“This is the place,” responded a new voice. Sangjo emerged from one of the nearby archways and glided placidly toward the trio. “Welcome to the arena.”
“We’re here for one reason,” Rytlock grumbled, “to get back my sword.”
Logan added, “And also to get back our freedom.”
“So,” Caithe said, “we’re here for two reasons.”
Sangjo’s face was a cryptic mask. “The only reason to fight in the arena is to win.”
“Right,” Rytlock said.
“Let me show you around,” Sangjo said coolly. He stepped away, leading them along a concourse among benches. “Below, of course, is the arena proper.”
“Ah, the blood-soaked sands,” Rytlock said. “How many die here per day?”
“None.”
“None?”
“Battles are not lethal. Combat is to exhaustion.”
Rytlock snorted. “Nothing to lose?”
“Actually, there’s plenty to lose. Those who lose don’t get paid. Those who win receive a cut of the total gate receipts.”
“Which means . . . ?” Logan prompted.
Sangjo shrugged, descending a ramp that led beneath the stands. “If you’re unknowns, as you are, a victory could bring fifty silver. If you’re headliners, if you pack the place, well—a hundred times that.”
Rytlock’s eyes flashed like coins. “When do we get to it?”
Sangjo lifted his index finger. “First, the tour.”
He led them down a ramp into a dark, curving corridor. Its ceiling was formed from the underside of the stone seats, and its walls were lined with cells fronted by thick iron bars. The floor of the corridor pitched inward to drain the waste of the things that lived in the cells.
“What’ve you got in here?” Rytlock asked.
“Everything—krait, dredge, skritt, hylek, human . . .”
“Human?” Logan gasped.
“Murderers, all of them. Convicted and sentenced. Like you, they had the choice of prison or the arena, and they chose the arena. Naturally, you’ll have better lodgings, elsewhere. Unless you try to run.”
The group walked past a cell where a pair of the giant, frog-headed hylek crouched and glared. One shot its mucous-mantled tongue out between the bars to wrap around Logan’s leg. He kicked his foot loose and stomped on the tongue, which withdrew limply. The next cell held three krait—creatures with reptilian heads and human torsos and serpent abdomens. At sight of the group, the krait raised their neck frills and hissed angrily.
“What’ve you got in the way of grawl?” rumbled Rytlock.
“All in good time,” Sangjo replied, “but first—” He gestured into the next cell, in which twenty or thirty rotting bodies shambled around in the darkness. Their rusted cutlasses grated on the ground. “We just got this load of Orrian undead.”
“Undead?”
“Real crowd-pleasers. We let them get torn limb from limb since they’re already dead. Of course, down here, they’re a nuisance. They don’t keep. They stink up the place.”
“Not much of a challenge, fighting undead,” Rytlock put in.
“You’d be surprised. They fight with weapons and with fury, and even after you dismember them, the limbs fight on.” Sangjo slid a key from his pocket and fit it into the door of the cell.
Caithe’s eyes grew wide. “What are you doing?”
Sangjo smiled. “Giving you a test.” With that, he produced their weapons from his robes, handing Caithe her stilettos, Logan his hammer, and Rytlock—
“That’s mine!” he growled, snatching Sohothin in its scabbard and knocking Logan’s hand away.
Just then, the tide of undead hurled back the door of their cell and flooded out.
One monster charged Rytlock, ramming its blade at him. He backhanded the rusted metal and kicked the creature in the groin, crushing its pelvis. The monster’s legs went limp, and it slumped to the ground. Even so, its sword kept swinging. Rytlock stomped on its arm, cracking it in two.
Logan meanwhile ducked beneath another monster’s cutlass, grabbed the beast’s rotting hand, wrenched the blade out of tumbling finger bones, and impaled the monster on it. He let the creature fall on its own sword while he hoisted his hammer. “You might’ve given us a chance to prepare.”
Sangjo stood beyond the fray, a warding wall glimmering before him. “Gladiators must be ready at a moment’s notice.”
