Chapter 2

“I don’t see what’s wrong with going to the fighting pits,” Saraca said. “We’d have gotten around to it eventually anyway. Plus, you like fighting, don’t you?”

Even when Mitra was angry, she was beautiful. Probably more so.

“You idiot warmonger,” the Chaaran replied. “We’re in a city. Cities have other things. Fine dining. Cultural pursuits. Shopping! Who comes to a city for a fight unless they’re laying siege to it?”

“The people who go to the fighting pits.”

Wrong answer.

They walked in silence, following the river east to the confluence that the innkeeper had mentioned. Due to the primitive state of Rol’en’gorek’s infrastructure, they were less walking in streets and avenues and more traversing an urban jungle landscape with trails that crisscrossed every which way between the trees. Winding creeks and bubbling brooks made a web of water through the districts, and the residents simply leapt across them rather than build any bridges.

“That must be the thing,” Girika pointed a claw to the southwest.

“…that’s a huge tree. Well, the remains of one.” Saraca looked over his shoulder to his three wives, “See? We got to see something interesting after all.”

Colossal trees were relatively rare outside of Arborea, as they nearly always ended up being central to forest cultures. Races tended to settle around them, and those settlements evolved into cities over the generations. Then, when calamities came, the cities and their colossal trees would be destroyed. The hundred-metre-wide stump looming before them was likely the work of the Demon Gods that the locals referred to.

How strong would that make these ‘Demon Gods’?

It took a lot to take down a tree so large. Rathi-class individuals were nowhere near enough. The Demon Gods would have to have been at least upper Atirathi-class entities, especially if one considered that whatever stood where Rol’en’gorek was should have had at least a few powerful defenders of its own.

Rana Saj’s helpless confusion over trying to explain where the Demon Gods came from became more understandable with the remains of the colossal tree towering before him. A Rathi-class entity was already comparatively rare – an individual who was one in millions. Claiming that multiple Atirathi-class entities – an individual who was one in twenty to forty million – had suddenly appeared would have one dismissed as delusional, yet evidence of the ruin that they had wrought was detected everywhere by the members of Saraca’s entourage. The locals had no idea what they were sitting on, but it was as plain as day to those with eyes to see.

They joined the flow of citizens walking up one of the roots of the tree. Their path took them to a tunnel bored into the trunk, which led to the hollowed-out bowl of the interior. Kasturi’s low growl drew the attention of several passers-by.

“I can’t believe this,” she seethed under her breath. “A majestic colossus turned into a…a…fighting pit!”

“They’re probably not the ones that knocked down this tree,” Saraca told her, then turned to the others. “Should we split up and take a look around?”

Several important things were represented in the ‘fighting pit’. First, was the tree. There might be evidence of whatever originally stood in Rol’en’gorek and what had destroyed it just waiting to be noticed. Second were the citizens who came to spectate. Centres of power usually considered themselves the leading edge of a civilisation, and the attitudes of the people present were bound to offer insight into where the country might be heading.

Finally, there was the fighting pit itself. While they weren’t to his tastes, organised combat arenas were formal martial institutions. He would get to observe the local schools of combat, which in turn offered insight into the mindset of their warriors.

“I’ll take a few and investigate the tree,” Karuvaki said. “I have no appreciation for bloodsports.”

Everyone else wanted to stick to the ‘main group’, so they went and looked for a decent place in the stands. The entire structure was carved out of the colossal tree, including much of the seating. Several distinct divisions were made around the arena. There were the balconies reserved for the elite, elevated seating for the regular folk, and sections full of rowdies at the front.

“We’ll be sitting over there,” Saraca pointed at an empty stretch of raised seating, “though it’ll just be easier to use Message if you have something important to tell me.”

Roughly half of the entourage went with Karuvaki, mostly the Gladestalkers, Druids and Priests who were more interested in the tree than in the fighting. Saraca laid a cloth over his bench before seating himself. Devi and Mitra settled down beside him.

