Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two (8 page)

James turned his dog mask to the
priest. “Really?”

“Yes. To draw blood shows that they
lack the proper skill to prevent it.”

“Then how do they determine the
winner?”

“Once the fight is over, the crowd
cheers for the one they liked the best. He who receives the loudest
acclaim, wins.”

Jiron chuckled. “It’s actually working
very well, at least from what they tell me. Potbelly claims that
once a person gets a taste for the Exhibitions, it’s easy enough to
get them to the real matches.”

“I suppose so.”

At the entrance, James almost expected
to find a kiosk where those attending would pay a fee. He figured
that would come soon. The real money the Masters of the Pit take in
come in the way of wagers. Just as people would bet at the track in
his world, so too did they bet on the winners in this one. One
could even win extra if his bet was marked kill, rather than just
win. But then if the loser of the match survived, they received
nothing.

The crowd at the entrance was thick,
and the hallway extending into the building was choked with people.
Along this hallway, six others branched off each leading to a pair
of Pits. There were a dozen in all, each with their own taproom
where ale and food could be procured for a price, a steep price if
James recalled correctly.

Just within the entrance began the Pit
Boards. Upon these were listed the names, matches, and rough
estimate of times when the matches were to begin. Each Pit had two
boards, one for today’s matches, and the other for tomorrow’s. The
second board had been suggested by James and was readily
implemented by the new Masters of the Pit.

Along with the betting against the
house, patrons would bet among themselves. Throughout the building,
James could overhear snippets of conversation that would put rival
Super Bowl enthusiasts to shame. Once in a while such energetic
“conversations” would get out of control, so Scar and Potbelly had
placed a number of those Pit Fighters who were not slated for
matches throughout the hallways to maintain order. Woe be it to
them whose actions caused these guards to intervene. It has been
rumored that more than one disturber of the peace at the Pits
turned up broken and missing parts of their body.

Jiron knew just about everyone there.
After all, having grown to manhood within the Pits, it was now a
regular haunt of his when not otherwise engaged. Without the mask,
he would have assuredly been recognized by now. To further disguise
himself, he had left his trademark blades at home, and had taken
but a single dagger.

James scanned the Match
Boards as they passed. None listed Tinok’s name. He knew of the
saying,
there were the Pits, then there
were
the Pits
! Most
patrons were unaware that a thirteenth Pit was located within this
building. Or rather, beneath it.

In a sub-basement with but a single,
well guarded entrance, those in-the-know and with a heavy purse
could see matches the way they used to be fought back before the
Empire’s occupation. No rules other than the match wasn’t over
until one was either dead, or unconscious. Most often, matches
within the thirteenth Pit ended tragically.

Midway down the main hallway, a
bottleneck had been created by a strategically placed hawker of ale
and jerked beef. Three casks of ale rested upon wall-mounted
brackets, one was even now being replaced with a fresh one. By the
end of the night, if it was a good night, each bracket would see
five or more separate replacements. James had once thought of
broaching the idea of t-shirts, foam fingers, and bobble-heads with
Scar and Potbelly, but considered that might be pushing things a
mite.

Father Tullin led them through the
bottleneck and had just reached the last pair of hallways leading
to The Pits, when Scar appeared coming their way. Deep in
conversation with a short man wearing a brace of throwing knives,
he passed by without so much as a nod. Once Scar and his companion
had been swallowed by the crowd, James turned to Jiron.

“Shorty works here, too?” Shorty,
one-time Pit fighter, knife thrower extraordinaire, and companion
during James’ quest to rescue Miko from slavery, was a face James
knew well.

“Yes. He and Stig both work here, as
well as Fifer.”

“Fifer?” That was a surprise. Fifer
had lost a leg during the campaign to recover the Star. “Thought he
was out at The Ranch with Roland?”

Jiron shook his head.
“Potbelly called him in to help train the
Swodders
.”

Swodders
, of course, being the
combination of the words “sword” and “fodder.” Shorty coined that
word during a binge. He had been trying to say “They ain’t nothing
but sword fodder,” but his excessive state of inebriation caused a
severe slurring of the words and it came out “They ain’t nuth bu’
swodders.” When those with him finally figured out what he was
trying to say, they began using the word to irritate him, and it
stuck. Now it was an integral part of Pit lexicon.

At the end of the hallway, before a
door embossed with a pair of crossed swords, stood two
pit-fighters-turned-guards. Though James had never been within the
Pits before, he knew that this door was the only access the general
public had to the thirteenth pit, and that access was by invitation
only. Of course, once invited, you could frequent it whenever you
wished, as well as bringing along friends.

Father Tullin was well known to
everyone connected with the Pits, and when the guards realized his
destination was the door, they opened it for him.

“Father,” they said in
unison.

The priest gave them a friendly smile
and nod. “Thank you.” He caught them eyeing his two companions.
“Have a couple friends here who might be interested in what lies
beyond the dragon’s eye.”

“Of course,” the guard on the right
said.

“I hear the match tonight will be a
good one,” the other commented.

“We’ll see.” Gesturing for his two
masked comrades to follow, he passed through the door and into a
well-lit, narrow passage.

Once the door closed behind
them, James asked, “What’s this about
what
lies beyond the dragon’s eye?”

“It’s a code Scar implemented after an
assassination took place below. The assassin forced one of the
Pit’s regulars to bring him past the guards and then proceeded to
kill a rather influential trader. Seems the man’s competitor wanted
to secure a bid and had him taken out.”

Jiron nodded. “Caused quite a stir,
almost shut this place down.”

