“What's your greatest fear, Bascombe? Should we find out some disturbing truths this evening, what's the worst scenario you can imagine.”
I don't know if Margrin was just making small talk to calm his nerves or if he was genuinely interested, but every time a bottle broke or a cat howled or someone's voice was raised in anger, he jumped.
“I don't know Margrin. Now that I've heard these accusations of embezzlement, I'm worried about my mother. He's left her at our house in Wikehold. Should someone come after my father there, it's just her and a few servants.”
For a moment, I was lost in thought. I was never terribly close with my mother, but in hindsight, she must have known some of what my father was doing. I remember arguments, but they spoke in adult code so as not to expose me to the reality. Now I pitied her. What a horrible man she had married.
Lost in thought, I didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind us until a gruff voice shattered the still night.
“Fancy a stroll, eh, Gentlemen? Seems rather late, doesn't it?”
I drew immediately, pointing my blade tip at the point where I thought the voice had originated. To my surprise, here were three more ruffians at least as large as the last three.
I was beginning to be bothered by these louts thinking us to be easy prey.
“What is it, Good Sirs? Is it our outfits? Do we look like we won't put up a fight.”
“In all honesty, Sir, and I shan't lie, the wardrobe is a touch more, um, light and fancy than I'm used to seeing on grown men. But, as me mum always said, there's no accounting for taste, Son. Some men will wear dark shades in the middle of summer, some will stick to pastels throughout the winter months, as if there's not a well-established calendar clearly delineating the fashion seasons, she said.”
I had no idea what this fellow was on about.
“Don't worry, Gentlemen. I'm just having a go at you.”
“What do you mean?”
“A laugh, Sir. The bit being funny because you wouldn't expect a ruffian like me to be talking about fashion, you see?”
“Yes, very clever, Sir. Now, may I ask your intentions?”
“I have no intentions myself, Sir. However, Rathkin intends that we keep an eye on you two, being down here at night and all. It's dangerous.”
Margrin chuckled, “Rathkin! Of course! Well gentlemen, you're more than welcome. This place unnerves me.”
The first man said “As well it should, Sir. You can see, we had the drop on you two just then. Had we evil intent …”
“What's the name, Sir?”
“I'm Marts, Mister Ephisieryón. You don't need to know the other two.”
He dismissed the other men who quickly melted back into the shadows. It was good to know they were there.
“Have you been to the fights before, Sirs?”
“No, Mister Marts. Any tips for us?”
“If you're squeamish, when one of them goes down, stop watching. It's a gruesome business. No weapons. Just fists. You'd be surprised what they can do. I would also refrain from betting. Good way to get into a fight yourself.”
“Do you know my father, Mister Marts?”
“Most certainly, Sir. He's something of a regular around these parts. Rathkin has had to bail him out of gambling debt trouble more than a few times.”
“But, that's absurd! My father is a very wealthy man.”
“Are you certain, Sir? He seems to come in for loans on a fairly regular basis. I think there's much about the man you don't know.”
“You're right, of course Mister Marts. Apologies. I shouldn't have questioned your veracity.”
“I'm a criminal, Mister Bascombe. If you don't question me, then who?”
Marts was about as nondescript as someone can be, I guess that's the point in his line of work. Human, maybe 5’7”, 140 pounds, black hair and eyes, maybe 30 years old. His nose had been broken more than once, several teeth missing, he looked like he might have some Shamsa ancestry. Definitely not of pure ancestry from the continent. the Shamsa are a nomadic people out of the Great Southern Desert. Very dark skinned. There was definitely some of that in Marts’ past.
An encounter like this illuminates the difference culturally between Wikehold and Sandlise. There's plenty of outside influence in Wikehold, but it's mostly from the Northern continent. You won't see any Shamsa. I'm Sandlise, the traffic of immigrants is from the South. Different foods, fashions, accents, traditions. I really do need to travel more.
I asked “Do you go to the fights much, Mister Marts?”
“No, I don't, Sir. It's a shameful spectacle in my opinion. Many of the fighters are simply people who got too indebted to Rathkin. He gives them the choice to fight to the death and potentially erase their debt, or die by whatever method he chooses. Pretty easy decision.”
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
“I was under the impression that he wasn't involved in the fights?”
“I don't know why you'd think that, Mister Bascombe. If a rat scratches a flea on the docks it's with permission from Rathkin. He runs the whole town, truth be told.”
“Then why is he in that old warehouse?”
“I didn't say this. Seriously, don't repeat it. But he might be a bit of a lunatic, Mister Bascombe. As fond as I am of the man, that's just a fact. We all look out for him though, when he's having his rough moods. They can get pretty bad.”
