Edge of Destiny (16 page)

“Fresh meat,” one man said darkly.

Rytlock reached for Sohothin but, of course, his sword and scabbard were gone.

The guards marched them toward a wide rectangular entrance cut into one side of the overturned hull. The passage was preternaturally dark, shielded by a curtain of magic, but sounds came from within.

Feet pounded. Voices shouted. Swords clanged. Someone screamed.

“Are we making a mistake?” Logan asked.

“Quite possibly,” Caithe responded.

Rytlock scowled. “You two got any money?”

“No,” they chorused.

Rytlock swept his claws forward. “Then let’s go.”

The three strode among their guards through the mystic curtain. They emerged into a gigantic space—a huge arena carved into the ground. Rows of stone benches descended toward a broad, sandy arena. Warriors practiced there. To the right, a man and a centaur faced off. To the left, an ogre battled a charr. In one spot, a team of gorilla-like grawl assaulted a pair of scaly skritt.

“This must be the place,” Logan said.

“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.