Rytlock punched another undead creature in the head, breaking its neck, though the body still fumbled toward him. “Enough!” he growled, unsheathing Sohothin and ramming it into the creature’s guts. Fire burst between ribs, and the whiff of roasted meat wafted upward. Rytlock kicked the cooked creature off his sword and turned to spit two more. “It’s a sad thing when a group of friends can be torn apart by something as simple as undead.”
Logan’s hammer imploded the chest of another beast, which fell on a pile of two more. “That’s three for me.”
“Three?” Rytlock roared as he strode over his victims to impale another. “I’ve got three stuck between my toes, two more smoldering in the corner, and a new one on my blade.” He shoved off his latest kill, which fell to the ground like a turkey from a platter. “Where’s that damned sylvari?”
“Standing on seven.” A monster toppled forward to reveal Caithe drawing her white stiletto out of its brain. The creature lay beside six others like fish on ice. “Pithing is what they call it. Stick in the blade, swish it around, and the brain’s no good—even for an undead.” She demonstrated on an eighth. “Also works on frogs.”
“You mean hylek?” asked Logan. His hammer pounded the creatures around him, leaving broken, heaving forms on the floor. Whenever a figure moved, he whacked it. “That should be about twenty.”
“You don’t get to count the pieces,” Rytlock said.
Still, there wasn’t much counting left. Caithe pithed three undead while Logan felled two more, and Rytlock burned the last. In moments, the dark corridor was silent again, hunks of jittering flesh lying all around.
“Wow, they stink,” Rytlock said.
Sangjo clapped, smiling serenely as his warding wall fizzled and vanished. “Well done. Ten apiece.”
“The count was twelve, nine, and nine,” Rytlock said.
“He’s right,” Caithe said. “I had twelve.”
“You?” Logan and Rytlock said together.
“All of you passed,” Sangjo told them happily. “Now, please stand to one side.” He held his arms out, herding them back against the bars of the undead cell.
At the dark end of the corridor, a couple of enormous thuds resounded, followed by the noise of heavy metal scraping against stone.
“What’s next?” Logan groaned.
Sangjo said, “An ettin.”
“Bring it on!” Rytlock replied, waving Sohothin before him.
“Not a fighter,” Sangjo clarified, “a janitor.”
Just then, an ettin shoved a heavy sledge into view. The sledge had a scoop on its front end, gathering the pieces that lay on the floor and tumbling them toward some distant dump.
As the ettin rumbled past, Rytlock rumbled, “If he’s not our next test, what is?”
Sangjo rubbed his hands together. “A battle on the arena sands. Your owner, Captain Magnus the Bloody Handed, has even given the three of you a name—Edge of Steel.”
“How much are tickets?” Eir asked an old man who sat at the ticket booth.
“A silver for each of you.”
Nodding, Eir reached into a pouch at her belt. “One. Two. Three.”
The old man took the coins and slid them into a drawer. “What about the wolf?”
“He doesn’t take a seat,” Eir pointed out.
The old man squinted. “I won’t get anyone to sit within ten feet, which means he empties about twenty seats. He’s a bargain at one silver.”
Eir drew one more coin from her purse and slid it into his hand.
He smiled, handing her torn tickets.
Eir led her
group into the arena.
Beside her, Snaff offered, “It really is reasonable.”
“We’re going to have to find a way to earn some money,” Eir replied.
They picked their way through the growing crowd, looking for seats that could accommodate them all. Most sections were designed on a human scale, though some shorter seats filled rapidly with asura and some taller ones with norn and charr. A few sections were merely stalls where quadrupeds could stand. Finally, Eir found a spot with mixed seating, where each of them could recline in comfort.
“Do you really think that this man and charr could be the warriors we’re looking for?” Snaff asked.
“I don’t know,” Eir replied softly. “Magnus the Bloody Handed seemed to think so.”
Trumpets played from the pinnacles of the arena, and the crowd rose to their feet and cheered. At the center of the arena, a man in multicolored robes climbed a set of stairs to a raised platform and addressed the crowd. Magic bore his voice outward to them all.
