“It’s possible, then, for you to fight a minotaur here?” Verne asked as he and Judd watched Giordi warble and play in the marketplace of Fort Mavour. It was just as crowded as when they’d arrived, the throng of residents buying and selling when not out in the fields bringing in the harvest under the watchful gaze of Captain Chael’s soldiers. There was mead being sold by the mugful and meat being roasted on spits, large chunks of it cut off for anyone with the coin to pay. Bread was baked in ovens, fruit and vegetables sold by the crateful and herbs hung from the overhang of the market coverings so that the entire space smelt of a thousand scents, each one making Judd’s stomach rumble even though he’d not long eaten.

  Giordi knew the best place to set up his busking corner was near where there was mead and meat as everyone who purchased either item was always standing in line, listening to him as they waited. And whatever spare coin they had often went into his cap.

  Even now, Judd and Verne held a mug each and watched the coin flow as easily as the mead did.

  “Sir Donimede said, though he couldn’t know for sure which day it would happen, that a minotaur could and would be provided.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Judd shrugged. “He remained rather tight lipped on the whole thing…”

  “Oh good, more obscurity and guesswork.” Verne muttered then eyed Judd. “You’ve been gone most of the day…Donimede kept you hanging around that long without an answer?”

  “Oh no,” Judd chuckled, “I escaped his presence as soon as possible and enjoyed midday repast with his daughter, Willower.”

  “Sir Donimede’s daughter?” Judd nodded. “Eligible of age, daughter?”

  “Verne…”

  “But what about…” Verne caught himself from asking about Aalis and Judd. He had to remind himself that, according to Aalis’ wishes, Judd believed Verne and Aalis were in a relationship and sharing a bed.

  “What about what?”

  “Oh…nothing…I forget.” Verne shrugged and leaned against a post. “So…what was the tour of the fort like?”

  “Well…I thought it was going to be terribly dull, to be honest, but it seems the sword master here, Roust, has made it his mission to make sure every male in Mavour can defend themselves and others…including clerics. And we happened to pass through the training hall at just that moment.”

  “No,” Verne laughed, “clerics learning to fight…”

  “And in the middle of Rodel’s beating, Caste calls out ‘bad form’ and ends up on the training floor, trying to knock Roust over.” Judd and Verne laughed.

  “Oh dear…was Caste injured?”

  “He insisted he was fine and he knows where Aalis is if he needs her administrations.” Judd snorted. “To watch Caste hold a weapon and go down fighting…it was both noble and ridiculous.”

  “I would have paid good money to see it…not that I have any...”

  “At least Giordi’s making a killing here.” Judd nodded at the minstrel who had drawn a crowd. If it had just been his good looks that drew people to him, Judd might have resented the handsome young man but Giordi’s voice and skill on the lute were exceptional.

  “You’d think these people had never heard music before.” Verne’s tone was rather bitter.

  “It’s possible they don’t get a lot of culture in Fort Mavour,” Judd explained, “everything is aimed towards a military focus.”

  “Makes sense, this far south.”

  “Yeah…but it’s quite…” Judd shrugged. “The only colour in this place was the yellow dress Willower wore and some paintings in the gallery.”

  “They have a gallery?” Judd nodded. “They can’t be entirely without culture then.”

  “It’s pretty dusty,” Judd admitted and nearly added ‘neglected’ onto the description as he recalled the spider webs clinging between the chest and arms of armour and draped between frame and wall, “and there are more suits of armour, weapons, mounted monster heads and shields than there are paintings.”

  “Mounted monster heads?” Verne shuddered. “Some monsters have human heads…”

  “Not those ones.” Judd chuckled.

  “Hold up,” Verne turned to him, “I thought monster corpses were meant to be burned.”

  “That’s another rule that seems to have been bent the further south you go.”

  “Sounds broken to me.” Verne rolled his eyes as two young women giggled and tossed coins into Giordi’s cap to which he winked. “Maul…he’s incorrigible.”

  “Judd LaMogre!”

  They turned to see Captain Chael on horseback with Arsch and Kipre riding beside him.

  “Captain,” Judd brightened, liking the forthright military man despite his questionably long ginger sideburns, “you look well.”