“‘Let’s not draw attention to ourselves’,” Girika muttered, “says the dandy with a flower on each arm.”

“Girika insists that you should put bags over your heads,” Saraca told his wives.

“I didn’t say that!”

The Inquisitor, of course, had a valid point. Devi and Mitra drew many gazes, as did he, for that matter. Some things were not so easy to hide, even when wearing Nondetection items. He looked over his shoulder to find a young Baagh sitting alone, staring at Mitra. Too late, the youth turned his gaze away.

“Who’s fighting today?” Saraca asked.

“Erm, I don’t know any of the openers,” the youth answered, “but I’m here to see Rolo the Red.”

“Do you think they’ll save Rolo for last?”

“Nah, she’s not that good yet. A few more wins, maybe. The gap between Jaknar and the rest is pretty big, but I can sort out the pack that’s chasing him.”

Saraca turned back around, continuing his observations of the crowd. Arenas everywhere ordered their fights the same way, which Devi would call ‘good business sense’. People came to see their favourites and the high-profile fights, so the organisers saved them for last to build up the crowd and maximise secondary sales. Already, he could see hawkers tempting the appetites of the fighting pit’s audience, waving fans of leaves over their grills to spread the aroma of cooked meat. Groups of gamblers surrounded the bookmakers – or whatever they called them here since they didn’t have books – who were spaced regularly around the spectator seating.

“I don’t see any performers,” Mitra said. “This city might be more boring than I thought.”

“Now that you mention it, we’ve barely seen any so far.”

It was an odd thing in itself. Usually, every tribe had a loremaster among its elders, who was usually a Bard. This in turn led to younger loremasters being raised for the next generation. Bards were not supposed to be a rare vocation. The fact that they were scarce in Rol’en’gorek made Mitra’s job harder than usual.

“Maybe the bardic arts evolved in a weird way here,” Saraca offered.

“After all that I’ve seen,” Mitra replied, “I can only think of one way it might have.”

“Oh? What way might that be?”

“Exclusive to the patronage of the elite,” the Chaaran’s voice was laced with displeasure. “They know that Bards exist, but the only ones we’ve seen so far are the criers working for Rana Dratha, who is probably being supported by all of the clans who want to clear out their excess population.”

“So from tribal elder to court minstrel, or at least some sort of official. I could see how that might happen, especially if it’s a politically influential position. I suppose you haven’t tried performing in public.”

“Well, if no one’s singing, dancing, or reciting epics and poetry, there’s probably a good reason why. Some types of trouble are more annoying than others.”

At precisely noon, the din of the crowd lowered as a Singh in a leather uniform walked out onto the sand of the arena. He raised his arms wide and his voice roared out over the surrounding stands.

“ARE YOU READY FOR BLOOD?”

A deafening response filled the air as the spectators leapt to their feet. Though the announcer may have been a Bard, the crowd needed no encouragement to reach a state of frenzied excitement.

“You all know the rules!” The announcer continued, “These are contests of raw power and personal prowess! No magic! No equipment! Submission holds are permitted, but killing bites will result in instant disqualification!”

“Magic isn’t raw power or personal prowess?” Girika grumbled.

“They do treat their mystics as ‘support’,” Saraca said. “I thought it was to preserve precious magic casters, but I guess there’s more to it.”

“It also means they may not have any Paladins, Blackguards, Eldritch Knights, Inquisitors, Ninjas, Exorcists or anything else like that.”

“After all we’ve seen, did you expect anything of the sort?”

“Well, no,” the Inquisitor replied, “but crazy new things could’ve popped up. It’s part of why we’re here, yeah?”

Saraca conceded Girika’s point with a nod. The people here weren’t prejudiced against magic to the point where they went on witch hunts and conducted mass purges, but neither did they seem to use it for anything other than traditional tribal roles. Those who waged war were warriors; everyone else was an auxiliary at best. In urban centres, mystics provided a decentralised sort of private healthcare.

