“Boss, Varick’s back!”
Barefoot, the overweight pit boss struggled to yank up his pantlegs while sitting on a stool. He lightly touched his swollen big toe. The nine hells with this damn gout, he thought, taking another drink from a deer-skinned sack filled with ale from a nearby table. If the god Undgari had any mercy, his ravens would take this pain away. However, he then looked at his whip hooked to his leather belt. If not, I will take it out on Varick later tonight. He glanced at the prison cells full of pit fighters. Each would earn him ample gold for tonight’s games. The burial fee he charged was where he really made his profit. He reasoned there was no need to hire a crew to bury anyone when ravenous crag wolves were in the wild. His customers, noble men and women slumming it, well-to-do merchants, and degenerate gamblers would soon arrive with the caravan train and their gold-filled pouches.
“Good, the suppliers brought us an extra treat then. I knew Bal’Taz would never be able to manage that beast. Heave him in with all the others, and then get him ready for the pit fights. Our cash cow is back.”
“No boss, you don’t understand. Varick’s loose. He killed everyone on the supply train.”
The pit boss looked to his lieutenant, whose massive amount of hair was pulled back tight in a bun. Two large gold rings pierced his nose. “Our customers?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“What about our guards?”
“Them too.”
“What’s Varick doing back here then?”
“I think he means to kill us, boss.”
“What? Get the pit fighters armed and have them stop him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss.”
“Why?
“He’s freeing them.”
Nearby, loud whispers came from a large prisoner-holding cell.
“Shut up!” the pit boss bellowed.
The murmurs continued. Then a solo prisoner began to slowly chant, “Varick, Varick, Varick!”
“I said, shut up!” the pit boss bellowed and pulled his whip. Pointing to the chanter, he yelled, “Whoever kills that man gets a full food ration!”
A second inmate added his voice. “Varick, Varick, Varick!” Then another and another.
Clashes of metal upon metal, along with death screams, bounced off the walls in the distance.
“What do we do boss?”
There was only one way in and out of the Rirorni fighting mine. The pit boss looked around the room and up the rock tunnel with its wooden supports spaced every thirty paces. Torches provided a perpetual gloom, exacerbated by the smells of animals and unwashed people, while the death scream grew closer.
“Take your short sword. There’s a small alcove right past the entrance of this room. A blind spot. Hide in there, and when Varick passes, I’ll distract him, and you do the knife work on his back.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
As the pit boss’ lieutenant moved into hiding, the prisoner chant grew to a fever pitch. He snarled and threatened them with his rolled lash, but it did nothing to silence the din. A large shadow, with many more behind him, could be seen and heard coming down the dimly lit tunnel. An auditable, meaty ‘thunk’ came from the gloom.
The chanting stopped. Silence followed.
From the tunnel, an object rolled. It trailed blood. It stopped near the pit boss’s feet—a severed head. A mass of hair covered its face. Pushing aside some of it, he noticed a metal’s glint. The nose rings of his lieutenant. Grey, dead eyes stared into nothing with a confused look on his face.
From the tunnel, a man, the size of a small mountain, emerged. He wore a set of finely crafted leather armor covered in gore. A head taller than the pit boss with shoulders twice as broad. He held a bloody greatsword with two backup long swords strapped to his back.
“Varick,” the pit boss stuttered in dread.
A dozen or more armed pit fighters fanned into the room behind Varick, glaring at him with hatred.
Varick walked up to and towered over the pit boss. He planted his great sword into the dirt next to him, which reverberated back and forth from the power. He then took the whip from him. He noticed Varick’s hands were still chained together. Varick tossed the whip into a nearby fire. Staring down at the pit boss, he held out his shackled hands and said, “Keys.”
The pit boss fumbled at the ring latch onto his belt. Then, with a wide, pleasant smile, he unlocked Varick’s chains, which fell to the ground. Rubbing his wrists, Varick took the keys, tossed them to the freed fighters behind him, and nodded toward the cell with the nearby prisoners. After several tries, they found the correct key and unlocked the central cell. The prisoners filtered out and began to pick up weapons from racks around the room. The mass of men surrounded the pit boss and Varick. They snarled and murmured ugly curses toward their jailer.
“I freed you. Don’t kill me,” pleaded the pit boss. “The gods have already deemed fit to curse me. I have gout!”
“For removing the shackles, I will provide you one kindness. I will not kill you,” Varick replied. He looked over his shoulder, leaned in close, and said, “Now is a good time to run.”
The pit boss stammered as confusion, and then realization spread across his face, looking at the angry mob. He began to waddle and limp up the ramp.
After an unsettling moment, the mob yelled various war cries and chased after the lumbering man.
Varick grabbed one of the freed prisoners. “There is a woman in a red robe caged at the entrance. Araminth Goldeneye. After dealing with the pit boss, have her brought down here. She is not to be touched.”
“Yes, Varick.”
As he left, he said, “If I find otherwise, you and they will answer to me.”