Chapter 8: Root of All Evil

Aergoth Xanthus tied the simple leather gauntlets around his wrist as he regarded the massive roomful of various types of weapons and armour that every pit-fighter and gladiator could take to use in their fights. Xanthus would have liked to be able to take advantage of some of the rusty half-plates or the sturdy suits of chainmail that hung on the racks along the walls, but he was too small in stature for the amour – and besides, wearing it would deny him his greatest advantage in the pits.

He had been fighting as a gladiator for many, many years – almost more than he could count, and his life as a free man seemed to be little more than a dream. He had wanted nothing more from his existence than to live as a simple farmer on his family's farm, and eke out his days in peace. Raise a family and grow crops. A humble request for life, but he had been denied even that.

The slavers had been on a brutal rampage, seeming more like marauding bandits than organised captors of men. They had targeted the farm, for it was far away from any particular centre of life, and had swept in, setting the house and barns alight to drive the family out. His mother and father had been slain, for they were old and of no use to the slavers, and so he, his sister, and his sister's husband had been taken. Xanthus' brother-in-law had always been a physically weak individual, and had been abandoned in the slavers' first stop to be used as petty bait for the beasts in the fighting ring. His sister had become withdrawn, not speaking to anyone, and before Xanthus could reach out to help her she had been sold in Calimshan to a noble family. As she was presumably to act as little more than a servant rather than be pushed towards the brutal fate he anticipated awaited him, he was quite thankful, although held no delusions of seeing her again.

Xanthus had then been on his own, quickly learning that you could not make friends when you were a pit-fighter, for they would die speedily, sometimes by your own blade if you were forced into the ring with them. The one person he had become even remotely close to in his imprisonment was the northern mage who had taught him a little magic, and he had been cut down after only a month, his chromatic orbs unable to save him from the sweep of a battleaxe.

And so Xanthus was alone, alive only by his skills and determination. Although there was a part of him, the quiet, humble farmer who had wanted nothing but a peaceful life, who begged him to stop staying alive and end his torment, Xanthus knew he had to keep fighting. For if he kept fighting, he would stay alive, and every day he lived he drew closer to freedom. Then, when he was free, he could pursue the new goal that gave him the fire to stay living each day – vengeance.

But one day at a time. He had been placed at the forefront of Ployer's pit fighters, and would be the most prestigious gladiator, winning the most respect if he won. That could lead to certain favours – he had seen it before with past captors – which he was sure he could exploit. He knew he'd never be granted his freedom, not when he had breath in him to keep winning gold, and so his liberation would have to be of his own means… but being Ployer's best and brightest would bring him a little closer to that step.

All he had to do was to keep winning and then maybe, just maybe, he could make it. All he had to do was to win today, then he was off.

Xanthus tightened the straps on the gauntlets. Whilst he knew they would be no use against a blade struck with any force, they could aid in deflection and could be quite useful in absorbing the bite of a beast's jaws, if it came to that. He had to be ready.

His blue-green eyes keenly studied the weapons rack, evaluating the blades expertly. Some had seen too many fights, and would break under any strain; others were unbalanced. Ployer would not offer his pit-fighters any weapons of any quality, for that would cost money. The fact that it would give his gladiators something of an advantage was irrelevant to the man – why, even if he bought a single blade the fighters could pass on after each round it would be better!

Eventually, Xanthus' eyes settled upon a hefty sword hidden behind a rack of axes, and he drew it out. Visibly a hand-and-a-half blade, it was finely balanced and seemed to be surprisingly sharp. Although he was unused to fighting with a sword of this size and weight, it was clearly a quality weapon that had somehow been dumped with the pile of rusty metal. Whilst a bastard sword was heavy, and could impede his speed – his main advantage in a fight – he had the strength to cope with it, and by its very nature it suited him, for it was a particularly versatile blade.

"This shall do," he mumbled under his breath, running a finger along the keen edge of the sword. "This shall do very nicely." Casting spells could be difficult whilst carrying this, but that was a problem that could be easily overcome.

As he was the last of Ployer's slaves to be fighting today at the Copper Coronet, there was nobody else in the armoury, save Warner who loitered around the door, keeping a watchful eye. The moment Xanthus was, in the half-orc's eyes, fully kitted up, he stepped forwards and placed a heavy hand on the gladiator's shoulder.

