3 Beneath the Arena

The Grey Cat managed to keep up with the pace of the pair in front of him, as he staggered down the passageway. Despite the heavy chains that were impeding his movement.

Four Iron Guardsmen marched close by, two before him and two behind him, as though they were worried that he would try to escape. That would have been enough to make the tall man laugh. He hid his amusement behind his beard and his unkempt hair, as he staggered along. The weight of his chains were not so great to impede his progress, but the beating that he had suffered, two days earlier when he was captured, had done some damage. Damage that had not yet healed. Well, at least not completely.

Yet, for someone who was labelled as one of the most outrageous thieves and robbers who worked the Great North Road, he supposed that the escort and the chains were fitting. Not that he was as dangerous as the tales made him out to be. That was just another device, to enhance his allure. Too bad the Red Priests were turning the stories against him now.

It was sufficiently clear, since he was brought into the cells beneath the Arena, that his lot was little better than a slave's now that he was in their hands. Just as it was clear from the way that he was kept bound in heavy iron chains told him that the guards were more than a little wary of his reputation. Gaebril hid another smile at the last. It was still too early to say for certain if that was an advantage or not, but at least they were not taking turns to beat him for a while, so he had something to be thankful for.

Of course, he had his own ideas about why he had been brought there, rather than straight to the execution grounds. He had robbed a great many merchant trains, and a few priestly ones as well. So the ones in charge were clearly trying to recoup their losses, by making him put up a show and charging exorbitantly for entry to the fighting Arena. That should put a bit of more coin into the Red Priests' purses.

Not enough to make up for the losses that he had cost them, over the last three and a half years. But it should be enough to make the ones who were running things now a little happier. And allow them to claim that they were putting a notorious criminal up for a grand show!

Not to mention giving a chance for the merchants to vent their frustrations, as they watch him perish under the weapons of the other gladiators.

But he did not doubt that coin was the primary motivation for that decision.

The goal under the Arena was cleaner than what Gaebril could remember of the others that he had been in. Or perhaps, he had merely grown immune to the filth, the stench and the squalor of the West Quarter, as the rest of his band had hinted under their breaths. Truly, it had been a long time since he walked the streets of Yraengard. Or beneath the Pit of its Grand Arena, which also served as a prison for its condemned.

The guards who prodded and pushed him along were clad in the colors of the city, if one could call it that. Dull, undyed and unadorned grey cloth was cheaper than most, and the Iron Guard, such as it was, had always been skint. How they had managed to raise enough coin to tempt his fellow thieves to betray him, he didn't know. In fact, he was still curious about the price. It would be useful to know just how much they could be bought for.

Like the other Iron Guardsmen that were on duty in the city, they had on a sleeveless shirt of scale armor over their dull garb, and bore heavy maces on their right hips. A buckler of leather hung on their belts on the other side, and simple, unadorned helms covered their skulls.

All in all, they looked not much different from most of the mercenaries who worked in the Lower City, and escorted the merchant trains on the roads outside Yraengard City.

Then he smiled, and pushed those thoughts aside, bringing his attention to his jailers, all two of them, walking a short distance ahead. They wore leathers instead of scale armor, and there was naught more than long knives on their hips. Not exactly a threat to someone of his skill. But he was properly wrapped in chains, and he didn't think that they would be carrying the keys to the locks that held them in place. He would have to endure this a little longer, it appeared.

But his observation of his captors was interrupted a short while later, when he was brought in front of what appeared to be a large cell. It looked like it could accommodate five or six men, although Gaebril could see only three cots within the same. None of them were occupied, and the Grey Cat allowed a slight smile to appear on his face, as he was unceremoniously shoved inside.

The Iron Guards did not bother to remove his manacles and chains either, and simply left him standing in the middle of the cell, as they backed away. Another two wardens appeared then. Gaebril had not noticed their arrival, but he did note that they were both holding long spears. They had the tips of the same pointed at his vitals too, as the original jailers who had walked with him stepped up to remove his restraints.

And there were more arrivals, appearing in the corridor outside, even as they did that. Gaebril focused on those, rather than on the anxious pair dealing with his restraints. After all, they were certainly more interesting than the miserable, sour-faced jailers.