The fighting pit looked exactly as it was – a pit filled with sand – so the spectators were offered a clear view from all angles. Saraca crossed his arms and furrowed his brow as the first two duelists emerged.

“Is it fair to have mixed-race matches this early? That Ocelo is at best two-thirds the weight of that Baagh.”

“We haven’t seen the Ocelo fight,” Girika said. “Maybe they’ve got something that makes things even.”

Cheers rose as the three-hundred-kilogram Baagh exploded across the arena and bowled into the two-hundred-kilogram Ocelo. The Ocelo didn’t get up.

“Well, it was close until the fight started,” Girika sat back down amidst the rising cheers. “Who the hell set up these ‘matches’?”

“You’re from one of the warrior clans?” The youth asked from behind them, “They always say the same thing for these opening fights.”

“We’re warriors, yes,” Saraca replied. “And it should be known to anyone that runs a fighting pit. Size and weight mean much at this level of combat. Even you could have trampled that poor Ocelo the same way.”

“You…you think so? But I’m not of the warrior clans. I’m just a fisher’s son.”

“When a three hundred kilogram anything runs into an Ocelo like that,” Saraca told him, “they’re not getting up. A warrior is not born stronger than anyone else of the same race – they must train to realise their potential. Those who are disadvantaged must make up for it in some way.”

He looked over his shoulder at the youth, who was still focused on the predictably brief ‘starters’. The boy was probably still too young to have settled on any profession.

“You’ve never aspired to fight here?” Saraca asked.

“M-me?” The boy sent a nervous glance at him, “I…I told you, I’m a fisher’s son.”

“That may be true,” he offered the youth a disarming grin, “but even fisher’s sons sometimes dream of becoming mighty hunters, yes?”

“No,” the youth answered quickly. “I mean, um…does that mean you’re interested in taking me into your tribe?”

“Congratulations, you three,” Girika snorted, “it’s a boy.”

Saraca jabbed at Girika blindly with an elbow.

“That’s not what I meant. New tribes are forming for Rana Dratha’s great venture in the west, no? It’s a rare opportunity for those who feel that they can be more than what they are to make the attempt.”

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“I don’t think it’s worth it.”

His tail lifted curiously at the unexpected answer.

“Really, now,” Saraca said. “What makes you say that?”

“They’re new lands and all, but city people like me know that you don’t need land to survive. I’d rather stay in Ghrkhor’storof’hekheralhr: it’s the centre of everything. Going west means going to some treeless Human land. That’s more of a Singh thing, yeah?”

“Well, I doubt it doesn’t have any trees…”

“Does that mean you’re going to the Draconic Kingdom?” The youth asked.

“I’d like to see what it’s like out there,” Saraca admitted, “but I can’t settle. I have a home in the southeast and duties to fulfil.”

Girika yawned as they slogged through dozens of ‘starter’ matches. The fights could be divided into three categories. There were those like the first, where the one with the obvious advantage ended things quickly. Another was where two combatants in the same weight class tried to pin one another much like hunters grappling and pinning their prey. The final category was when smaller, faster Beastmen tried to outmanoeuvre and pounce on their opponent, but it was difficult to perform an ambush when there were no obstructions to speak of.

“How come they don’t change the terrain?” Saraca asked, “Adding obstacles and the like. This field is simply too advantageous for Baagh and Singh.”

“The other races complain about that a lot,” the youth said, “but they’ve always run the fighting pits this way. Once in a while, there are Con and Ocelo victors, so anyone can win.”

That logic seemed ridiculous to him, but he supposed that those without power could only accept what happened. The rational explanation was that the Con and Ocelo who won had trained and grown strong enough to contend before entering the fighting pits. Still, it meant that they would have the opportunity to assess the previously unknown races in Rol’en’gorek, so it served their purposes just as well.

