They drank some more wine and Pablo became even more jovial and friendly. “Where did you come from, anyway? We don’t get many strangers around here.”
“I came out of Nekrya couple of days ago, heading South.”
“You’re not Nekryan, though,” Pablo observed.
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You’re a Northerner, if I ever saw one! A Viking?”
“No.”
“Well, you couldn’t have come out of Biyack. Despite their power they’re a weak, tender, and effeminate nation. Their strength is in numbers; they don’t produce any real warriors. You must be a Wolf then, out of Lyons.”
Iskald smiled, but said nothing.
“Yes! Iskald, the mighty Northern Wolf going up against the undefeated champion of Surath, Liath! Hell of a fight! Forget Grizzwal!”
“Undefeated, you say?”
Pablo grinned. “Don’t let that frighten you.” He sipped his wine. “He’s only been fighting young fools so far. Today is a step up for him! A Wolf!”
“Trust me, Pablo, not you, nor your buddy Liath can scare me.” Iskald laughed. “It’s going to take a bit more than that!”
“I already told you, he’s not my friend and this is a legit operation!” Pablo protested, but he was not annoyed this time around. The wine had eased the tension, and the fact that the fight would go ahead as scheduled put him in a great mood.
Talking and drinking, the two men passed the day and the evening, till Pablo decided it was time to make their way to the spot where the fight was to take place.
“They’re probably getting ready over there, so let’s not have the crowd waiting around for us,” he said.
They left the pub and entered the dark streets of Arkeen.
“It’s best not to walk around alone at night in this city,” Pablo said. “Too much riff-raff wondering the streets, too many deals going down around here.”
“Is it far?” Iskald felt a bit dazed after all the wine they drank.
“No, it’s just up ahead in the ruins of an old mill.”
“In the middle of the city?”
“You’ll see what we did with the place,” Pablo grinned. “Trust me, nobody that’s not invited would ever find us!”
“I hope so,” Iskald said. “I don’t need to spend a night in city prison, or to be beaten out of here because of this little duel.”
“It’s not going to be a duel, my young friend. This is going to be a street fight, anything goes, and you don’t quit till you’re dead!”
“Fine by me.” Iskald shrugged.
Despite appearing indifferent and arrogant to Pablo, the young Northerner was in fact taking this fight very seriously. He realized the moment the deal was made that he was probably heading straight into a death trap and that he would have to overcome staggering odds to emerge victorious out of this confrontation. Iskald was pretty sure he had managed to figure out exactly what was going on; he had heard of such scams before.
Regardless of what Pablo had been telling him all day, Iskald was sure that Pablo, Liath, and whoever else was involved, all worked together. Pablo would find opponents for Liath and he would convince them that they could not lose, though in reality they probably had little chance against the gladiator, who was always extremely dangerous and skilled, usually being an ex-soldier or mercenary.
The crowds paid to see the fight, they bet among themselves, and they placed bets with Pablo as well because there was always an odd chance that a stranger could win and then the payoff would be gigantic. Normally, though, Liath killed his opponents and all the partners grew rich; perhaps there were even more soldiers participating in this operation and acting as opponents to the unknowing, naive and inexperienced fighters.
For all Iskald knew, the entire city of Arkeen could have been in on what was going on. Perhaps Grizzwal was indeed the wiser of the two of them after all. Iskald smiled. He would do his best to carry his head out of all this intact, hopefully a bag or two of gold as well, but you could never predict these things. The path he had chosen to walk after leaving Nekrya was a dangerous one, but what did it matter? He had to find a place in the world for himself and this was as good a place as any to start.
By the time they had reached the ruins, all the wine-induced haziness vanished and Iskald was as sober as ever. He kept a close eye on Pablo and his hand always rested on the handle of his sword; he was ready to defend himself in an event of a trap. The familiar touch of the cold steel was reassuring and it sent waves of confidence through his body.
He tried to pierce the darkness around them with his ice-cold eyes, but there was just blackness everywhere. More light appeared as another man approached them through the ruins, carrying a torch in one hand and a bare sword in the other.
“Pablo?” the man asked in a low voice.
“Yeah.”
They made their way further through the ruins and walked up to the man with the torch. He glanced at Iskald, measuring him from head to toe.
“Who’s this?”
“He’s fighting tonight.”
“What about Grizzwal?”
“Forget him!” Pablo said impatiently.
The man shrugged, turned around, and led them through the old mill, down a set of stairs into a half-ruined chamber with nothing in it but bare walls.
“This is it?” Iskald asked, looking around suspiciously.
“Hold up,” Pablo said. “We’re almost there.”
The man with the torch bent down and lifted a trap door in the debris-covered floor of the chamber.
“In there,” he said.
“You go first,” Iskald pointed at Pablo.
“Whatever.”
The Surathian soldier disappeared in the opening. Iskald looked after him for a while and then shook his head. “This is a bad idea,” he said.
“It’s too late now.” the man with the torch grinned.
“Yeah.” Iskald pulled his sword out, put the blade between his teeth, and then lowered his giant frame into the dark opening. As soon as he touched the ground, he put his knee down, keeping the sword ready in hand.
The trap door slammed shut behind him and that was it, nothing else happened. Iskald slowly rose to his feet and looked around. He found himself in a tunnel, fairly wide and high enough for him stand up. Several torches fastened to its walls gave some light. Pablo stood beside him.
