Clash of Heroes: Nath Dragon meets The Darkslayer (9 page)

CHAPTER 22

There was little light in the dungeon that hosted Nath aside from a lone torch on the wall where the last guard who had woken him departed. Sitting in the dank dimness, he was alone aside from some rats bigger than his feet, hungry, and in deep thought. The only things he wore were his boots and trousers. The air wasn’t cold, but he still shivered.

Fire. Fire from my mouth. How did I do that?

Things weren’t adding up for Nath, but something familiar about himself seemed to be trying to claw its way to the surface. Something deeper about who he was? Those flames that had gushed from his mouth. He could still see the people’s panic-stricken faces. Some of them had caught fire. An entire building had burned, and it was all because of him.

Perhaps I
am
a fiend? Perhaps those vile, drunken sots had it coming?

Nath might not have had a clue about who he was, but he wasn’t stupid. If he was from some other local race as told by Oran, someone there should have understood that. The scales should have at least been normal. Familiar.

No, these people have never seen a person like me. What an indecent bunch. It probably would have been best if this entire city burned down.

He tried to reach Oran. The thick metal collar only seemed to constrict even tighter. He gave up on the thought. Stomach growling, he wrestled with his chains. Rats nipped at his toes and elbows. He kicked at them.

I bet this is what captured underlings go through. Torment. Suffering. And all at the hands of dirty debauchers. What a foolish thing of me to do.

Leaning against a moldy, slime-coated wall, he reflected on where he’d been. The tavern had given up some helpful information. So keen were his senses that he’d picked up on conversations held in low voices. There was talk of underlings. Men paid for their scalps. Their colorful eyes. There was fear and reverence in the hard voices. Some men wouldn’t talk about the underlings and left the table. But it was clear: men—bold men, fierce fighters—hunted the underlings for money.

Nothing but madness in this violent world.

The main dungeon door creaked on its hinges, and new light spilled into the room. Orcen guards in heavy armor escorted another. The man, or creature rather, towered over his guards, firm in build with a head big enough for two. He wore a vest that half covered his broad, hairy chest, and his trousers had seen too many days.

Nath’s nose twitched.

He stinks like manure. Not sure, but I think he’s part ogre.

An orc guard banged his battle axe on the bars to Nath’s cell. “Stand in the presence of Royalty.”

Unsure why he obeyed, Nath pushed up against the wall and into a standing position. He blew the hair out of his eyes. “Can I help you?”

A second orc guard jammed his spear butt through the bars and stuck him in the ribs. Nath doubled over and took a knee.

Sultans of Sulfur! Don’t forget you don’t have that breastplate on anymore!

Coughing, he rose again. “Sorry, I was just trying to be helpful.”

The orc struck again.

Nath twisted away. Still shackled, he dodged the next few attempts.

“Stop,” the ogre growled. “You, be still.” The ogre’s big yellow eyes were glued on Nath’s ebony-scaled arms. Finally, the ogre said, “Why did you burn my tavern down? Why did you kill my people?”

Nath could have been reasonable, but something about these people just stuck in his craw. “I was doing you a favor.”

The ogre clutched the bars with his huge hands. “You owe me a tavern. You owe me new guards. How do you intend to pay?”

“Well, in case you haven’t heard, I’m an excellent lute player. Funny, but that’s kinda what started the whole thing. You see, I was playing the lute, to the delight of the crowd, when—”

“Silence! Farc does not like humor. Farc does not like you!”

“Who is Farc?” Nath asked.

Glaring at Nath, the half ogre said, “I am Farc, the Pit Master.”

“Oh, so this is your pit?”

“This is not the Pit.”

Looking around, Nath said, “Are you sure?”

Farc’s canine teeth popped out from his jutting lip, and he shook his bullish head. “You have a clever mouth like the humans. Scales like underling spawn or black lizards. And you make fire, they say, with your mouth. What are you?”

There it was again. Oran said Nath was from a race of men who were being hunted down. This half ogre, Farc, had no idea what he was.

But Nath had a question of his own. “What do you think I am?”

The coarse-haired orc showed a cruel smile. “Tonight’s entertainment.” He stuck his hand through the bars, turned his fist over, and dropped something. He and the orcs covered their mouths with rags. A little ball of glass shattered on the floor, and colorful blue mist with many shades puffed out.

Hands bound behind his back, Nath was helpless against the mystic smoke that enveloped him. He choked and coughed, yet the vapor raced into his lungs. His eyes became heavy, his taunt limbs loosened, and he sagged onto the dungeon stones like a slumbering child with a head full of nightmares.

CHAPTER 23

The Pit. Brutal. Hostile. Final.