“Welcome, people of Lion’s Arch. Welcome to the arena. It is a day for combat!” A glad roar met the words. “And we have some new blood challenging for a place in the gladiatorial games. Stand and cheer for Logan Thackeray, Rytlock Brimstone, and Caithe of the sylvari. They are the gladiatorial team called Edge of Steel!”
From one of the dark entrances, the three gladiators trotted out on the sands.
Eir, Snaff, and Zojja applauded, but few others did—and some even booed.
Edge of Steel looked small and tattered in their battle-scarred armor and clothes. The charr raised a halfhearted greeting to the people, but the man and the sylvari had the demeanor of people caught in a cold drizzle.
“And now, for this match, join with me in welcoming our opposing team. Our undefeated team—the Killers!”
The stands erupted.
“First, we have the centaur Mjordhein!”
The arena welled with cheers as a centaur strode from one of the arena gates. The massive figure had shaggy hooves and a body like a plow horse. His upper torso was muscular and topped with a horned head like a ram’s.
“And second, we have the grawl Moropik!”
A gray-skinned gorilla-man bounded out of the dark corridor, lifted its furred face toward the crowd, and roared between widespread fangs.
“And last but not least, welcome the ettin Krog-Gork.”
The spectators roared loudest of all for this lumbering brute, with its two heads and witless cries.
Eir, Snaff, and Garm sat back down.
“All right,” Eir said soberly, “maybe there are no warriors here.”
“You think?” Zojja shot back.
“Let the battle begin!” cried the announcer. His hands moved in elaborate gestures, drawing the amplification spell from his own throat and sending it down upon the gladiators.
Mjordhein plodded forward and bellowed, “For Ulgoth the Mighty! We will reap you like grain!”
“Yeah,” the charr grumbled under his breath, though the amplification spell shared his response with everyone. A wave of amusement swept through the crowd. Rytlock looked up and bellowed, “And we’ll eat you like meat!”
The stands erupted.
The centaur drew forth a quarterstaff fitted with a scythe, the grawl lifted a mace encrusted with obsidian shards, and the ettin raised a club the size of a horse’s leg.
Edge of Steel stood ready with flaming sword and war hammer and stilettos.
The centaur broke into a gallop, leading the monsters across the arena sands. “Come along, two-legs! The centaurs are taking back what is ours!”
Logan also charged, shouting, “All that is yours is death!”
The man and the centaur came together. Mjordhein swung his bladed quarterstaff to cut Logan’s legs out from under him, but Logan leaped. The scythe cut through air instead of flesh. Logan planted his foot on the centaur’s steely hand and kicked his other foot into the creature’s jaw. The centaur reeled as Logan flipped over and landed in the sand.
Mjordhein’s eyes went red, and he dropped his massive horns and charged.
This time, Logan didn’t dodge, instead bringing his war hammer down between the horns and atop the centaur’s skull.
Mjordhein posted his legs, wobbled slowly on them, pitched backward, and crashed to the ground.
The crowd roared. Chirurgeons rushed out to aid the fallen centaur.
Meanwhile, the grawl turned toward Rytlock and charged: “For the Great One!” It swung its obsidian-bladed club at him.
The charr bounded in, flaming sword sliding along one edge of the club and shearing away the stones there. When the grawl swung a counterstrike, Rytlock raked away the other side of the club.
The grawl staggered back, staring in amazement at his toothless weapon. He should have been staring in amazement at Rytlock, however, who swiped his fiery sword beneath the gorilla-man’s face, setting his beard on fire. Hooting and wailing, the grawl bounded away.
Rytlock grinned at the stands. “Fricasseed—charr style.”
The crowd ate it up.
Chirurgeons rushed out to aid the grawl, and one shouted, “Unnecessary brutality!”
“Unnecessary brutality?” Rytlock roared, wheeling about. “I like the sound of that!”
Laughter welled through the arena.
Of the Killers, only the ettin remained. It trained one head on Rytlock and the other on Logan.
“Where’s Caithe?” whispered Rytlock, though everyone in the arena heard.
“I don’t know,” Logan whispered back. “Statistically, this one should be hers.”
“Well, let’s do this.”