The one in the lead was a Templar was clad in a leather jerkin sewn with metal scales, and he wore a red beard, although the helm on his head prevented the pair from seeing the color of the hair on his pate. He also wore two warhammers on his broad, studded belt, which made it rather clear who he was.

"Melior Twohammer. What brings a Templar to this dismal place, I wonder," sighed Gaebril softly as the Temple Guard sauntered in front of the cell, waving for one of the guards to open the gate once again. He had not seen the man prior to this, but his description had been circulating outside Yraengard for a good few years.

The guards took care to point their long spears at the thief, seated on the cot at the other end of the cell, as one of them moved to deal with the lock. That was enough to make him want to smile. He did not allow that expression to show on his face, of course. These men looked as though they would like nothing more than to tear him to pieces.

The Templar waved the guards back when they were done. But the man did not step inside at once. Instead, he gestured again, and another group of guards arrived, four of them, escorting a pair of prisoners bound in hemp rather than iron, to the cell. They were shoved inside with little ceremony. One of them, a tanned complected, short-haired fellow, went down on one knee onto the dirty straw that covered the cell floor. But Gaebril knew that it still hurt, for all that the fall didn't cause any real injury. The other man, with the brown hair and a moustache, along with an unshaven chin, managed to keep his balance, and simply staggered inside.

"Well, the three of you should do well together. A guard of a forbidden cult, a highwayman and a pirate. It looks like all three of you have seen enough fighting to know your way around a true battle. I expect great things from the three of you," the Templar laughed, as the guards locked the gate of the cell once again.

"Especially you, Aeric Redfang. The Scourge of Wreckers Bay, they call you. Isn't that right? You should have stayed aboard your ship, instead of coming ashore. It took us close to three months of waiting but now we've got you."

The Templar laughed pointedly at the taller, brown-haired man as he said the last. Who merely scowled back, and remained silent. That seemed to amuse the Templar further, as he turned away.

Then he gestured at Gaebril, still seated on the cot. "You should have a lot to discuss with the Grey Cat, who plagued the Highway North out of Yraengard for close to six months before we managed to catch him. Perhaps you two can exchange notes, hey? To see which of you had killed more men. It should be an interesting discussion.

"And I should introduce you to Edmon, a previously unknown guardsman from the White Tower. Well, the priests of that place refused to leave when so ordered by the Cardinal, and Edmon here was one of the handful that survived, when the Iron Guard finally stormed the place. The priests that he was protecting have all been hung, but we thought that we might have a bit of entertainment from him, since he is so good at hand to hand combat," the Templar laughed, as he gestured at the short man, who seemed to have just recovered from his earlier fall.

Then the Templar gestured again, and the guards stepped forward to shove two spears and a short sword, all stained and rusted, through the bars of the cell. Twohammer went on as the weapons clattered next to Edmon, who had just managed to get himself back up to sit on the floor. "There! Don't you believe what they say about how much of a bastard I am! See? I'm even allowing you three weapons! That should make you lot last a little longer in the Pit, eh?"

Gaebril merely sniffed at the weapons as they clattered on the floor of the cell. But Melior Twohammer was no longer interested in any further conversation, and had simply turned and started walking away as the Grey Cat studied the same.

Gaebril didn't waste any time and quickly snatched up the short sword before stepping over to one of the cots. But he did not sit down, and merely watched the other two, as each of them picked up a spear, and moved to claim their own cots, even as they glared at the warders who were starting to leave. They didn't take too long to step well away from the cell, so that there was nothing but shadows in the corridor outside.

The bearded man quietly sat down on the edge of his own cot as soon as the jailers were all out from sight. He smiled at the other two men in the cell, though there was a certain intensity in his expression when he glared at their infamous companion that made Edmon frown at him.

"What is it, Gaebril? Something troubles you perhaps?"

The robber laughed. "It is amusing, rather than troubling, my dear Edmon. It appears that our captors know precious little of my history, apart from the fact that I preyed on trade caravans on the North roads. Did you know that I began my life of crime upon the deck of a ship? That was before I learned that my stomach did not take to the rough waters of Wreckers Bay."

