He pointed. “Those two.”
Jago stared at him. “What?”
“I want to fight those two.”
Calbit walked over to where the pair of them were watching Tirana guide the guards. “Did he actually point at someone?” Calbit asked Jago.
Nodding, Jago said, “The two tall ones, there.”
That caused Calbit to grin. He was missing several teeth, and Gorbin found the sight disgusting, but never said anything. “Those two were a find, lemme tell ya. Took out most of a group of Black Sands Raiders, and took down an anakore.”
Jago grinned as well. “Nice. Let’s put ’em in the undercard for a bit, get them warmed up so-”
“No,” Gorbin said. “I want to fight them.”
Pointing at the one with the patch, Jago said, “That one only has one eye.”
“Yeah,” Calbit put in, “and I saw him take down four raiders all by his lonesome, without no help from the other two.”
“Other two?” Gorbin frowned. “I only see two.”
“The raiders killed one of ’em. Probably wasn’t even a real fighter, truth be told. Maybe he owned ’em, I don’t know. Point is, these two can hold their own, maybe even against Gorbin.”
Folding his arms over his wide chest, Jago said, “I don’t know. Newbies always go on the undercard.”
Gorbin moved to stand right in front of Jago, emphasizing how big and strong he was. Sometimes he thought that Jago and Calbit forgot that. “You always ask me if I want to fight someone. I want to fight them. Let me fight them.”
Calbit looked at Jago. “I’m telling you, these two will be wasted on the undercard. They’ll bring people in-might be the first challenge Gorbin’s seen in years.”
Gorbin didn’t bother to point out that the next challenge would be his first.
Jago shook his head. “Not right away. If we just throw them in with Gorbin, no one will show up, because they’ll think it’s just the latest failed challenger. We need to build interest-and, besides, the last person you thought would be a challenge was that half-elf that Barglin beat in half a second.”
For a moment, Calbit stared angrily at Jago, then he looked away and nodded.
Jago called over to Tirana. “Send those two to cubicle four.”
The one with the eye patch started yelling then. “Where the frip are you taking us?”
Calbit snarled. “Where d’you think?”
Struggling against his restraints, the one with the patch cried, “We don’t want to fight. We’re free men, dammit.”
“Not no more,” Calbit said quietly.
Gorbin spit at the floor. “Another coward.”
That got the eye patch’s attention. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, mul-you put me in the arena, and I’ll fight, and I’ll win. So will my friend Rol here. See, we do this for a living.”
Indicating Gorbin with his head, Jago said, “So does he.”
The eye patch turned on Jago. “No, he does it because you guys tell him to. I see the brand there. He’s your slave. Me and Rol, though, we do this in the real world-there aren’t any rules when we fight.”
“No rules here, neither,” Calbit said.
“Please.” The man with the patch snorted. “Your fights are all in an enclosed arena with the fighters right in front of one another. That’s nothing. I swear to you, right here, right now-we will fight in your stupid arena and we will win and we will eventually be rid of this place. When Rol and I kill someone, it’s either because we’re being paid to or because we or someone we care about’s life is in danger, but I’m telling you right now, Calbit, that one of us is going to kill you, and it won’t be for either of those reasons. It’ll be because you fripping deserve to die a very slow, very painful death.”
The other one, Rol, finally spoke, doing so in a very quiet, even tone. “Gan, shut up.”
“You should listen to your friend,” Calbit said. “Take them away.”
One of the guards grabbed Rol by the wrist, then immediately pulled his hand back, a look of disgust on his face. Looking at Rol’s arm, he shouted, “What is that?”
Gorbin noticed that the guard’s palm was slicked with some kind of red ooze-it wasn’t blood, Gorbin had fought enough humans to know exactly what their blood looked like.
Following the guard’s look to Rol’s wrist, he saw some kind of bump on his skin. It was smeared with the same red ooze that was on the guard’s hand.
Calbit looked at Tirana. “Get the healer over here to give him a once-over. That’s just what we need, some kind of disease.”
“It’s nothing,” Rol said. “You want me to fight, I’ll fight. And I’ll win. And, like Gan said, eventually-I’ll kill you.”
A bit more gingerly, the guards led Rol and Gan off, Tirana following. Gorbin watched them, thinking about what Gan had said. “What did he mean?”
“About what?” Jago asked.
“That stuff about rules and enclosed arenas and stuff.”
“Nothing, don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s get you back to your cubicle.”
As Jago led him back down the corridor, Gorbin thought about what Gan had said. He’d always fought in the arena or under the very watchful eyes of Sorvag.
He wondered what fighting in the real world, the way Gan and Rol did it, was like.
Gan had been to many arenas in his time, and he’d been to Urik many times, but he’d never been to the Pit of Black Death.
He would, honestly, have been happy to keep that streak alive.
For a long time, the site had been an obsidian mine, and a tremendous source of income for the city-state’s treasury. But once it was tapped out, King Hamanu had no more use for the land and sold it to the highest bidder-who, Gan assumed, was Calbit and his partner.
Like most mines, the center of it was a giant round well in the ground, which had been converted to an arena, with wooden scaffolding along the obsidian-scored walls. The catacombs beneath the well, which had linked up the various smaller veins of obsidian, had been converted to offices for the staff and cubicles to house the fighters. The smaller ones fit one or two people, and were reserved for the best fighters who fought during the main event of each evening’s entertainment.
Last time they were in Urik, Gan had expressed confusion over why anyone would even bother to show up for the earlier fights. Fehrd had pointed out that you could attend the early fights for a cheaper admission price, and get good seats that were generally reserved for the wealthiest of the wealthy for the main event.
Gan really missed Fehrd.
Fighters were led at combat time up a spiral staircase to the holding area located under the scaffolding that served as seats. Armed guards stood at every exit, and-according to the grumblings of some of the other fighters-there was some kind of magical protection. The other fighters were sufficiently vague on the subject that Gan suspected there was no magic, just a rumor that Calbit and his partner started to scare the fighters into submission.
Every time Gan tried to ask Rol what was wrong, Rol dismissed it. “Just a lesion. Nothing to worry about.”
That had been the same thing that the healer-a gaunt, elderly elf who looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than at the arena-had said after examining all three of the so-called lesions that had appeared on Rol’s skin. In addition to the one on his left wrist, there was also one on his right leg, with a third on his neck.
Rol added: “Probably a bad reaction to something in that fripping concrete cart. Wasn’t exactly clean in there, and who knows where those other people came from.”
“I guess.” Gan sighed. “Still, you’ve been a bit-well, odd since we hooked up with that caravan.”
Rol just glared at him.
Gan held up his hands. “Right, right, Fehrd’s been killed, we got kidnapped by slavers, and we’re stuck in Urik as gladiators. I can see how that might make you a bit off your game, but we’ve got to start thinking about escaping.”