The first match of note was between a Singh and a Con. Con were even smaller than Ocelo, so it appeared to be a gross mismatch from the outset. Since Rana Pwilere’s warriors had shown a considerable degree of prowess, however, he patiently waited for the outcome.

At the starting signal, the Singh warrior sprinted forward, his black mane flowing with the speed of his charge. To Saraca’s surprise, the Con sprinted away. He leaned forward in his seat as the Singh quickly ran out of stamina, but the Con appeared unwinded.

Cheers of encouragement for the Con warrior rose from around the fighting pit, except not from the Baagh and Singh spectators, who instead jeered at him for his cowardice.

“I hate it when they do that,” the youth behind him growled. “They should fight properly.”

“Is that so?” Saraca replied, “And what is a ‘proper fight’?”

“Like the battles between us Baagh. They don’t run like cowards.”

Rana Saj had prudently withdrawn to his side of the Jorgulan Frontier, but Saraca supposed that the boy didn’t know that. He wondered if it was simply the impetuousness of youth or a common belief. There was clearly a divide between the warrior caste and the civilian ones, possibly leading to all sorts of fanciful thinking.

“Many of the spectators are applauding his move,” Saraca noted. “A warrior is not obliged to fight at a disadvantage. Expecting an opponent to act like a fool is foolish in itself.”

The boy didn’t seem to have an answer for that, and they turned their attention back to the match. Predictably, the Con’s tactic was to tire the Singh out. This brought to light the fact that the Con had a remarkable amount of endurance compared to their felid counterparts. It was something they hadn’t noticed, as they marched with the Baagh of Clan Ki’ra, and Rana Pwilere’s manoeuvres were holding actions conducted jointly with them.

In the Beastman Confederacy, every race tended to excel in the niches where their racial advantages gave them an edge. It was something he should have looked out for in Rol’en’gorek, but the races were identical or similar enough to those in the Beastman Confederacy and he had taken things for granted. The problem was how he would be able to figure it out without looking out of place.

“Ah, he finally unstupided himself,” Girika said.

The exhausted Singh contestant stopped trying to chase the Con, resting on his haunches to watch the smaller felid Beastman warily. Saraca wondered how long the fighting pits had been running for. Standardised tactics weren’t something that took a very long time to establish – especially when there were real stakes involved. Maybe the contestants weren’t formally trained at all.

Everyone leaned forward as the Con warrior tested the Singh’s defences. The only offensive option available for the Con was to either use ranged Martial Arts or hope that his opponent’s exhaustion would sufficiently slow his reactions. He chose the latter, but the reaction of the crowd indicated that the former probably wasn’t an option in the first place.

An exchange of slashing claws drew cheers from both sides as the Con danced to avoid being grappled by his foe. Most of the cheers turned into groans as it proved too difficult against the Singh’s longer reach. In a heartbeat, the larger contestant’s claws latched onto the Con’s hide and he was quickly pinned. There was no escape after that.

Another degree higher, maybe…

So far, the fundamental gap between the races remained. No Martial Arts had been employed, and the techniques demonstrated were still within the realm of mundane combat.

“I wonder if there’s some logic to the matchmaking here,” Saraca said. “People must get bored of this kind of fight.”

“I-is that so?”

Saraca looked over his shoulder at the youth. Maybe he should have invited him to sit in the same row.

“Do you find this entertaining?” Saraca asked, “Wouldn’t, say, matches between those of the same race be more technically satisfying?”

“The Ocelo and Con want that,” the youth answered, “but there are far more Baagh and Singh fighters than the rest. Besides, power is what makes a warrior, right? Everyone respects power.”

“You’d still get that in matches between the Baagh and Singh,” Saraca said. “But wouldn’t it be more interesting to sort out who the best fighter of each race is, and then pit the best of each race against one another? At these low brackets, the Con and Ocelo are just getting clobbered most of the time because of natural differences and how they’re being forced to fight.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that…”

The noncommittal response gave Saraca pause. There was no way someone who frequented arenas would be ignorant of combat basics.

