Grimm felt the gentle, tickling burn of nascent tears at his eyelids. These were such simple people; such honest people; such decent people! He would feel like a churl to spurn such sterling company.
"Don't worry, friends; I'll pay!" he said, burning with bonhomie and good humour. "Let's make the most of our time here while we have it!"
"It's a shame Tordun's not with us," Numal said, and Grimm shrugged.
"Can't be helped," he said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth as if he had committed some solecism.
Quelgrum started the laughter, quickly joined by Harvel and Guy. Crest sat for a few moments, his face reddening, and then burst into tearful guffaws, after which Numal exploded into a bloated, teary, puce-faced tirade of glee.
"Did I say something wrong?" Grimm felt more than happy to play along with the humorous melee. "Oh, well, I suppose it can't be helped."
He tried to keep his face placid and open, but he could not resist the itch any longer. He laughed, over and over again, until hot tears burned their way down his aching cheeks, the sensation intensified by the sound of booming laughter from guests at other tables, who could not even have heard what had caused this merriment.
Could any place be better than this? he wondered. As he eyed the hysterical groups of people sitting around the restaurant, he knew the answer. All of these people were good, worthy souls, with whom he felt an unaccustomed spirit of community.
He rose to his feet. "The drinks are on me, everybody!" he shouted, his heart almost bursting with fullness. "All day!"
The raucous chorus of appreciative cheers that greeted this announcement filled Grimm's heart. The shade of Magemaster Crohn seemed to hover over him, wagging a censorious finger, but he dismissed the vision with a single effort of will. He felt determined to savour his momentary popularity to the full.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!" he shouted, dancing like a pagan festival spirit. "It's all on me!"
****
Thribble, sitting in the Questor's pocket, felt a horrified stab of lightning run through him at his human friend's bizarre and uncharacteristic behaviour. Despite Grimm's protestations, he knew that the mage must be possessed by some sort of compulsion. This was not the young mortal he had come to know and respect. While all around him guffawed and cackled, the demon slid to the ground, using Grimm's robe as a break-fall. This man, Keller, seemed to be a dangerous influence, and the imp decided to follow the Pit-master as he walked away with a strange smile on his face.
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Chapter 29: Training
Keller led Tordun to the Pit and opened the large double doors with an ornate key. The silence of the auditorium, in contrast to the raucous clamour of the previous night, struck the albino as eerie, and he shivered. The stadium seemed, somehow, more than empty. It felt almost as if some negative, spectral presence was waiting to suck the energy out of him.
"Spooky, isn't it?" Keller said, as if divining the pale swordsman's thoughts. "I work here every day, and I still notice it. A place like this should be full of living, breathing bodies to give it life.
"Down here," the Pit manager continued, opening a door to a descending stone staircase, with treads bearing the semicircular evidence of years, if not decades, of regular wear from the passage of hundreds of feet.
At the bottom of the staircase, Tordun and Keller stepped into a large, well-lit square area, with an opening at each face.
"This is the fighters' area, Tordun. We have everything they need: a refectory, a relaxation area, a fully-equipped surgery… everything a fighting man needs to stay at the peak of physical perfection."
Keller pointed to the left-hand opening. "Quarters and social facilities are through there," he said. "To the right are the medical facilities and the administration block. I'll give you a more detailed tour later, but let's tackle first things first."
The Pit-man led Tordun through the far opening, into a corridor with many doors, giving a brief description of what lay behind each one as they passed. "Sauna, massage area, baths, relaxation area…"
"You take good care of your warriors." Tordun felt impressed at the comprehensive range of facilities.
Keller nodded. "We have a considerable investment in each of our men, and it's only good business practice to protect that investment. A pampered fighter is a good fighter.
"Oh, the gym's right through here."
Keller opened a door to his left and led Tordun into a maelstrom of activity.
The albino felt awash in a mass of sensory impressions: the rhythmic, grunting sounds of men hoisting weights above their heads; the acrid scent of perspiration; the expressions of grim determination on the faces of the fighters as they trained.