“A bit distrustful, aren’t you?” he pointed at the sword in Iskald’s hand.
“I didn’t get this far in life by being a trusting fool!” The young Northerner pushed the blade back into its sheath. “Where is it?”
“It’s over there,” Pablo pointed. “Let’s go!”
They made their way through the bare tunnel and entered a large chamber with a low ceiling. A screaming mob surrounded them immediately, shouting and screaming, all trying to see them, to touch them, to take a look at the man who dared to challenge the undefeated Liath.
The deafening roar of the drunken crowd and the dimly lit, tightly packed underground room, it all took Iskald a few moments to get used to. He stopped at the end of the tunnel and looked around quickly. Rows of benches surrounded a steel cage erected in the middle of the chamber. Iskald guessed that this was where the fight would take place.
For now though, the cage was occupied by two great tigers, both roaring and growling ferociously, coupled in a vicious embrace, now and then darting towards each others’ throats, baring their sharp teeth and gnawing at one another. The ground around them was stained with blood.
“What’s going on there?” Iskald asked Pablo, shouting over the roar of the unrestrained crowd.
“We’re trying to keep the people busy and happy!” Pablo shouted back and laughed. “Otherwise they might start killing each other! They want to see blood tonight!”
The two wild animals attacked one another with vicious fury, swinging their massive paws and roaring uncontrollably. Iskald could hear them even over the clatter generated by the people gathered here. From time to time the beasts stopped in their tracks and then darted at the cage walls, where people were gathered, stupefied, drunk on wine and drugged on opium, crazed by the sight and smell of blood.
The people closest to the cage would jump back startled, shoving those standing behind them before being pushed back into the front. Shouts, angry screams, cries of pain, cries of pleasure coming from the corners where the whores offered their goods; all this created a level of noise that was nearly deafening.
The heavy smell of opium filled the entire chamber; it was smoked freely and it was probably largely responsible for the mayhem going on. A sudden cry of pain pierced through the noise, followed by a roar of laughter.
Iskald looked in the direction where it was coming from and spotted a man lying by the cage, curled up in a ball, lying in a pool of his own blood, wailing and crying, holding the bloodied stump of his hand to his chest. Apparently he had moved too close to the cage and one of the beasts had torn his hand off.
Other Suraths gathered around him, laughing and cursing, but no one helped him. Instead, they started poking the beasts in the cage, trying to aggravate them some more, to provoke them. Another cry was heard coming form a different direction; in the corner of the room several men were having their way with a whore. They shoved her to the ground, held her down on her knees and took turns raping her, laughing and cursing, slapping and beating her at the same time.
Other men ran over to watch the spectacle, others to join in the fun. Iskald bared his teeth in a growl and was ready to run over and stop the sickening display, but Pablo held him back laughing.
“Forget them!” he shouted. “They’re all drunk and drugged, they’ll rip you to pieces before you can do anything! Let it be, she’s just a whore, anyway!”
Iskald swallowed hard and turned his head away.
“Come on, we gotta go!”
Pablo lead him through the crowd of Suraths towards the cage, pushing and shoving people aside unscrupulously. It was a slow process because almost everyone wanted to see and touch the man who was to face Liath in mortal combat.
Several of the Suraths, crazed and demented, deep in the clutch of opium, grabbed a hold of Iskald and held on to him for dear life, mumbling something frantically and foaming at the mouths. The young Northerner pushed them away, he shoved them all aside and continued to make his way through the crowd.
He was ill with disgust and could barely look at these wretches, these foul slaves of wine, drugs, and gaming. Everything he saw made him ill and angry, and he unleashed some of that anger onto the mob, driving them aside and throwing punches around, breaking jaws and dislocating shoulders.
A tall Surath stepped into his path with a crazed look in his eyes, raising his arms threateningly. Iskald pulled out his sword without a word or gesture even of warning. Quick as lighting he gutted the man, then retrieved the sword from the body of the stunned ruffian and with another angry motion he drove the sharp blade through the man’s throat and up through his skull.
Stepping over the twisting body, Iskald pressed on with the bare sword in his hand, clearing his path, swinging the bloodied blade wildly until there was no one before him.
Pablo looked back shook his head in quiet disapproval. “Come on! Get up here!” he shouted.
Iskald pushed the sword back in its sheath as he approached the Surathian soldier, who stood in a small clearing in front of the cage.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” he warned Iskald in a hushed voice. “If the mob turns on us we’re all going to die!”
Iskald looked back at the crowd of Suraths, who were still stunned by the vicious murder of their companion. They gathered around the corpse, talking in low voices, now and then throwing menacing looks towards Iskald.
“They’re sheep,” he shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t get too cocky!”
“Let’s get on with the show!” Iskald was impatient. The blood he already spilled awoke a sudden thirst for more, and now he was looking forward to the fight.
“You in a hurry to die?” Pablo sneered.
“You really believe I won’t live through this?”
“I know you won’t live through this,” the Surath snickered maliciously, changing his thus far friendly demeanor. “I’ve seen Liath fight and win too many times. He’s never lost before.”
“There has to be that first time.”
“In this business the first time you lose is the only time.”
To be continued...
Copyright © 2008 by Slawomir Rapala
