For the first time in weeks, Mat'tock's stomach felt truly full. His head swam from the heady applications of liquor, and the Monarch's excellent beer. He found himself the topic of conversation; from which other conversations spun off.
When Mat'tock told of the tragedy of his parents' passing,
Tol'brek confirmed his orphanage. It was a rare condition, considered not only unfortunate, but also somehow mysterious and exotic.
He'd grown up on the streets of 'Constant Bellows' "Tears of the Mother", learning first to steal his food, and then to secretly fight for it, in the most distant tunnels and alleyways.
Being the only dayport belonging to the MountainHome, it was visited by all manner of exotic folk, and a vast arena, the famous 'Iron Bowl', had been constructed in the heart of the sprawling citadel.
They only accepted men into the arena who'd reached their hundredth year, but Tol'brek had entered at 85 with forged papers and lies about his age. Not having parents proved an advantage: there were no records to confirm or deny his birthyear.
The sort of streetfighting he'd done before was not only outlawed, but required hefty bribes from the winners. Here was a chance to perform the skills and talents he was best suited for, legitimately and profitably, and for thirty-seven years he'd gladly fought for the entertainment of vast crowds, rising to the status of Champion.
Men under the 'Law of the MountainHome' were not allowed to kill other men, intentionally, except for those of Royal blood, who could either perform executions themselves, or appoint Hammerers from the Noble class--it was a Law, both under the Mountainhome, and across all the land from sea to sea, fire to sky.
Foreigners and other species were exempt, and could be slain, although this was frowned upon in the Arena, and would result in penalties.
(Killing a woman, ofcourse, was an unthinkable crime, as was killing a child. Even accidental deaths of this type were typically punished by Hammering, unless the family of the slain forgave the circumstances.)
There were rules to enforce the Law, one of which was that if three accidental deaths of men occurred in the career of a fighter, that fighter would be barred. It was in his 123rd year that Tol'brek had had the misfortune of being pitted against a young Noble, eager to prove his mettle to a female. Tol'brek-being a professional-did all he could to extend the Game and make the Noble look good, but the young man had slipped on the sand and scraped his knee in the mock struggle.
It was a minor thing, and the poor fool hadn't gone to see his family's Lord Physician about it until it was well and truly infected. Even after they'd removed his leg, the sepsis had advanced...It was an agonizing death, and his lover had been infuriated. Two others had died in the Arena during Tol'brek's carreer, and she'd demanded that the Noble's death count as a third. The Arena managers had been sympathetic, but there was little they could do. They were kind enough to send him off with a whole month's wages, and that and his own savings were enough for Tol'brek to form an expedition and set off on his journey.
He'd left the Games with Carbuncle, the Monarch, and his family. Both men had proved themselves in the Games, but as foreigners, it was a risky business. A few other gladiators had accompanied the group, but one left after a year, and the other was killed defending 'RingingDeep' from the worst of the monsters they'd encountered--an undead Cyclops.
Tol'brek promised to show Mat'tock the site of the battle on the morning, as he wanted to visit his friend's grave.
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Topic: The Birth of an Artifact (Read 20230 times)