"What do you think of our training facilities?" Keller asked, his tone tinged with the smug satisfaction of one who knows what the answer to his question must be.
Tordun looked back on his career as a professional pugilist, and his own training. Endless hours of punching sacks of grain, long, hard runs and repetitive lifting of anvils could not begin to compare with this glittering array of metal equipment. He saw sinews stretched to the limit through taut, pink, sweaty skin; gritted teeth and bulging eyes, accompanied by the metronomic rise and fall of weights suspended from wire ropes. A group of men arranged in a circle passed a large, heavy-looking ball from one to the other at great speed, while others punched bulging, suspended canvas bags. The albino saw pieces of equipment whose function he could not even begin to fathom, but every item of apparatus was in use.
Tordun heard not the least sound of complaint or dissension as the fighters put themselves through a gruelling series of exercises, and he could not help but be impressed.
"Magnificent," he breathed. "I have never seen such a dedicated group of men."
"You will find none," Keller declared. "We make sure that our men are the best-trained fighters around."
Tordun noted a fair proportion of the full range of fit masculine body types in the gymnasium. Swift, lithe, featherweights trained alongside slower, heavily-muscled bruisers, and he saw every type of build in between. To his approval, he saw that there seemed to be the full gamut of races and skin colours, too: black, white, yellow, green, elf, human, dwarf…
Here was a microcosm of the whole spectrum of sentient beings, side by side in what appeared to be a spirit of harmony and co-operation. Each fighter, regardless of his race or size, appeared to share at least two attributes with his fellows: his utter dedication to his craft, and his superb physical condition. Each man was a paragon of bodily perfection: a sculpture made flesh.
As he looked closer, the albino noted that many of the men wore golden, jewel-encrusted circlets around their necks, and he asked Keller of the significance of these gaudy adornments.
"The torcs are a badge of rank," the Pit-master said. "All our fighters are dedicated to the pursuit of physical excellence, but the circlet denotes a man who stands above his fellows in dedication, determination and success in the Pit. Your old friend, Shugar, is such a man, of course. If you'll wait a few moments, I think he's coming to the end of his exercises."
Tordun followed Keller's pointing finger, and recognised his erstwhile opponent amongst the mass of straining, struggling bodies. Shugar pushed himself through a gruelling series of sit-ups, his feet locked under a metal bar and his hands clasped behind his head. It seemed as if the muscular titan would never stop, but, at last, Shugar ceased his struggling with a deep sigh.
Keller led the albino through the mass of writhing bodies to stand alongside the fighter. Leaping to his feet, his face red and sweaty, the fighter grabbed a towel from beside him and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Only after attending to this task did he seem to become aware of the presence of Keller and Tordun.
"Shugar, I've brought an old friend of yours," the Pit-master shouted over the tumultuous noises of exertion filling the gymnasium. "He's come to pay his respects."
Shugar stood for a few moments, his eyes sca
nning the albino, before he responded. "Tordun, isn't it? What in the Names are you doing here? Don't tell me they've…"
The fighter appeared to suffer a small fit, twitching and grunting, as Tordun looked on in perplexity.
"It can only be over-training!" The Pit-master sighed. "I do try to tell the fighters, but they're so keen to excel.
"Shugar, why don't we all go to the recuperation lounge? I think you need to relax for a while. Sometimes I think you're too hard on yourself. Come on."
As Keller led the giant man from the gymnasium, Tordun could have sworn that the fighter was trying to tell him something, but he heard only inarticulate, tremulous sounds from Shugar's distorted mouth.
"Is Shugar all right, Keller?" Tordun felt deep concern for the man's well-being. He knew that he should offer to lend a hand, but a primordial fear of madness and seizures stayed him.
Keller grunted as he supported the twitching warrior's bulk in one arm and flung open a door with the other. "He'll be as right as rain in a moment," he said, through clenched teeth, almost throwing Shugar into a well-upholstered leather chair in a small room.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, as if such a spectacle was a common occurrence. "We do see this on occasion, but there's really no need to worry."
