Chapter 5: Down Under
Baron Ployer looked around the converted cellars of his grand house in Athkatla's Government District with an air of something approaching glee. Although he was not new to the slaving business, it always filled him with something of a thrill when he embarked on a new venture with fresh blood, so to speak.
The slaves he had bought from the Seawolf would most certainly require a little training – unlike most slavers in Athkatla, Ployer knew that the key to an entertaining fight was not simply allowing them to be slaughtered by trolls. The audience wanted human against human with blade and bone, and would hardly be entertained by a pair of gritty men rolling around brutishly. They could go and start a bar-room brawl if they wanted to see that kind of fight. No, Ployer specialised in bringing unusual entertainment of a more specialised kind to the upper classes.
The cellars of his mansion had changed from being a place to store wine to being a place to train men and women on how to kill each other. Rows upon rows of cells greeted him in the massive cellar, and as he walked down the corridor they presented, he could feel the eyes of the slaves on him. He could feel the hate, the anger, the desire for vengeance.
Ployer smiled a little as he walked past the cells, the depth of emotion washing over him. It was good; good that they felt like this. When the slaves were so pent-up, so furious and tense, it generally released itself in the arena. The greatest pit fighters of all were the ones with the most anger.
At the end of the dozen or so cages, Ployer had had his employees construct an arena not too dissimilar to the pits of the Copper Coronet, the top spot for showing off his fighters. The trainers, most of them retired Amnish guards, were going through the moves with some of the more receptive slaves, showing them the ropes. Some had skills already.
In a larger cage to the side of the arena, a pair of slaves fought viciously. One was small and wiry, using his smaller size to dodge the powerful blows of his opponent, who was a huge man wielding a rather large and dangerous-looking axe.
Although the first man was darting around frantically, giving the odd fierce jab with his short sword, it was the larger fighter who seemed tired, his dark skin shining with a coat of sweat as he swung futilely at his opponent.
The fight seemed grossly mismatched. The giant wore a ragged set of chainmail, and his axe was almost as big as the smaller man, who had little more than his tiny blade and rags of clothing held together by leather straps. Yet somehow, the undersized fighter was holding his own.
Ployer meandered over towards where Warner stood by the cell door, avidly watching the fight. In addition to being a personal servant and bodyguard, the half-orc was also a highly skilled trainer and warrior himself.
"Warner," the baron started, his voice low and mildly inquisitive. "May I just ask why you have a giant against a midget? The whole point of this enterprise is that the fights aren't grossly uneven."
Warner turned to his employer, his expression as blank as usual. Ployer didn't realise his servant was sharper than he let on, however, for it suited the half-orc to appear confounded by anything complicated. "Sorry, sir. I just think the crowds will be entertained when they see the little guy beat the big guy."
Ployer frowned, and was about to press further when there was a bellow of victory from inside the cage. The larger, dark-skinned fighter had flipped his opponent onto his back, and was about to bring his axe down in a blow that would split his skull.
Panic filled the baron. But… we don't want to have them killed off yet! They must be trained, must die in the pits! Otherwise, they're worth absolutely nothing! Yet, before he could call out, something very unexpected happened.
At the last second, the tiny fighter rolled out of the way, allowing the axe to deflect noisily off the cobbled floor. Before a second blow could arrive, however, the small slave's hands moved speedily, and he seemed to be mumbling something under his breath.
As Ployer watched, incredulous, five small red arcane bolt shot from the small fighter's fingers and hit his opponent full in the face. The giant bellowed in pain as the spellcaster leapt to his feet and, with frightening speed, whirled his blade around to smash him in the face with the hilt, knocking him into unconsciousness.
The small warrior dropped his sword to the floor and turned to the door of the cell as Ployer started to clap slowly. "Very impressive… very impressive," the baron applauded him. "Clever to keep your magic hidden until the end, as a secret resource."
"Yes… it is," the other man said, approaching the baron. His none-too-deep voice had a slightly eastern lilt to it, the accent reminding Ployer of a Thayvian he had once met… but not quite.