"It's your turn. Survive, win, and you just might not get fed slop tonight." Warner smiled a toothy grin which displayed all of his dental misfortunes and gave Xanthus an excellent whiff of his rotting meat-scented breath.

Before he knew what was happening, he was propelled through the door, physically dragged along a collection of corridors, then thrown at the bottom of a small flight of stairs that doubtless led to the arena, sore and beaten even before the fight had begun, struggling for breath.

Xanthus looked up at Warner, gripping his bastard sword firmly in a two-handed grip, and took a deep breath. "Who am I fighting?" he asked, nerves making his Rashemen accent so thick he was almost incomprehensible.

Warner shrugged as the doors leading to the pit swung open creakily. "Don't ask me; I'm just the doorman. One of the Coronet's own, I believe. Presumably the champion… Ployer's got high hopes for you. Now go!"

With the crack of Warner's whip ringing in his ears, Xanthus automatically propelled himself up the stairs, his mind racing through the limited number of spells he could use. Burning hands could be quite useful if he wanted to gain an early advantage, chromatic orb for a tough fight where he needed to even the odds, or the reliable magic missile for a tight situation…

He was not disappointed by what he saw once in the pit. Whilst the Coronet boasted one of the biggest arenas he had ever fought in, it was much the same as what he had seen before. The small amount of sand on the pit floor, and, stretching all around him, the stands of the audience.

And before him his opponent. The usual fare of a champion pit-fighter; massive, fully armoured, wearing one of those hideous helmets designed to inspire fear, and carrying a truly awesome flail that could turn Xanthus into a smear against the wall if he let it.

Now, flails… you can be good with them, because once they start their swing they can't change direction, and if you're fast enough, you can be out of the way. But with this big a flail, you need to make sure you never get hit. You need to be lucky all the time. He needs to be lucky just once.

Xanthus tightened his jaw as he stepped forwards, nodding a curt nod at the Coronet's champion. But Tymora has hardly been on my side so far, has she? I'd much rather rely on skill than her favour, with my record.

Ployer, in the most luxurious stand, watched Xanthus anxiously. So far, his new batch of slaves had done quite well – won some, lost some, and whilst it was a little bit better than usual it wasn't quite the rejuvenation of his glorious gladiators he had anticipated. Still, that fool Skorrid was mildly impressed, which was good enough to keep the Calimshite in the game for a while longer. And now had come the fighter who could make or break this…

Skorrid laughed out loud at the sight of Xanthus, then turned to Ployer with a broad grin. Skorrid, owner of the Copper Coronet and Master of the Pits, was a small, rat-like man with a shaved head and a distinct lack of any obvious redeeming features. But he was a fast talker, a skilled manipulator, and happened to run this side of Athkatla's underworld. "Damn, Geoffrey, I know you said he was a little guy, but you didn't say he was a midget! The Hammer will destroy him."

Ployer seethed quietly. The Hammer. What an unoriginal name. I suppose somebody with the limited mental capacity both he and his employer have makes that rather predictable, but still… "Don't call me Geoffrey," the baron hissed dangerously, narrowing his eyes at Skorrid. "And just wait and see. This boy is golden. He'll make my fortune," he continued in a whisper.

Indeed, Xanthus looked quite humorous opposite the massive Hammer. Whilst Xanthus was not, by normal stands, that small an individual, when he was constantly faced with giants of the pits he seemed so insignificant it was quite appalling. But Ployer had decided, for once, to place some fate in one of his possessions. Xanthus was skilled and a novelty; that could be worth the world in the pits.

And Ployer needed the world. His trading business was going downhill, which didn't usually affect his underworld economics, but at this moment he had been relying on the Calimshan bases to supply him with funds. The Seawolf's delivery of slaves had not come cheap, and until they started earning him some money he was rather reliant upon legitimate sources of income. That took time, and a slump in the south's economics was proving a little disastrous. A win today would not solve anything, either, merely place him on the road to more wins. He needed a quick solution.

Then the bell rang once to signify the beginning of the fight, and as a roar went up from the crowd Ployer felt himself get swept away in the adrenaline of the pits, the rush he felt every time one of his slaves was fighting rising, and he forgot mundane matters such as gold and wealth.

Unknown to him, not ten metres away stood a man and a woman who would come to him as the salvation he sought, but silently bearing an end to his tyranny and greed. And he would welcome them with outstretched hands; them and their kin.