Tordun eased himself into a chair, but he could not relax at the sight of the thrashing, tormented vision before him. At last, with a gasp, Shugar slumped back in his chair.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" Keller said, with what Tordun considered a bizarrely inappropriate smile.
"Sorry about that, Keller," the fighter said in a dull voice. "I guess I've just been training too hard. I'll survive." His face, once purple and anguished, began to relax and return to a more normal colour.
Keller's face brightened. "That's the spirit, Shugar! Now, what do you have to say to your old friend, Tordun?"
"Hello, Tordun," the sweaty pugilist grunted. "You're looking well."
"You, too," Tordun said, although he thought that Shugar looked more like a re-animated corpse than a healthy man.
From the corner of his eye, the albino saw Keller rubbing his nose and nodding, his face placid and almost amused. Tordun took a deep breath, feeling as if his worries were floating away on the breeze.
Everything will be all right, he felt sure. It's a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one. Everything will be all right. Just being in the presence of my former opponent seems to stir his blood and heighten his awareness.
"Good to see you again, Shugar," Tordun continued in a boisterous, cheerful tone. "I'm glad to see you've recovered from that last beating I handed out."
The fighter sat upright. "You were lucky, Tordun. I was just getting the better of you when I slipped in the ring."
"I had you beaten from the start." The albino tried to keep his voice neutral and friendly; however, for some reason, he felt his heartbeat accelerating and the blood pounding in his arteries. "Face it, man, you were just outclassed."
"Outclassed!" Shugar leapt to his feet. "I could take you any time, you pasty, half-baked excuse for a warrior! Try me again, and you'll know just what humiliation is! Fight me tonight, if you've got the guts, and I'll give you a lesson you'll never forget!"
Tordun found himself on his feet, although he could not remember standing. Bile boiled up within him at Shugar's insults, and prepared himself to launch a bristling tirade at the man. Something at the back of his mind recognised the dull, mechanical tone of the man's voice, but the imperative of the hormones surging within him would not be denied.
So I'm a pasty, half-baked excuse for a warrior, am I? Tordun felt intoxicated by the torrent of blood that sang in his ears. I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back! You're dead meat!
"Tonight, you say?" he snarled, feeling his face contorting and twisting in anger. "You're…"
The word 'on' perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be released, and the albino realised that he had been about to make the worst mistake a fighter could make: responding to his emotions alone, unrestrained by his thought processes.
You have a job to do, Tordun. You must maintain control of yourself. Remember: a fighter uses his emotions; they do not use him!
Any successful fighter knew when to bring emotions into play, and when to veto their insistent demands. Tordun was one of the best, and he pushed hate, anger and outrage into a mental prison deep inside his brain. Since he had been able to do this since his callow youth, he felt surprise at the considerable effort it cost him.
Tordun's heart pounded. "No, I won't fight you, Shugar. Not now, not ever. You had your chance at my title, and you lost. Get used to it.
"I think I'll leave now," he said, turning to face Keller. "That was a nice try, but I told you: I've retired from the ring. Goodbye, Shugar, and good luck in your future fights. I'll be there to cheer you on tonight, but no more than that. Thank you, Keller. I think I will go back to my companions now."
Tordun imagined that he saw the ghost of a satisfied smile on Shugar's face, but he could not be sure. He took another deep breath, and began to relax again. There could be nothing sinister here. It was a common enough ploy to goad another fighter into reaction rather than action, with insults and innuendo, and he could not blame Shugar for trying.
"Of course, Tordun." The Pit-master rolled his eyes and nodded. "I tried my best, but I'll acknowledge defeat. I respect your decision, and I congratulate you on your mental fortitude. However, perhaps you'd do us the honour of wearing one of our torcs of honour, anyway? As I told you, they're reserved for the best fighters and, although you've chosen not to fight in the Pit, you're a well-known and respected fighter. It would mean a lot to the Pit boys and me if you'd wear our emblem at least for one night."