  “Nothing better than a gallop across monster infested countryside to get the blood pumping.” Captain Chael chuckled.

  “Sir, perhaps LaMogre would care to join us on patrol?” Arsch asked quietly.

  “He has the horse to maintain pace.” Kipre added.

  Captain Chael looked at Judd and raised his eyebrows. “Well…what say you, LaMogre? Care to keep up with Mavour’s most adoring?”

  Arsch and Kipre coughed and spluttered in embarrassment while Judd shook his head.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “I’d like nothing more than to stretch Xenon’s legs but I’m waiting word from Sir Donimede.”

  “The Arena?” Judd nodded. “Go on the early patrol. The Arena is only ever active in the afternoon and evening.”

  Judd looked at Verne who shook his head as if to say, what are you looking at me for.

  “Then I’d be delighted.”

  “Looking forward to seeing if you live up to your reputation.” Chael urged his horse into a trot while Arsch and Kipre gave jaunty salutes, somewhat pleased with themselves.

  “Looks like you’ve got a full day tomorrow.” Verne turned to Judd. “Patrol in the morning, Arena in the afternoon and supper and flirting in the evening.”

  “Another word out of you and I’ll volunteer you to join me.”

  Suvau locked his arms in place and would not move, squeezing the life out of the ogre that was the current monster after several bouts against the beasts from Maul. It flailed its arms about, so strong they could shatter Suvau’s arm but they could not get a grasp on him. Finally it’s fighting became writhing then turned into twitching. At long last, its hulking body sagged onto the ground, a gurgling burping from its throat, saliva trickling to the ground into a pool, mixing with a little dust and Suvau’s sweat and blood.

  Suvau had to force himself to let go, falling onto his backside, breathing heavily. He didn’t have the strength the rise. Should Urik order Jole to open the gate again, Suvau knew that the smallest goblin would be able to sink its teeth into his neck and tear out his throat.

  He heard the sound of gears clunking together and closed his eyes, fearing the worst. Yet instead of a monster, he felt a tight fist grab him and haul him to his feet. Jole marched his shaky legs out of the Arena to where Urik was waiting through the first gate. Suvau heard it clang behind him and nearly sagged in relief. It took every ounce of remaining strength he had to stumble after Urik to the dungeon. If Jole had not taken hold of Suvau’s bonds, he might have fallen down the steps and collapsed onto the ground.

  Suvau leaned against the wall, the wounds from his whipping no longer hurting compared to the ache of the rest of his body. He heard Jole’s heavy footstep leave and the door closed, blanketing them in darkness.

  “Suvau,” Oska whispered urgently, “Suvau, speak to me. Are you injured? Were you bitten?”

  Suvau opened an eye and gave a small smile. “The only injuries I sustained were a knock to the head when an ogre caught me with its arm and threw me into a pillar and Urik’s whipping.” He sat up properly and cracked his neck.

  Oska let out a loud breath. “I thought you must have been half dead the way Jole dragged you in.”

  Suvau chuckled. “A small deception…but only a small one.” He put his hand up to his shoulder and pushed back on it hard, feeling bones click into place. He was worried he’d dislocated it but, apart from being tender, it seemed to be more ache than injury.

  “What did you face in there?” Gustin asked. “You have been gone for hours!”

  “That I believe.” Suvau was desperate for a drink of water. “There were goblins…several waves of goblins and some orthros…and then an ogre.”

  Through the hazy gloom he saw one of the Mauls hold a broken bowl against a wall, collecting water that trickled from an overflow somewhere above.

  “Thank the stars it’s raining.” Gustin explained. The bowl was passed around the room and given to Suvau so he could swallow it despite the water having a strong mineral flavour that set his teeth on edge. He breathed out and leaned back then winced and leaned forward, his wounds starting to pain him again.

  “How did you survive this?” He asked, looking at Oska from across the room. “Was that onslaught just because Urik has taken a dislike to me?”

  “We all suffer an…initiation to the pit.” Oska explained. “It is simply the luck of the draw.”

  Palo snorted and Suvau wondered why he seemed to despise Oska so. Still, interpersonal relationships between prisoners were not his primary concern.