"Indeed? That was why you turned to banditry, I suppose?"

Gaebril laughed again, and kept his eye on the brown-haired, man with the long moustaches in the third cot when he replied. "Yes, indeed. But that is not why I am amused," he said with a smile.

Edmon stopped checking the point on his spear with a loose stone then, as he noted the way that the one who was identified as a pirate was sitting a little stiffer on his own cot. And that his eyes were measuring the distance between his bunk to where Gaebril was seated. Which was at least twice the length of his own weapon.

"Oh? Then what amuses you? I take it that it has something to do with our pirate friend here?" Edmon asked, as he set down the stone, but not the weapon.

"That is true. Melior Twohammer pretends that this is Aeric Redfang, the pirate known as the Scourge of Fellinmar Shoal. But I doubt that the Templar knows that I have seen Aeric, Captain of the Black Shark once. And the one who is sharing our cell is not he," Gaebril said, almost casually, waving a hand at the man, who was already reaching for the weapons next to his cot.

"No doubt, he is the Templar's spy, eh? Set to keep a watch over us? Or to see us slain in the first fight? Or is he after a different prize?"

Gaebril kept his eye on the man, and did not turn away. Not even at the sharp sound emanating from the direction of the third man in the cell. But the spy's eyes flickered in that direction, and he froze, his hands still a good distance away from the weapons in front of him.

That was because Gaebril had already raised the short sword in his hand over his shoulder. And a simple throw would certainly bring that blade hurtling into the body of the bearded man! That was clearly something that Gaebril had taken pains to arrange, in case the fellow pretending to Aeric Redfang made a move.

The man sitting in the cot blanched, and raised both of his hands palm out to the pair in a clear sign of surrender, leaving his attempt to reach to spears. "Aye," he admitted with a sour twist of his lips, "You have found me out. I was only supposed to watch you, and wait to see if the Queen tries to reach you. Besides, I am good in a fight, and you might last longer with me at your side, Grey Cat, than without."

Edmon, who had risen on his feet with sword in hand, calmly stepped between the false pirate's cot and the weapons on the floor. His sword came to a rest with its point lingering over the false one's breastbone. And he smiled at the sudden pallor that washed over the man. "We only have your word for that. Who can say that your task is not to stab us in the back when you're supposed to be watching our backs, hmm? I do not think I would feel comfortable to have you armed, and standing where I cannot see you. I suggest that you leave, and tell Melior that."

"He will not be pleased."

Gaebril snorted. "That is only to be expected. But whether he will be displeased with us, or more displeased with you, who can say? We'll take our chances in the Arena without his help, if that is how the dice fall. I'd prefer that he sends us someone else to make up the number when you are gone. And someone that we might be more likely to trust. Perhaps someone with a more obvious grudge against Red Priests or the Temple Guard? That might make things easier for everyone, hey?"

The moustached man's eyes grew wide at the last. "You are mad to suggest it. The priests will never let any of their enemies in the Dead Cells out. Not even if Melior Twohammer asked."

"Then he had better not ask, or find one who hasn't reach the Death Gate yet. Don't you agree?" Gaebril replied, with a snarl. This was turning out to be more of trial than he had expected!

*

Four wardens brought over another prisoner, less than an hour mark later. And they took pains to pull out two long spears and hold them on the pair within the cell, before they opened the door of the same, to deposit the new man into the same. Someone that they simply dropped onto the floor of the cell, and withdrew without a word.

Gaebril snorted as soon as they started to leave. And spat at their backs once they were far enough. Only then did he turn to his new cell-mate:

The man that the Templar sent to them was curled up on the floor of the cell and clutching at his left side. The wardens who delivered him hard seemed more a little wary, as they unlocked the grate, and made the delivery. And there was none of the roughness or the sneers that Gaebril and Edmon had experienced earlier. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he wore a leather jerkin similar to theirs and a weapons-belt that was heavy with knives. And he was leaning on a tolerably long sword as he staggered back onto his feet.