『Hey Mitra, what do you think of that?』

『I think we know who truly rules Rol’en’gorek.』

『There was no sense of racial hierarchy between Rana Saj, Rana Pwilere and Rana Owiori…』

『Probably because there’s space, yeah? Those clans have their own territories. Everyone’s mixed together in the cities, competing for resources.』

Saraca sighed, remaining silent as he watched the matches of the lower brackets play out. Rol’en’gorek was strict in certain ways, but did not make any of the considerations a more advanced society would. Beyond the divisions of clan and caste, it was most likely might makes right as Mitra had stated not long after their arrival.

Yet, at the same time, there was little sign of activism on the part of the smaller races. The disparity was a source of pressure that would have likely fragmented the primitive confederation had they no outlets for their burgeoning populations.

“Oh, this one looks better.”

They finally advanced to a higher bracket, and Saraca immediately sensed the difference in the contestants.

“Do you know who that Ocelo is?” He asked the youth.

“That’s…Xoc, I think? One of those warriors who started off strong.”

“Started off…do you mean to say that she’s not doing so well anymore?”

“Yeah. She’s been stuck in this bracket for months.”

Probably as far as her preparations could take her…

One could only get so far with informal training. He wasn’t sure how many brackets there were, but the youth made it sound like she had a ways to go. Still, the Ocelo in the crowd were not lacking in their support.

Xoc’s opponent was a hulking Baagh female with the look of someone who had focused on physical conditioning. At a glance, he could tell that she had focused her training on the natural pounce-and-pin hunting tactics of their race.

“Uwah, she’s all muscles,” Devi wrinkled her nose. “What self-indulgent male fantasy did she pop out of?”

“Hey,” Saraca said, “don’t mock the earnest efforts of others.”

“Of course you’d leap to her defence. You’d better bulk up, Mitra. His eye is going to wander off to some savage huntress at this rate.”

“No thanks.”

The starting signal sounded. Unsurprisingly, the Baagh warrior exploded towards her opponent. Surprisingly, the Ocelo did as well.

An exchange of claws flashed in the afternoon sun. Xoc’s attack landed first, then her figure blurred to the side. The Ocelo warrior emerged from the trade unscathed, leaving a long set of furrows on her opponent’s right forearm.

“Hoh…” Saraca leaned forward. “An Evasion combo, huh.”

“You know what that was?” The youth asked.

“A Martial Art,” Saraca answered. “It allows her to dodge much faster than she would normally.”

“What! But…but that’s cheating! Magic isn’t allowed!”

“Martial Arts aren’t magic, kid,” Girika said. “Well, I guess some people call Martial Arts a ‘warrior’s magic’, but it’s the result of martial discipline and skill. Only warriors can use ‘em.”

『I bet if muscles over there hammered Xoc into the ground with a Strike Art, he’d be perfectly fine with it.』

Three more exchanges occurred, to much the same result. Blood matted the Baagh warrior’s coat, but she looked more furious than anything else. Cries of encouragement rose to support the wounded contestant – or rather cries to ‘crush her skull’, ‘tear her apart’ and ‘rip out her spine’.

“I thought killing wasn’t allowed here,” Saraca muttered.

“This is bad,” Mitra said. “I don’t think she’s going to hold back.”

Xoc appeared all too aware of the oppressive atmosphere. She circled her seething opponent twice before slowly loping in to strike. The Baagh pounced with a savage roar before the Ocelo closed the distance, and Xoc dodged to the side. A brief chase ensued, with the Baagh snarling wordlessly all the way.

Once the Baagh tired itself out, Xoc took a long look at her opponent. After a moment, she relaxed and raised her arms.

“I concede,” she said.

The crowd exploded into a mix of cheers and groans. Many shook their heads in resignation. Saraca rose from his bench. He didn’t turn to look at the youth, fearing what sort of reaction he might see.