There did seem to genuinely be a sort of familial love between these Syndicate fellows. Most unusual.
“But he also doesn't like airing his business. He's safe from most prying down at the docks. And you also haven't seen all of that warehouse,” he chuckled knowingly.
“Fit for a king?”
“Yes, Sir.” he said so matter of factly that I felt I really needed to get the full tour some day.
We were approaching the warehouse where the fighting took place. Except for once every Tenthday this would be an eerily quiet ghost town. But tonight, in that abandoned warehouse, torch light poured out of every crack and hole in the building’s exterior and into the night. The frantic yells and whoops of the spectators echoing off of every building, down every alleyway of the port facilities.
There were just a few watchmen strolling the piers and gangways and an inordinate number of rats scurrying about.
Outside of the building, at the front door, four burly figures, Orcs I thought, were busy shaking down customers and helping to oust ones who had already proven themselves to be trouble. We approached trying to look as confident as possible, not wanting to stick out as neophytes.
The doormen were Half-Orcs, monstrous looking creatures with greenish skin and stubby tusks jutting from their lower jaws. All four were heavily scarred and tattooed. Surely veterans of some description, they looked like former mercenaries.
Eying me closely, the largest of them spoke to me in a gruff baritone, “That'll be five royals, My Fine Sir, and you must check that rapier. All of you gentlemen, weapons must be checked or they'll be confiscated.”
“I'll be damned if …” Margrin grabbed my shoulder. “We need to get in, Tendil. Don't work against yourself.”
Calming myself, I took the gem from my rapier's pommel and pocketed it. Handing over the five gold pieces, I ventured up several wooden steps and went inside. The atmosphere was palpable. The smells. Burning oil from the torches, any number of herbs being smoked, stale ale, body odor, and blood. A young Half-Orc female was behind a counter checking coats and weapons. Handing over my rapier I told her “There's fifty gold for you if you take good care of this for me, My Dear. I'm acting in good faith, please show me the same courtesy.”
“Yes, Sir!” she smiled, taking my blade and putting it directly under the counter, not with the many other items she had checked. She handed me a ticket and said, “Enjoy the fights, Sir!”
Waiting for Margrin and Marts, I stood to the side, trying to be inconspicuous as I scanned the room for my father. When Marts came over, I asked him to go ahead and find out where he was. He would recognize both me and Margrin on sight.
The room was rather ingeniously built on rings of concentric wooden risers so that it functioned as a crude arena. All parts of the room providing a good view of the makeshift ring in the building's center. At the time, two Hobgoblins were going at it, bleeding profusely and gasping for breath.
Both were wearing only breeches, their russet skin and close-cropped black hair glistening with sweat. Their yellow eyes attentively looking for opportunities for their razor-sharp teeth to be brought into play.
The spectators were rabid. Waiting for more, some beginning to boo as the exhausted warriors circled each other without attacking.
Then I saw him, the old man, my father, facing me but on the other side of the ring, not fifteen feet from the combatants. He was red-faced, yelling, flecks of spit coming out of his mouth in his frenzy. I never imagined the man could ever look like this, as if he was crazed. It shocked me and it saddened me. No, I did not know this man at all.
Finally, one of the fighters wobbled, then collapsed from loss of blood or perhaps his legs just failed him. The other Hobgoblin was on him in a flash, beating him in the face with his fists so savagely that the downed warrior's skull began to give. That's what Marts meant when he said to stop watching when they go down. I turned away until I heard a referee yell “Done!” and the crowd cheered the outcome.
Looking to my father, I could see that he had picked the winner. A thuggish looking Human bringing him a fist-sized pouch of coin. Now he looked like my father, smiling, jovial, laughing and chatting energetically with some men standing around him. Swalesians. I recognized them now. Those men were his bodyguards I had seen briefly at the chalet.
Marts came back then and saw me watching my father across the room.
“Aye, that's him. Won a nice bit of gold on that one.”
My father called the thuggish man back over and handed him back the purse.
“What's that?” I asked Marts.
“He's letting it ride. Putting all that gold on the next fight. That's why he keeps getting in trouble. The man's overconfident and his luck keeps running out.”
The next fighters were entering the ring as two muscular men dragged out the dead Hobgoblin’s body. Another followed, raking sand over the blood on the ground to dry it.
I was stunned to see the next combatants. One was a Human, about my size, not large, not small, black hair and beard wearing only breeches. Indescript.
His adversary though, was an Orc, nearly seven feet tall, easily close to four hundred pounds, huge tusks, long black hair done up in braids. Muscle upon muscle rippled beneath his gray-green skin. In my life, I had never seen any creature like this. The odds had to be heavily skewed toward the Orc.
