“No,” Anders slurred, though in truth he was certain it would.
Thorn didn't look encouraged. “Right. I guess most folk in this city don't know one blooded from another. Let’s jus' hope thems that work fer 'em ain't no different.”
Anders had grown up around people speaking the wilds' drawl; he'd lived around it for somewhere close to all of his life and, if need be, he could speak it himself, not that he ever would by choice. Sometimes, however, it grated on him and the constant use of double negatives made his teeth hurt. Still, he knew from past experience that trying to explain the concept to most people tended to yield about the same results as betting on a lame dog in a race, so instead he just kept quiet and conspired to give Thorn's back the eye-rolling of a lifetime.
“I'm sure it will be fine, B.T. All I do is walk up to the guards with you as my bodyguard and the lovely Henry as my...” Anders paused, unsure of how Henry would respond to being called a consort. “I tell them I'm Anders Brekovich. They'll believe me and, not wanting to upset their employer, they will let us in.”
Thorn nodded and glanced back at Anders. “Well ya do look the part. Ain't never a blooded didn't dress fancy.”
Anders levelled some more eye-rolling at Thorn. Henry caught him and punched him on the arm hard enough to leave a spreading numbness. “That will bruise,” he slurred at her with a face he hoped looked like a begging puppy.
“Ahh. Damage ya milky skin will it?” she mocked him.
“It might.”
She punched him again in the same place for good measure. Anders sighed and decided to spend his time gazing longingly at a nearby tavern.
The Blind Beggar
seemed a common name but then it was a common drinking hole. Not that commonness had ever put Anders off when a drink was involved. Now he thought about it he could feel himself sobering up as the minutes drew on and the last thing any of them needed was for him to drop back into stage seven.
“Perhaps we should...um... wait another thirty minutes or so. There is a fantastically vulgar looking tavern just over the street. Probably just right for our little crew.”
Thorn spat. “This ain't a crew. No more waitin' an' no more drinkin'. Now, boss, get out there an' dazzle us all with ya disguise.”
Anders let out an audible groan and straightened the jacket of his new suit, a wonderfully comfortable fabric both lightweight and fashionable. He’d managed to find it for fairly cheap and, although it was just a touch too large for him, it certainly made him look the part. It was a shame about the colour; brown had never really suited him but sometimes needs must. Anders held his head as high as it went and affected a down-the-nose look at anybody who happened to be in front of him. Then he strode out towards the entrance to the fighting pits.
“This ain't never gonna work,” he heard Thorn say from behind though this time the Black Thorn's drawl happened to be correct.
“You there,” Anders demanded the attention of the first guard he came across. “My father sent me.”
The guard glanced at one of his fellows and then back. “Your father?”
Anders gave the man a look that left him in doubt he was already bored of talking to him. “Niles Brekovich.”
The guard's eyes went wide and his back straightened in an instant. “Yes sir. I wasn't aware Lord Brekovich was attending the fight, sir.”
Anders sighed. “Do you see him here?”
The guard looked around as if to check then shook his head.
“That's because he's not here. I am.”
“Right. Yes sir,” the guard responded.
“I'm here to speak to...” Anders turned to Thorn and gave his hand a vague wave towards something in some direction. “What is that man's name? The one who is fighting tomorrow. Big fellow. Some sort of champion, I hear.”
Thorn looked caught between surprise and anger and fear but recovered well. “Oren Thunderfist.”
Anders started to turn back to the guard and stopped. “Really? What a fantastically descriptive name.”
Thorn nodded once. “Yes, boss.”
“I'm here to see this Thunderfist fellow about the fight. It's on my father's orders.” Anders drew in a deep breath and sighed it out in a most dramatic fashion.
“May I ask what it's about, sir?” asked the guard.
“No.”
“Right. Of course, sir. Will you be needing an escort? The pits can be like a maze.”
Anders fixed the man with a loathing glare. “Do I look like I need a guide?”
“Uhh...”
“Oh just stand aside.” He started to walk past the guard and stopped. “The correct title when addressing the first son of a Lord is also Lord.”
The guards nodded vigorously. “Yes sir. Uh... Lord.. um... Brekovich.”