Venir and company stood inside the arena, crammed in with rank and sweaty bodies. The underground battle yard was packed full of all the races, mixed and full, that Two-Ten City had to offer. Wooden bench seats circled a great iron cage made from crisscrossed bars. The cage rose thirty feet in height, and inside was a pit carved from stone ten feet deep and thirty feet in width and girth. It was Two-Ten City’s precious gem, where fighters of all kinds came from all over Bish to battle, some of their own free will and others without a choice.

“Oooooh!” the crowd shouted. “Ahhhhh!”

The bloodthirsty thrill seekers watched with hungry gleams in their eyes as a rangy warrior in robes and a long brown ponytail chased some desperate and gimpy orcs around the arena. The orcs attacked. The man, fluid as water, locked up their arms and shattered their elbows. His fast feet busted their knees, and a hard chop busted their throats. The orcs pleaded for mercy but got death instead. Within seconds, the orcs lay dead at the man’s feet and the crowd started chanting.

“Gaul! Gaul! Gaul!”

The man raised his long arms, turned to a particular group of individuals in their own section of seats, and bowed. It was the Royals of Two-Ten City, a dozen men and women, part orc and part ogre—a foul mixed breed that ran things in the destitute and southern city. One of them in fanciful robes, layered in heavy jewels and gold, gave a nod. Two orc guards opened up a gate at the top of the pit, and the warrior, Gaul, climbed out, smiled, waved, and departed to the chants of the crowd.

“Gaul! Gaul! Gaul!”

“Do we really need to be here?” Melegal said to Venir.

“Say what?” said Mikkel. “Are you telling me you’ve soured to the Pit fights too, Melegal?”

“I’m tired of all of it.”

Brawny arms crossed, Venir said, “Then you shouldn’t have clocked that stranger over the head if you didn’t want to get involved.”

“Surely you jest. If I hadn’t acted, the blame for that entire incident would have fallen on us,” Melegal argued. “The Royals—”

“They aren’t Royals,” Venir said. “They’re anything but.”

“Yeah,” Mikkel agreed.

“No, but they run the show around here, and it wouldn’t kill us to be in better favor while we’re here. It’s their coin that feeds our vices now, and face it, Venir. They don’t like you. They don’t like most humans. We’re tolerated at best.”

Billip squeezed his way into the discussion. “They seem to like Gaul. He’s one of the finest fighters I ever saw.”

“Gaul the Tormentor?” Mikkel said. “Are you jesting, Billip? He fights the walking wounded. The fallen out of favor. He’s just an entertainer.”

“Then
you
challenge him,” Billip said.

“Why would I do that?”

Cracking his knuckles, Billip replied, “So Melegal and I can make some money off you.”

“Aw,” Mikkel smiled, “so you’re going to bet on me.”

“Bet against ya,” Melegal said.

Shaking his head, Mikkel said, “You are cold, Melegal. And here I always thought you had my back.”

Shrugging his narrow shoulders, Melegal said, “I’m a businessman first and a friend somewhere further down the ladder.”

As the men bantered back and forth, Venir kept his eyes fixed on the Pit. The dead bodies were hauled out and another body was lowered in. It was a man, covered from head to toe in sackcloth. A pair of halflings, one with brown hair and the other black, accompanied the big body inside. They tore the sackcloth away and then climbed out of the cage like monkeys. On the hard, bloodstained floor lay the man with black scales and flamelike hair. Slowly, the raucous crowd fell silent.

“That’s him,” Mikkel said in Venir’s ear with mild astonishment. “He really does have scales. I’ve never seen anything like it. You two jokers weren’t lying.”

The murmurings and whispers started among the crowd.

“Fiend.”

“Demon.”

“Underling.”

“Mage.”

“And you took that big fella down, Melegal?” Mikkel said with perched brows, “I’d better be a little more careful around you.”

“Yes, you should be.”

Venir shook his head. “I’m far from convinced that he did the right thing. So what if the scaled man killed an orc and burnt a half built tavern down? Many of these denizens are former brigands.”

“Sometimes, I think you just like to disagree with me,” Melegal said.

Venir looked down at him. “Says a thief shaming the pickpocket.”

A monstrous half ogre stood up from the seats where all of the Royals sat. He was powerfully built, covered in coarse black hair, and wearing a dark-blue vest that looked too small for his huge chest. He raised his arms and spoke in a thunderous voice over the crowd.

“Two-Ten City! We have a reaver. A deceiver. A murderer. An arsonist. A trickster.” He pointed at the man in the cage. “He must be dealt with!”

The pack of thrill seekers erupted into deafening cheers.

“Silence!”

Mikkel nudged Venir in the ribs. “Old Farc ought to get in there,” he said about the talking part-ogre. “I bet that would be a fight. I can’t wait to see who he puts in there. We know it won’t be Gaul though. Now, are you sure he breathes fire? Because I want to see some fire.”