The referee came out and stood in the middle of the ring and the crowd went quiet. He began to announce “For your amusement tonight, we have from the Kingdom of Lyridia on the Central Coast, Waldert the Ironmonger!” There was a small smattering of cheers for Waldert.
“And, to my left, from the Orcish Barony of Kruklig in the Eastern Waste, Montorik the Savage!”
Bookies began to run through the crowd, yelling out odds and taking bets, recording the transactions in small ledger books with slate pencils. By the time one of them got around to me, the odds were 500:1 in favor of Montorik.
I turned to Margrin, “I'd be a fool to not give it a go. What's five royals?”
“If you feel you must. But remember the warning about betting.”
“It's a measly five gold, Margrin. What's the harm?”
I summoned a bookie and put the money on Waldert. The fellow gave me back a record of the transaction with his personal mark torn from his ledger.
“No more bets!’ came the call from a man I assumed to be the head bookie and all attention was suddenly on the ring.
The referee once again stepped into the middle between the fighters. He raised an arm over his head, hesitated a moment, then brought it down in a quick chopping motion yelling “Go!”
The Human and the Orc began to slowly circle each other, the Orc making little feints with his arms, drawing laughs from the crowd as he appeared to be toying with his prey.
After several moments of this, there were murmurs from the spectators and shouts of “Hurry up!” and “Come on and fight!”
Finally Montorik lunged, much quicker than you'd think given his size, bellowing some sort of primal war cry. Waldert dodged to the side, barely escaping the Orc’s grasp. If Montorik got his hands on the Human, the fight would effectively be over.
Once again, they began to circle one another. Montorik seemed surprised that the Human had moved so quickly. He looked to be calculating how much he should lead his opponent before another try, anticipating another dodge. The Human’s only chance was to tire the Orc out by evading him.
Subtly, Montorik began to draw toward the Human, making the circles bring him closer to the corner ropes, cutting off his escape routes.
By the time Waldert noticed the strategy, it was too late. He had allowed himself to be cornered. When the Orc saw this realization reflected on the Human's face, seeing that moment of panic, he sprung from his stance, going headfirst at Waldert’s midsection, meaning to gore him with his tusks. His arms were spread wide to eliminate any risk of evasion.
At the last moment, Waldert leapt into the air, grabbing the ropes behind him and lifting himself so that he was standing on them, three feet off the ground. If the Orc hadn't been trying to gore him and had been standing more upright, he would have had him, but Waldert was just high enough that Montorik rammed his head into the metal pole holding up the ropes in the ring's corner. The clanging sound of his head striking the metal reverberated throughout the arena, followed by gasps and moans from the crowd.
The Orc collapsed face first to the ground and Waldert was on him immediately, furiously kicking the monster in the face as a dazed Montorik tried to rise. Waldert clasped his hands together, raised them over his head, and sledgehammer-like, began beating on the back of the Orc's neck. The beast would not stay down and Waldert looked to be tiring.
Finally, in an act of desperation, the Human grabbed the Orc by his long braids and began slamming his head against the metal pole until a loud cracking noise indicated that Montorik was likely done, his body spasming on the sandy earth.
“Done!” the referee yelled over the groaning attendees. Very few were cheering, but Tendil was one of them. His bookie came over with a grim look on his face.
“Sir, I've been tasked with telling you that, due to the questionable nature of this loss, we will only be able to pay you 250 royals rather than the 2,500 indicated on your ticket.”
I was in disbelief. “What in blazes do you mean ‘questionable nature,’ my man won!”
“Well, Sir, weapons are forbidden and it's being argued that the Human used the ring pole as a weapon there at the end. Now, you're welcome to appeal this decision before our arbitration committee, but …”
Just then, Margrin stepped forward, face to face with the man, and said “Craxit finia, Good Sir. If you don't mind. We're guests of Rathkin.
Marts came over as well and said, “I can vouch for them, Beril.”
“Ah, these gentlemen are with you, Mister Marts?”
“Indeed, Beril, but this one,” he said, indicating Margrin, “far outranks me. This is Mister Ephisieryón from Wikehold.”
Beril’s face sunk, “Most sincere apologies to you all. Just doing my job.”
As they were speaking, I looked across the way only to meet my father's gaze. He recognized me immediately, quickly turning and heading for the door.
“Dammit! He's seen me! Now what?”
“He won't recognize me,” said Marts. Go collect your winnings and I'll tail him. When he gets where he's going, I'll send my boys to get you.”
So, claiming my rapier, I gave the check girl one hundred rather than fifty royals which made her start to cry, but I didn't have time for that.
Margrin and I waited out front until we saw one of Marts’ men approaching. He indicated that we were to follow him as he headed down to the pier.