Chapter 15: Champions

The regular patrons of the Copper Coronet's less legal activities were very much connoisseurs of the pit fighting business. They knew which fighters to place bets on, and how much; could calculate the suitable odds in their heads and generally were quite able to evaluate the best way of winning a lot of money on the gladiators. They weren't used to surprises – they liked their favourites, and they liked things to be comfortable.

Which is why the arrival of Baron Geoffrey Ployer's latest champion was met with mixed reactions. Some cursed the Rashemani for losing them money, so sulked and had little more to do with the Copper Coronet's pit fighting. But the majority tagged on to him, accepted the diminutive gladiator as their new champion, and thus the crowd's response to him was overwhelming in the final fight with the top gladiator of another independent slaver – Lord Mayberry, who had been pushed aside by Skorrid in favour of Ployer for the pit fighting contract, and was fairly desperate to have his own gladiator win.

Aergoth Xanthus stood in the middle of the ring of the Coronet, his bastard sword in one hand as he moved it almost lazily through a few swings around his body, trying to get his tired muscles to get a feel for the weight of the blade before the fight. He ached all over from the constant training as Ployer pushed him to be able to win this final fight, but knew that even if he was victorious now there was no guarantee of rest any time in the near future. Unless his Harper friends delivered on their promise.

He smiled thinly as he considered the pair that had given him this idea of freedom, a rather elusive concept at the best of times. They seemed fairly idealistic, and he wasn't going to place all faith in them… but he could hope. They seemed to know what they were doing.

Yet at the back of his mind, Xanthus somehow knew that they would fail. That they could not free him.

The metal grate on the far side of the arena opened up, and although his opponent was not inside, he could see a long shadow approaching the entrance, seeming hulking and huge until around the corner came… a well armoured dwarf.

Xanthus laughed, but it was a laugh born of nerves and an attempt to calm himself. He didn't underestimate dwarves. They could be the most dangerous foes on Faerûn if you gave them the chance, and in their fury they were quite hard to handle. They also liked to get up close, and for the Rashemani gladiator's fighting style, this was death. This gave him a double advantage if he could keep his distance… if.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" hollered a voice from the main stand to his left, in which stood Skorrid, the speaker, his young son Lehtinan, Baron Ployer and Lord Mayberry, the latter two with distinctly anxious expressions on their faces. "The fight you've all been waiting for… presented to you by the one and only Copper Coronet… Baron Ployer's Aergoth Xanthus versus Lord Mayberry's Darrok Splithammer!"

A roar went up from the crowd, and a few boos. Xanthus had heard of this Splithammer – a very psychotic dwarf with the traditional penchant for axes. He tightened his two-handed grip on the bastard sword. This was likely a fight where he'd need more than physical skills…

He was jerked out of his planning as the bell rang, loud and clear, above his head, and the dwarf – probably the only opponent Xanthus had ever fought who was shorter than he was – charged forwards. Into the fray.

* *

"Argh!" Xanthus screamed with pain as he writhed on the floor of his temporary cell in the Copper Coronet, clutching at his leg as Warner did his best to pin the small gladiator down and a cleric of Talos attempted to force a healing potion down his throat.

"Drink, damn it, man! And stop screaming," the cleric barked, grabbing Xanthus' nose and forcing the pit fighter to gulp on the light blue liquid. In the silence where the Rashemani was drinking and not screaming, his struggles stopped and Warner was eventually able to release him. The cleric pulled away the bottle as an ugly gash in Xanthus' leg healed itself slowly, and the two men strode out, leaving the gladiator panting on the floor.

Xanthus sat up slowly, hurriedly ripping his bloodied trousers so as to see the wound better… and collapsed again with a sigh as he saw only pink, healthy flesh. The memory of the hard metal of the axe biting into his leg was vivid, and made him wince as the pain echoed in his head. He had been lucky.

"Where is he? He's alright? I have a lot of money invested in that boy, so help me Bhaal if that dwarven bastard has…" Xanthus lifted his head slowly as Ployer appeared in front of the cell, followed by his two investors, the baron wringing his hand nervously.

Xanthus did his best not to sneer at the Calimshite, completely unmoved by his concern as he sat up slowly. "I'm quite alive, thank you very much," he mumbled, clambering to his feet. "Well, just."

Ployer looked outraged as Darial, whose face only Xanthus could see in the gloom, hid a smirk. "How could this have happened? How! Next time, my boy, I'll have you wearing the finest armour I can…"

"If I'd been wearing the finest armour, your lordship, the gash in my leg might have been better but I'd certainly be dead and defeated instead of battered and victorious. Metal doesn't do much for a magic missile, you know," Xanthus reminded the Calimshite dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Ployer hesitated. "Ah, well, yes, I suppose." There was a pause. "Impressive fight, though. I thought it was over until you…" His voice trailed off and he gestured vaguely. "Zapped the dwarf. Very impressive. Perhaps I should get a mage in, get your magical skills a bit more finely tuned?"

Xanthus shrugged. "That could work. Every little bit helps, and the more advantages I have… right now, I deal in nothing but simple magic which any apprentice mage can handle. Yet I shall leave finding a wizard here in Athkatla… up to you."

Ployer smiled a wry and slightly oily smile. "You've done very well, my boy. No more fights for a week or so, I believe, but we'll be training you hard. But you've made me a very rich man today, boy. So much that I'm in your debt. Ask for a favour… any favour… and you shall have it. Within reason of course!"

A favour, hmm? Xanthus raised an eyebrow. Freedom? Ha, very funny. A new sword? Clothes that aren't falling off?

Before he could come up with a fairly frivolous request for something that would do nothing more than make his life moderately more comfortable for only a day, as Xanthus was quite aware of what Ployer meant by 'within reason' – anything that didn't cost more than ten gold, Warner appeared from the shadows of the cells area.

"Mister Skorrid would like a word with you, milord," the half-orc intoned gravely, nodding back towards the entrance, where the bright light seemed almost blinding in contrast with the gloom of where they stood.

"Ah! Excellent, excellent…" Ployer turned to go, giving Xanthus a brief sideways glance. "Just think about the request, my friend. Anything you desire," he promised vaguely before following his manservant down the corridor, leaving only a handful of the other jail attendants and his two investors behind.

Darial surreptitiously stepped up to the bars of the cell. "Nice fight. Ask for a courtesan," she hissed, hardly making eye contact and looking perfectly inconspicuous to any passing employees of Ployer.

"What?"

"Just do it," the bard insisted, nodding firmly. "And make it tonight. Ployer can't refuse that."

Xanthus frowned incredulously, then did his best to mask his expression as a jailer passed. They waited for a moment in silence. "What do I do from there?"

"She'll tell you," Darial replied casually.

"She'll –"

"Ah, we should probably get going," Belgrade intervened, stiffly putting an arm around Darial's shoulder and pulling her away until she elbowed him discreetly in the ribs and jerked him back into the world of convincing acting. "There's… much to do." He smiled an impressively oily smile at Xanthus as they retreated. "Remember… just ask. The man will do anything for you. You're his champion."