"You're from Rashemen, aren't you?" the aristocrat asked lightly, taking the keys from Warner to unlock the cell door. He had nothing to fear from the slave – the man was clearly sensible enough to realise that any attempted attack, arcane or physical, would bring instant death from the guards.
"I am. Travelling slavers captured me, then I was sold to the pirates who brought me to you," the small man explained, shrugging. Despite his relatively quiet and courteous tone, there was a fire in his eyes Ployer found a little unnerving. As an escape, he glanced over at where Warner was dragging the giant away.
"What is your name, you who are skilled in both blades and magic?" the baron asked him at last, still not making eye contact, seemingly supervising his manservant in the disposal of the unconscious slave.
The small man started to pace slowly, and Ployer was oddly reminded of a panther he'd once seen at a zoo when he was a boy. Trapped in its cage, it had done nothing but weave back and forth, seemingly glaring at any visitor who approached. At the tender age of six, the young Ployer had been absolutely terrified by the panther. He repressed something of a shiver. He had to remain implacable. He needed to be merciless.
"Aergoth Xanthus," was the eventual reply in that same foreign accent with the quiet and courteous tone. Though there was not a hint of sarcasm to be found anywhere, and Xanthus' face was impassive, Ployer had the distinct feeling he was being mocked. Blue-green eyes flared under a mop of blonde hair as he finally regained eye contact with the slave.
"And what did you do in Rashemen? Something quite particular if you can wield a sword like that as well as cast magic," the baron said, noticing that Warner locked the cell door shut behind him, leaving the slave locked in the larger cave. He really needed to pay more attention to the workings of his own business – if he had, he'd have noticed this man sooner.
"Nothing special. I was a farmer," Aergoth answered, shrugging slightly. Ployer slowly realised that the slave hadn't shown any emotion so far, not even at the height of the battle. Yet his eyes were very much alive, and flaring quite dangerously. "I learnt how to fight with the slavers. A captured mage taught me a little magic." He shrugged again. "I don't have enough innate ability to become an archmage or such, but I can use a spell in times of need."
Ployer thought quickly. His first fight with his new selection was at the Copper Coronet tomorrow. He'd have to make a good impression on that rat Skorrid if he wanted to be able to continue to bring his fighters there.
The baron turned to Warner, who was now supervising some of the training of the unskilled slaves down in the massive pit. "Put this man on the itinerary for tomorrow!" he called down to the manservant.
The half-orc looked up brutishly. "What place, boss – uh, milord?" he asked, intentionally slipping in the obligatory blunder required of someone with his supposedly limited mental strength.
"Last, of course. I want him fighting the Coronet's best," Ployer snapped impatiently. "That fool Skorrid will have no choice but to accept my fighters as regular appearances at his tavern once the audience see this man."
Warner gave a toothy smile. "It's already done boss. I put him on when you told me to take care of the i-tin-er-ary…"
The baron gave his servant a bright yet thoroughly patronising smile. "You, Warner, are a very clever man," he declared, in a tone a stupid half-orc wouldn't be able to understand was sarcastic. Warner, being a not-so-stupid half-orc, got the message perfectly, and questioned Ployer's parentage under his breath as his employee strode off.
Xanthus had been listening to the exchange in silence, and only as Ployer left did he allow himself to slide to the floor of his large cell – this was technically the sparring cage, so he'd probably have to be up for another session in a few minutes – with a groan of fatigue, grimacing.
The slave massaged his aching limbs, closing his eyes. Using even a little magic took a bit out of him – he didn't have the natural ability wizards had of being able to cope with that kind of arcane power. He wished he hadn't had to use it, but some of Ployer's gladiators who had been there a long time had become a little psychotic – he was fully aware that his skill would have been split in two had he not resorted to his magic.
He grimaced, leaning against the wall. Ployer had sucked all of the humanity out of those slaves, but this son of Rashemen would not allow himself to be destroyed in that way. He would not become a monster, an empty shell.
But as he looked at himself, Aergoth Xanthus realised the humble farmer he had once been died a long, long time before he had come under the ownership of Baron Geoffrey Ployer.