“Let’s go and speak to that Ocelo,” he said.

His entourage rose at his words and they filed out of the stands. They would be able to spectate more fights over their stay, but he wasn’t sure whether they would be able to track down Xoc in the chaotic metropolis if they didn’t see her right away.

As Saraca made his way down to the fighting pit’s preparation rooms, heated voices echoed up the stairs.

“Why did you quit?” A male voice asked.

“What sort of question is that?” Xoc’s voice answered, “Did you look at that brute? She wanted to end me!”

“You can’t keep doing this. The other fighters are starting to use it against you just because they know you’ll back down.”

Saraca could almost sense the sheer frustration filling the air. He turned the corner to find Xoc and another Ocelo, who was watching the female gather her things into a small leather satchel. Xoc glanced in Saraca’s direction, then rose to her full height.

“Who are you?” She flicked her ear in annoyance.

“My name is Saraca. I saw your fight and came down to speak to you.”

“I don’t need yet another Baagh telling me that I ‘made a wise decision’.”

“I wasn’t aware that happened. It was a prudent decision, though. Everyone else here just seems to stubbornly take their beatings even when the result should be obvious.”

Xoc picked up her satchel and threw it over her shoulder. She walked past Saraca without a word, leaving the male standing alone in the preparation room.

I should have probably let Mitra handle her.

The Ocelo contestant evidently had an issue with Baagh. It probably wasn’t enough to be candid. He turned to gesture for his Gladestalkers to follow her, but then realised they were all with Karuvaki.

“Why are you following me?”

“I said I came down to speak with you, didn’t I?”

“…don’t tell me you’re one of those perverts who are into other races. If you are, I’m not for sale.”

『Hey Mitra, help me out here.』

『But I like watching you flail around helplessly.』

『What did I do to deserve this?』

『I wonder…』

“This is our first time in the big city,” Mitra told Xoc, “so we’re unaware of any of the problems you may be experiencing. My husband is entirely earnest – he would just like to have a word with you.”

“Fine,” Xoc said. “Say what you want to say.”

“Er, it’s not that I wanted to say anything in particular…”

Xoc started walking away again. Mitra chuffed in amusement.

“What I meant to say,” Saraca walked after her, “was that I’d like to understand what’s going on in the city. Between the people, I mean. I’d rather not get tripped up by any of its intricacies.”

“A Baagh won’t be tripping on any of Ghrkhor’storof’hekheralhr’s intricacies,” the Ocelo scoffed. “Not unless you cross one of the big clans.”

“…has it ever crossed your mind that your conduct could be considered offensive?” Saraca asked.

“I can take care of myself.”

They walked out onto one of the massive roots leading out of the fighting pit. Xoc immediately leapt down off of it, landing lightly on her feet twenty metres below.

Well, I guess the Baagh and Singh around here wouldn’t be able to chase her if she can do that.

He picked up his pace, catching up with Xoc a few minutes later.

“Our husband is a stalker,” Mitra sobbed. “He doesn’t even care that he’s doing it in front of his wives.”

“Maybe his wives should do something about that,” Xoc said. “Like feeding him to the lake god.”

“…there’s a lake god?”

Xoc turned around with a furrow on her brow.

“You’re really not from around here, are you? You don’t even have the same feeling as the other Baagh.”

“I thought I said we’re not from around here,” Saraca replied. “Will you speak with me now? I can make it worth your time.”

“The only thing worth my time right now is figuring out how to beat brutes like that Rolo the Red just now.”

“…that was Rolo the Red? The way the boy behind me went on about her, I thought she’d be more impressive…”

“How was she not impressive? She could break me in half!”

“With the style of fighting you chose, I figured you’d have a different opinion. But if learning how to beat larger warriors in a fighting pit is all that you want, I’d consider it more than a fair exchange for your cooperation.”