The charr and the man charged side by side toward the great monster. Logan swung his hammer at the beast’s left leg, but its arm smashed him back. Rytlock met a similar fate on the right side, hurled back twenty paces. Both charr and man tumbled in the dust as the ettin rushed to finish them off. Horned feet pounded up to crush their heads—
But then the ettin staggered to a stop. Its knees buckled, and it plunged forward.
“Look out!” Logan shouted, rolling away.
Rytlock tumbled in the other direction.
As the ettin struck ground, its hunched back revealed a slender sylvari in black leather. She jumped free.
More chirurgeons arrived at a run, looking overwhelmed by this new team.
But the crowd went wild.
Eir and Snaff cheered as loudly as anyone.
“There you have it,” called the announcer from his stand, “the fall of an empire. The undefeated Killers have now been defeated by Edge of Steel.”
That name brought the fans to their feet and they cheered, “EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! . . .”
The man, the charr, and the sylvari stood dumbfounded in the midst of it all.
Snaff turned to Eir. “They’re the ones—the warriors we need.”
“You’ll never be able to afford them,” Zojja put in.
“That’s why I’ve got a different plan,” Eir responded.
Zojja huffed, “Oh, here we go again.”
Eir turned toward Snaff. “We can’t buy them. But I bet I can make a deal with Magnus the Bloody Handed.”
“What kind of deal?” asked Snaff.
“If he lends these warriors to us, then after we defeat the Dragonspawn, we’ll lend some warriors to him.”
“Who?” Snaff asked.
“Us.”
EDGE OF STEEL
I could get used to this,” Rytlock said as a platter of thundershrimp was set in the center of the table. The tails were huge, and the red shells had been cracked down the middle to reveal steaming white meat.
Edge of Steel had earned five hundred fifty silver for their victory in the arena. They’d paid three hundred of it toward their billet, but the rest was for rooms and a feast.
Caithe speared some of the thundershrimp meat, twisted, and ripped it loose. She popped the morsel in her mouth. “Tastes a bit
like devourer.”
“Less poisonous, though,” Logan said, dunking his own piece in drawn butter. “And it wasn’t trying to kill us.”
Too hungry to worry with silverware, Rytlock clamped down on a section of meat and tore it free. He tossed it into his mouth and leaned back, staring at the smoky rafters above—once the bilge of a ship. “Ahhh.”
“Are you Rytlock Brimstone?” asked a voice nearby, unmistakably charr, unmistakably young.
Rytlock turned to see a cub fresh out of his fahrar, brown eyes gleaming with hero worship. “Why, yes, I am.”
“I saw you fight today,” the young charr said. “Would you sign my sword?” He slid a wooden blade onto the table.
“Of course.” Rytlock winked at him. Lacking a writing implement, Rytlock used his claw. He carved his signature boldly across the flat of the blade and handed it back. “There you go.”
The young charr stared with white-ringed eyes at his practice sword and bobbed away.
Watching the cub go, Rytlock sighed, “Yeah, I could get used to this!”
Just then, the server brought three tall tankards of charr ale, setting them in the middle of the table.
“Old Regret!” Rytlock enthused. “I didn’t think you could get this stuff outside the Black Citadel.” He hoisted his tankard. “Here’s to Edge of Steel.”
“To Edge of Steel,” chimed in the other two, lifting their ales and clanking the tankards.
Rytlock drained his in a single, long pull. Logan tried to match him but had to stop halfway, tears coming to his eyes.
Caithe took two gulps and set the tankard down, eyes wide. “Water from a peat marsh?”
“No,” Rytlock said, tugging on the waistcoat of the server and handing his empty tankard over for a refill.
Caithe sniffed the drink again. “It’s not sweat, is it?”
“No!” Logan laughed, winking at her above his ale. “Drink some more. It tastes better the more you have.” As if to prove his point, he drained his tankard—while Rytlock drained a second.
Shrugging, Caithe took a few more gulps. She lowered the drink to see two faces leering at her.
“Well, what do you think?” Rytlock asked.
Caithe stared blankly back. “You two are not as ugly as I first thought.”
Edge of Destiny Page 12