Anders shook his head in such a way that left the guard under no illusions that his ignorance was beyond contempt and then continued his way into the fighting pits of Solantis.
Once inside and away from the eyes of guards Anders turned to the others with a grin about as wide as his face. “What do you think? I told you it would work.”
Thorn sniffed. “Aye. Never doubted you.”
“Yes you did,” Anders complained. “I heard you back there.”
“We need ta find us the right place. Guard weren't wrong 'bout this place bein' built like a maze.”
“Can I at least get my flask back now?” Anders whined.
Thorn stared at him for a second then nodded. “Aye.” He took the flask from one of the many pockets in his coat, unscrewed the top, drained the remaining contents into his mouth then handed the battered metal flask to Anders.
“That was just rude,” Anders said in reply but took the flask anyway and upended it, looking for any stray drop of alcohol that might be left inside.
“Reckon it's this way,” said Henry pointing into the gloom.
After a while Anders began to suspect Henry had just picked a random direction. They didn't seem to come across anything resembling living quarters for a champion of the pits. They passed well stocked armouries full of weapons, most of which Anders couldn't name. They passed cells both empty and occupied, some contained scrawny, ill-fed slaves and some contained burly mountains of muscle and hair and nasty disposition, some even contained wild animals so Anders spent a good minute getting a close up view of a lazy-looking lion. They passed training rooms where fighters, those without slave collars round their necks, could swing swords at each other or loose arrows at painted targets. Most of all, though, they passed cold, grimy, dark stone.
Anders realised the entire coliseum was built around the pits and the spectators area in three tiers of concentric circles around the grounds. He tried to picture how big the entire structure must be but failed. If he remembered correctly, and it was entirely possible he didn't, there were something like ten pits in the centre of the coliseum, each one a good thirty feet and circular with stands to cheer and jeer. Then there was the main pit; a monster of a battlefield at least ten times the size of its smaller siblings and stained with more blood than the average dungeon with more being spilled each day. With the housing and cells and armouries and mess halls... Anders was forced to wonder how anyone could afford to build such a monstrosity but then the Brekovichs had always been one of the richer blooded families and they made enough money from the pits to make their investment worth while; people flocked from all over the known world to watch folk die here.
They passed more guards inside. These weren't the usual mercs that one would find in the city of Solantis; they were men and women loyal to the Brekovichs but that didn't mean they had ever seen one of their blooded employers. Anders kept up the charade by talking to his companions, talking to himself, talking to the guards, all the while making sure he looked bored and dismissing any attempts at inquiring as to his intentions. All the guards saw was a blooded man who looked as though he owned the place and they were trained not to question their betters.
“Why don't we just stop and ask for directions?” Anders said after a while.
“'Cos we're almost there,” the Black Thorn replied in a terse tone.
Anders looked one way down the wide, curving corridor and then the other way. It all looked exactly the same to him. “How can you tell?”
“This place is built in three rings right. Makes sense that thems got their freedom would be on the outside, furthest from the pits. No cells in this ring, see. Rooms have been steadily getting' bigger. This Thunderfist we're lookin' fer is some sort of foreign champion, visitin' from somewhere down south. Reckon he'll have one o' the largest of these rooms.”
Anders couldn't fault the logic; it made perfect sense. “What do you want to bet it's the room with the two guards outside?”
Two burly-looking fellows dressed in some sort of hide armour bearing the Brekovich crest were standing either side of a large wooden door. Both men carried long swords at their hips and both turned to look at the approaching crew. Anders didn't slow his pace; to do so would give the game away.
“Quick an' quiet, Henry. I got the left one,” Thorn whispered in a hoarse voice from behind.
Anders stopped in front of the two guards and Henry and Thorn flanked him. Both guards glanced at the sell-sword and the slight murderess before focusing their attention on the drunken blooded man in front of them.
“My name is Anders Brekovich. I'm here to see that fellow you have in there.”
“I know...” one of the guards, a man with a pronounced lisp, started to say before Henry and Thorn moved as one. Stepping close stabbing the guards in a practised motion. Thorn's dagger took the unwary guard under the chin, the blade driving straight up into the brain. Henry's pierced the other man's side, hitting Gods knew what vital spots. Both men died on their feet. Anders grabbed for the man Henry had killed to help her lower him to the ground but she shoved him away. The guard was maybe twice her size but she struggled through it on her own.