“So now,” continued Father Tullin, “if
you bring anyone that they don’t know, or is masked, you give them
the password. If you don’t, expect to experience a delay in
reaching the Pit.”

James laughed. “I could
imagine.”

The narrow passage opened onto a room
wherein waited another four guards. Father Tullin nodded to them as
he crossed to the head of a circular flight of steps leading down.
The guards were engaged in a game of dice and hardly gave them more
than a cursory glance before returning to their game.

From out of the stairwell came the
sound of many conversations, laughter, and curses. At the bottom,
they exited into a Pit area twice as large as any of those above.
It was filled to capacity with a plethora of masks, hoods, and
helms. To James’ surprise, there were quite a few who didn’t have
any sort of concealment at all.

Father Tullin took his arm. “Stay
close so we don’t get separated.”

“And keep a firm hand on your coin
pouch,” Jiron added. “Though thieves are dealt with harshly in the
Pit, often forced to face the greenest of fighters, thefts do
happen from time to time.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in
mind.”

The actual Pit in which the fights
take place was at the center of the room. A bandstand of sorts
encircled the fighting area with six rows of benches. From three
satellite rooms branching off from this one came the aroma of
roasting beef and fresh baked bread. Scar and Potbelly really knew
how to bilk their customers for all they were worth. James wondered
if the previous Master of the Pit had been as devious.

“I tell you he has never been
beaten!”

“Bah! Tinok will hand him his liver in
the first five minutes.”

While Father Tullin paused to converse
with a man in a dark hood that hid all but the tip of his nose and
the fact that there were piercing blue eyes beneath, James turned
his attention to an argument unfolding nearby.

A helmed man, dressed as a guard with
black bands encompassing where his employer’s insignia would be,
stood toe-to-toe with another in a bright orange robe with a mask
comprised almost entirely of feathers.

“They say no man has ever lasted more
than five minutes against him,” Helmed Man asserted.

“And I tell you, there is no one able
to withstand Tinok’s knives,” Feather Mask argued. “He’ll have this
newcomer sliced and diced before sustaining a single
blow.”

“Five golds say you’re
wrong!”

“Ten!”

“Done!”

Similar conversations were in progress
throughout the viewing area. Jiron took James by the arm and worked
them closer to the edge. Already, the railing had filled to
capacity, but Jiron managed to shove aside a smaller man dressed in
a brown cloak wearing a rat-head mask to make room. The man looked
ready to say something, but backed down upon realizing Jiron was
not alone.

Indicating two doors on either side of
the pit below, Jiron said, “Tinok and his opponent will emerge from
opposite sides. They will pause and size up each other while the
particulars of the match are announced, then the fight will
commence.”

“Bring back memories?”

Jiron nodded. “I miss it, though I
would never tell my wife that.”

Chuckling, James slapped his friend on
the back.

The pit itself had a diameter of
roughly fifty feet with an earthen floor. A wall seven feet tall
with the railing at the edge adding another three feet, prevented
any combatant to flee before the match was over. The floor was
earthen and looked to have been recently raked smooth. To James,
the place felt like the Roman Coliseum, but in
miniature.

“How soon before it
begins?”

Jiron shrugged. “It will when it does.
Though judging by how crowded the place has become, they won’t want
to hold off much longer.” He glanced to James. “Keeping important
patrons waiting is bad for business.”

“I understand that,” James
said.

Off to their left, Father Tullin
conversed with three men in various stages of disguise. The way
people gravitated to the priest led James to believe that he must
be a favorite among them.

James sought faces in the sea of masks
and hoods, not for any real desire to see who was there, but for
something to do while waiting for the match to start. The
expressions encountered ranged from excited to solemn. His gaze
continued in a slow sweep until something about a man from the
Empire registered familiarity. It took him a moment to recall the
memory, and when he did, his eyes narrowed.

Nudging Jiron with his elbow, he
surreptitiously pointed across to the man. “Isn’t he the one we saw
Tinok with earlier?”

Jiron saw the man standing with two
fellows and nodded. “Yes, it is.” He remembered very well seeing
this man walking with Tinok when they had sought his whereabouts
before.

“Wonder what he’s doing
here?”

Jiron glanced sidelong at his friend
and shook his head.

James turned toward Father Tullin and
caught the priest’s attention with a wave and motioned for him to
join them.

Breaking off his conversation, Father
Tullin was soon at their side. “Sorry about that. Everyone seems
desirous in entering into discourse this evening.”

“Not a problem,” James assured him,
then directed his gaze to the man across the pit. “Have you ever
seen that man before?”

Following the discreet gesture, the
priest sought the man in question. “Which one?”

“The unmasked fellow from the
Empire.”

Father Tullin shook his head. “No.
Can’t say that I have.”

Keeping his voice low, Jiron said,
“He’s been in Tinok’s company of late.”

“He has?”

James nodded. “I don’t suppose you
could wander over there and find out who he is?”

Slapping him on the back, Father
Tullin said, “I can but try.”

While the priest worked his way
through the crowd and the number of people who were, as he said,
“desirous of discourse,” James and Jiron kept a surreptitious watch
on the man and those he stood with. When James happened to glance
toward the priest, found him to be mired in a conversation with two
people in hoods. “I guess there’s no hurry.”

Jiron saw the priest’s predicament.
“No, there isn’t.”

The sudden sound of bolts being thrown
and the subsequent creaking of poorly kept hinges announced the
match was soon to begin. Within the pit, the doors on either side
swung open.