Keller placed a torc in the pale warrior's hand. Tordun admired the workmanship and the clarity of the jewels. It was certainly a handsome enough gewgaw, and he felt a frisson of pride at the honour the Pit-master offered him. The weighty, open circlet looked like a pair of bull's horns, the traditional offering made to a victorious bullfighter. Tordun might dress like a monk on most occasions, but that was for the sake of utility in combat. The golden torc beguiled him, tempted him…
The albino cast a furtive glance at Shugar and saw the scarred warrior's face contort in a fierce, wide-eyed grimace. Was it an expression of disgust, hatred, or fear?
Tordun was an expert in the art of divining an opponent's intended actions from the subtlest of cues revealed by the fighter's pose or movements. However, he had never managed to master the reading of complex facial impressions. He guessed that Shugar felt affronted at the idea of such a generous offer being made to a Pit tyro.
His misgivings growing, he turned back to Keller, trying to think of a rational excuse to refuse the offer. "Well, I suppose it'd be churlish of me to refuse," he found himself saying. "Thank you."
Shugar began to thrash in his seat again, as another of his strange seizures took hold of him, and Tordun regarded the warrior with anxiety.
"Are you sure he's all right, Keller? This can't be normal."
"It's just a touch of heat prostration brought on by overtraining," the Pit-master said, his voice mellifluous and serene. "Don't worry about it. Go ahead; put on the circlet. It'll look splendid on you."
Something about Keller's urgent stance, the tenseness of his body, appeared at odds with the honeyed words, and now loud alarm bells seemed to sound in Tordun's head, although he still did not know why.
Why is Keller so keen for me to wear this?
The thought was swift, but the albino's body started to react before he could command his hands to stop. In less than the space of a heartbeat, the torc was clipped around his neck.
"It looks good on you, Tordun," Keller declared, as Shugar slumped back into passivity in his chair. "You'll be a credit to the Pit."
"As long as you understand that I'm not fighting for you," Tordun said, fiddling with the circlet. Despite the appearance and weight of soft
gold, the torc seemed as strong as the finest steel. He now felt distinctly uneasy, and the Pit-master's now-sinister smile unnerved him.
"It's a bit tight, Keller, and it prickles," Tordun said. "So I think I'll leave it off until tonight, if you don't mind. How do I remove it?"
"You can't." Keller's voice no longer sounded as warm, friendly, and deferent as it had.
"I'm not playing games here, Keller!" Tordun abandoned all pretence of friendliness. "Get it off me, or you'll be sorry!" The giant warrior strode towards the Pit-master, his left hand clenched and ready to strike.
"That's far enough, Tordun," Keller said, reaching into his pocket.
The pale giant gasped and stopped in his tracks. He felt as if flames were consuming his spinal column and bursting through his brain, consuming his eyeballs from behind. For some reason, his arms and legs no longer obeyed his commands, and he realised, too late, what Shugar had been trying to tell him.
"Direct neural stimulation," Keller said, in a conversational manner. "I'm told it can be quite painful. That's Level One. Perhaps you'd like to try Level Two?"
Tordun struggled to control his voice. "I'll… kill… you," he gasped, managing to stagger another couple of steps towards the Pit-master.
"You would like to try Level Two?" Keller said, in a cheerful voice. "I knew you would. Here it comes."
The albino felt as if his limbs had turned into long trailing tunnels of fire, spreading and branching like a rabbit-warren, splitting off into a myriad of tendrils of pure, unalloyed pain. Panic fear gripped him as he felt his eyes bulging, as if they would burst. His mind seemed to shatter into countless fragments of pain and fear, and he lost all control of his body. He felt a warm sensation at his groin as his bladder voided itself, but any sense of shame was consumed by the overwhelming pain.
The agony continued, intensified, and Tordun heard a long, thready scream somewhere in the distance. The tiny knot of consciousness he retained knew nothing more than the primordial need to survive.
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