"You look like you've been worked over, and recently too," Edmon said almost at once, as he stepped forward to help the man, who had dropped to the floor of the cell the moment that the wardens had left. Who shot him a shallow, wan smile. "And from the way that you are clutching at your side, your ribs may be broken. Or at least cracked."

"Well, my injuries appear to be worse than what I had first believed. Cracked ribs, you think? Does that mean that I should keep out of the fighting then?" laughed the newcomer, as he leaned his head back with a sigh. And winced, as though the motion pained him.

"Between that and the twisted ankle that you were favoring earlier, you won't be much good if you got into one. I suppose that was why that bastard Twohammer threw you at us, eh? He must want revenge after we found out about the false Aeric that he tried to plant on us earlier."

Edmon shot the Grey Cat a look as soon as he had said that. And Gaebril nodded, grinning back. "That sounds like the sort of thing that a Templar might do. Can't be certain that it was Melior Twohammer though," the rogue shot back.

The man with the sword smiled at that. "Oh, it was Twohammer for certain. Clearly, I am not the only one who has fallen afoul of that red-bearded Templar today. I owe the bastard for this," he said then, as he pointed at his injured side, "It looks like I am in good company. I'm called Gareth."

Gaebril smiled. "Well, Gareth, that be Edmon there, tending to your wounds. And I be Gaebril, also called the Grey Cat. Perhaps you have heard of me?"

"The famous highwayman? More than half of Yraengard has heard your name, especially after you pulled that Red Priest off his carriage and stripped him naked. Before you sent him running through the woods back to the Alabaster Bridge outpost. They are hoping that you'll draw more punters to the fights then? There is a large number of merchants baying for your blood, you know?"

Edmon sighed while Gaebril laughed long and hard. This was more to his taste than the Aeric Redfang pretender. Who was apparently listening to the trio in the corridor outside the cell. He applauded as he stepped towards the bars of the cell, drawing their eyes. From the other side. And the spy who had been uncovered earlier by the pair gloated openly at them, evidently pleased that he did not have to play his old role any longer.

"Melior sends his love with this one. He was taken in the Dockside Riots five days ago. But he got into trouble with our jailers again earlier today. Still, the Templars have gifted him with weapons and armor, so you are lucky to have him, I suppose," chuckled the man with the long moustaches, from the other side of the cell-gate, "At least you can be certain that he bears no love for the priests. Or the Templars, for that matter."

Edmon ignored the speaker, and continued to check on the man. The shorter man continued to count injuries that the newcomer had sustained. "Someone hit him on his head too. Several times," he added then, before he looked hard at Gareth, "Are you sure that you should be fighting?"

The one who had been playing the pirate cackled at the former guard's assessment. "No, he probably shouldn't. But Melior says he's what you asked for, so that's your worry. So long as he gets into the Pit tomorrow, and stands long enough for the officials to declare the fight started, he'll do. That is, if you still want to get out of here instead of ending up in the mines."

"Tomorrow? Here! The Devotion isn't until next Hand!" Gaebril protested sharply, as he glowered at the false Aeric, "What is this about?"

"Oho! So you know about the Devotion. But not every son gets a chance to win their freedom on the sands during the same. There are so many untried warriors in the Arena, after all," laughed the moustached man, "It is your own doing, thief. This new companion of yours doesn't look likely to survive, and Melior isn't about to throw good money after bad. So long as he starts the fight with you, he'll do. Even if he dies, they'll toss another survivor your way on the day after. Who you'll get then is your problem then, isn't it?"

The obvious glee that he was showing was enough to make the Grey Cat turn away in disgust. But the sound of metal on metal made him turn back towards the door, where he saw the spy putting a knife away. "Jumpy, eh? Well, it might keep you alive in the Pit," he laughed as he waved at the trio, "I would wish you luck, but I doubt that it would help. Your chances are poorer than a beggar's purse."

Then he paused, as if he had just been struck by another jest. "Grey Cat, eh? I think the Grey Ghost should be more appropriate, considering your circumstances. Don't you agree?"

And with that, the smiling man left, leaving the trio to themselves.

* * *