad held up a finger, “Gamblers who will bet on the wrong fighter.”
“But all that gold… You said it was free money.”
“I know what I said, but listen. Those gamblers pay the bookie a little extra for the chance to borrow from him,” Conrad said, “And he passes a bit of that onto you. But it's locked now, so if he loses everything, then you lose everything. That’s the way it really works.”
“You’re a real Chaos son for getting me into this. And I don't mean it like a compliment this time,” he said, “Used my greed to trick me.”
“People only call it greed when somebody loses. When I win, you'll be the richest man in Great Pines. And if Barrett finds out you helped me with a little rendezvous, well, you'll still be rich in Edge or Confluence or anywhere else you want to go.” Conrad said. He put a hand on Mitch's shoulder reassuringly, “I'm going to win. But I may need help. It's time to fix the game.”
Mitch looked defeated as he closed the cell door and locked Conrad in. Conrad talked a big game but he knew the truth of the situation as Mitch saw it. Sure, he had won some easy victories, but this fight had only been the fourth of twelve. The worst was yet to come.
Mitch started walking toward the exit, “Someone'll be in shortly to grab your winnings. Dungeon only gives them to people who walk away, but since you can't, it's as if you did and then came back to continue the climb. Sort of lucky, I guess. See if you can get them to let you keep that armor.”
He opened the door and sighed again before adding, “I'll send her in when I find her. She won't have an approval token, something Barrett gives to the gladiators, but I can get her in this way. Like The Tower.”
Mitch left and Conrad turned to the duty of celebrating his win with the other gladiators.
Mara and Troy were here.
He still had a chance.