Venir nodded. He was just as curious as anyone. A large, fire-breathing, cat-quick fighter with scales on his arms was in the Pit.

Farc glowered down at his guards. “Wake him up.”

Taking a long metal rod out of a fiery cauldron, an orc in a leather chestplate blew on the hot, glowing orange end. He stretched it into the cage and poked the stranger in the back of his ribs. He jumped wildly in the air. Clutching at the burn in his side, he spun slowly around the Pit with his golden eyes wide.

Farc then said, “Send in the scrappers!”

From one of the tunnels, a knot of bare-chested brutes emerged, pumping crude clubs into the air, elating the crowd. Like hungry apes, they climbed up the bars of the cage, moseyed over the irons, and climbed down a rope lowered into the Pit through the trap door. There were five in all, mix blooded, long haired, with tattoos and brands all over. The guards slammed the door shut. The arena became a frenzy.

“Time to make some wagers,” Melegal said to Venir. “Time to make plenty.”

CHAPTER 24

Nath fingered the nasty burn in his side. He smelled the stink of his own singed flesh. His shock from the loud gathering behind the iron bars dissipated and turned into a smoldering fury within. The unruly gathering wanted his blood, and for what? He pushed his hair out of his eyes and watched the men crawling down the rope. As the last one dropped to the ground, the rope was hauled up, and the cage’s trap door closed. The chanting began.

“Scrappers! Scrappers! Scrappers!”

Overlooking the cage, a balcony sprouted out that held a host of colossal onlookers. One of them was the part ogre that had spoken to him in the dungeon cell. The rest of them were pretty much one and the same, but dressed in exquisite clothes that did nothing to enhance their uncomely faces. The half ogre, Farc, pointed across the room, where a black-bearded dwarf held a leather-headed mallet in front of a man-sized gong.

That dwarf seems familiar somehow, for some reason.

Farc stretched his mighty arms over his head. The scrappers circled around Nath: sweaty, oily men who moved more like beasts, smacking their clubs into their hands. Farc’s hands came down.

BONG!

Every scrapper converged and swung at Nath. Knees bent, he leapt high above the fray. The crowd gasped as he came down again and stuffed one man into the ground. A club found his back. His legs. His arms.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The brawny, tattooed men were relentless. Savage. Murderous.

“I’m not a baby,” Nath said. He spun away from one blow and backhanded another man in the face. Moving faster than the scrappers were thinking, he twisted club after club away and smote their onrushing bodies square in the face.

Clok! Clok! Clok!

Skulls cracked. Hardened men fell. Nath didn’t let up until he prevailed. Temper ignited, he stuffed their clubs and his fists into their bellies until they were down. One struggled to rise. Nath clocked him hard in the back of the head. The scrapper fell face first with a
thud
.

The arena was silent. Eyes were wide. Jaws dropped open. Nath tossed the club away and said up to Farc, “Who wants to dance next?” He pointed at Farc. “How about you, big man?”

Farc yelled down in the cage. “You dare call me man!”

“Apologies,” Nath smiled, “let me rephrase. How about you, big woman?”

The arena burst out in laughter.

Glaring at the audience, Farc let out a loud grunt, and the horde fell silent. Somewhere, someone giggled. “You taunt me! No more games! You pay!” He clapped his hands. “Bring out the cutters!”

“Hold on a moment, your grand ugliness!” Nath shouted over the throng. “If this is some sort of contest, what do I get if I am victorious?”

“You will not be victorious!” Farc said. “You will die!”

Nath lifted his brows a few times. “What if I don’t die? Freedom?”

Sneering, Farc motioned to the ilk behind him. “We will decide.”

“I say let the crowd de—”

“We will decide! Where in Bish are my cutters?”

From down in the tunnel, a murmuring arose. Two ogres strolled down the walkway, one after the other. They both looked like the one from the smithy, standing nearly eight feet tall. They wore chain-mail armor that covered their knees, and they moved like two men in one. To the thrill of the crowd, the lumbering brutes with heavy eyes climbed up the cage. The first one hopped in and landed flat on the back of a scrapper.

Crack!

The second cutter did the same.

Crack!

With the callousness of hungry wolves, they kicked the broken bodies aside and leered at Nath.

Throat tightening, Nath swallowed. Oft times, great size negated speed, but though the ogres seemed to move slowly, they were agile even with the armor. He eyed their weapons. Each ogre had one good hand and fingers, and on the other hand there was a big razor-sharp blade. The ogre on the left picked up a dead man by the neck, gutted him, and tossed him away.

Shaking his head, Nath turned his nose away. “You can toss down my weapon anytime now.”

“You can use your fire!” Farc said. He pointed at the black-bearded dwarf.

BONG!