  “The pit…Arena…does anyone know how it was built?”

  “Ermaus might know,” Gustin turned to an older slave whose skin had lightened a little and whose hair was following suit, “he’s the oldest among the slaves.”

  “Only because the Terra’s are too good to shovel their own faeces,” Ermaus snorted, “or dig their own graves.”

  “That’s what you do around here?”

  “That’s what we all do…when we’re no longer fit for the pit.” Suvau studied Ermaus. He was a mess of scars, one eye blinded and sealed shut and he no longer possessed an ear on the same side. Ermaus caught his unavoidable stare. “Cockatrice caught me with its claws. The only way to survive was to sever where the poison was injected.” Suvau shuddered. “We all possess scars, memories of battles we have survived…but we all start with a whipped back to draw blood and entice the monsters…not that you could find my first scars…they’re hidden beneath all the others…” He laughed which turned into a cough that rattled about in his chest with an alarming sound. Ermaus took several moments to regain his breath and lifted his head and gestured to Suvau with the only three fingers remaining on his left hand. “You wanted to know about the pit?”

  “How was it built? It doesn’t look entirely constructed but more like…salvaged?”

  “You have a keen eye.” Ermaus rasped. “It opened beneath the wall during an earthquake which created the chasm that leads out into Maul. The fallen rubble blocked the hole in the wall and thankfully the fort and the upper portion of the wall were all built to withstand collapse. While slaves such as myself, bartered from Fereak, cleared the debris, removing the obstacles the monsters could not pass, soldiers fought to keep them back. Donimede saw the value in having a place for soldiers to train against monsters and sword master Roust and Captain Urik agreed.” Ermaus had to pause to catch his breath, leaning on his knees. “The wall was reinforced with the rubble and the pillars were built…the viewing balconies are just the floors of the stories above that didn’t fall into the pit.” He wheezed and shook his head. “Unfortunately it was during the rebuilding that Urik observed that monsters went for Mauls as much as Terras.”

  “I suppose he went from Captain Urik to slave master Urik with that gem of a revelation?” Suvau muttered angrily.

  “You got it.” Ermaus slapped his knee. “That butcher Donimede decided to call it ‘the Arena’ to make it sound grand. He even boasted that Sir Rylan constructed something similar in Fort Verion.”

  “I’m surprised Donimede’s cleric let him get away with an unsecured wall.”

  “Donimede made sure any entrance or exit from the pit into the interior of the fort was through one of three iron gates. Any monster that kills its opponent cannot escape without the gates being raised from the outside of the pit. The monster is usually killed by archers from the balconies. I imagine Donimede would have argued that it was safer than ever.”

  There was a round of snorts and spits at this.

  Suvau’s face creased in contemplation as he visualised the pit. “I thought there were two walls of the south, one built ten feet or so from the other, in order to keep Terra safe. In the pit, there was only one wall.”

  “It’s there but you wouldn’t have seen it unless you were standing on the threshold of the exterior gate,” Ermaus had to breathe several times again and Suvau cringed at the rattle in his lungs, “after the earthquake, the interior wall was rebuilt closer to the exterior, narrowing the gap between them to perhaps a foot wide. The gate that separates Terra from Maul was constructed to closely fit between the walls and drops down into the space like a seal.”

  “I suppose monsters only think to devour the vulnerable human in the pit rather than seek a means of infiltrating the wall?” Suvau wondered vaguely. “Even then…only a foot wide…that’s narrow…”

  Ermaus went to respond but started to cough instead. It was a terrible attack and Suvau thought he might die then and there but eventually he got it under control, gasping for breath. Suvau realised the old man had pushed himself too hard for one evening and let any other questions he had go unanswered. Gruel was served and Suvau devoured it, his stomach cramping for more yet he knew to ask would only invite a beating. In the darkness he rested, his mind trying to work out how the gate between the walls worked.

  “There must be a mechanism to raise and lower it, possibly on the balcony of the pit…and if it was raised, would it be possible to squeeze between the two walls?” He mused quietly, his words mingling with the dust that seemed to float and never land in the dungeon. All around him he could hear the sounds of his people sleeping or resting as best they could. “If I am put it the pit tomorrow, I must try to look.”