“You know I'm starting to think you two might have done this sort of thing before,” Anders said.
“Reckon I could say the same 'bout you,” Henry replied, eyeing him with intense scrutiny. Anders grinned in reply. “Ya seem ta have a right good handle on pretending ta be from one o’ the families.”
Anders grinned sheepishly. “Well when you’ve got a bit of blood in you, you might as well make it work to your advantage.”
“Get those bodies hid,” Thorn said, giving all his attention to the wooden door. “Somewhere they won't be found 'til after tomorrow.”
Henry looked up and down the corridor. “Where?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Thorn whispered back. “Jus' do it. I'm gonna sneak in an' give this ta the target.” He patted the pouch of dust hanging on his belt.
“Reckon I should do it,” Henry opined. “Little bit quieter than you.”
“Aye but what if he wakes or somethin'? Name like Thunderfist I'm guessin' he's a big lad. Probably snap you in half.”
Henry snorted but bent down and grabbed the arm of one of the guards. “Anders, gimme a hand.”
“Right, of course.” Anders took one last look at Thorn, who was still paying the wooden door considerable attention, and then helped Henry drag the body away.
Thorn
Stealth was not one of Betrim's strongest skills; truth was it never had been. The Black Thorn had always been more of a blunt instrument designed to be used with a distinct lack of subtlety. That didn't mean he hadn't done a fair bit of sneaking about in his time. There was a knack to opening a door quietly and it involved a great deal of patience, something Betrim had in spades.
He pushed the solid lump of wood open with pain-staking severity until he could fit his head through; if the Thunderfist was still awake at this hour all pretence at stealth would have to be forgotten and Betrim could go back to his tried and tested method of hitting things hard in the face. The room was dim with a single candle burning low; close to guttering out on a small wooden table. Betrim could see a single wardrobe, a chest and behind the chest a single bed. A great lump of darkness lay sprawling on the bed; fully clothed, dark-skinned and snoring as loud as a roaring fire.
With a suppressed sigh Betrim pushed the door open wider and slipped into the room. It was the smell that hit him first; irritating to the nose and sharp in a way that made his eye twitch. It was an herb known as mint and Betrim knew some folk chewed it as a way to clear their noses and help them breathe easier. How any man could stand the taste if it was as bad as the smell Betrim could not figure. Personal taste aside he had a job to do and standing around sniffing at the air was not going to get it done. Without taking his eye from the unconscious mass on the bed Betrim crept closer.
When it came to sleeping Betrim knew there were two types of people; there were those who could fall asleep in an instant and would wake at the slightest noise, and there were those who took an age to drop off but who could sleep through a thunderstorm.
The Black Thorn had once known a man by the name of Millet the fourth; no one ever knew if there had been three other Millets before him, truth was no one had ever thought to ask. Now Millet had most definitely fit into the second category of sleepers. He'd been a hunter, and a successful one at that, but the Black Thorn and his crew at the time had happened upon the bounty hunters at night and decided to take no risks. The resulting battle had been loud enough to wake the dead but not Millet. The unlucky bastard had slept through the entire bloody affair. He'd only woken later when all his other hunters were dead. The crew had had their fun with the poor fellow before they killed him. Almost made Betrim wince to remember what they had done to him.
Oren Thunderfist, it seemed, was not a member of the deep sleepers. Before Betrim had gotten within three feet of the pit fighter his eyes snapped open and he flew out of the bed and straight at the Black Thorn.
One meaty hand grabbed Betrim by the neck and squeezed tight, the other wrestled with Betrim's right arm. Didn't take long for Betrim to realise he couldn't breathe with the Thunderfist's hand wrapped around his neck. The bigger man pushed the Black Thorn backwards and slammed him against a hard stone wall. Betrim pulled and pushed and wriggled and twisted his right arm but the pit fighter's strength was an indomitable force that held tight, locked him down. Betrim's left hand scratched at the hand around his neck; his three fingers tried to dig into flesh but it was no good. The Thunderfist's dark, almond-shaped eyes glared into Betrim's own eye with unrestrained malice.
