Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [45]
“Which is?”
“Five hundred gold.”
Rytlock’s eyes flew wide. “How are we supposed to get that kind of money?”
“Agree to Magnus’s offer,” Sangjo said placidly.
“Which is?”
“My boss is prepared to pay for your billet—if you agree to fight in his arena.”
“What?”
“Master Magnus has an arena where you could fight for your freedom, earning money to pay him back. Or you could sit here and rot. It’s your choice.”
Caithe asked, “If we fought, how long would it take to pay him back?”
“Not long,” Sangjo said, “perhaps a dozen matches—if you win.”
“We can’t fight,” Rytlock said. “We have no weapons.”
“Your weapons will be returned to you before each match and taken from you afterward.”
Rytlock huffed, “Well, we can’t fight for at least a week, since grawl-boy here broke my wrist.”
Sangjo’s enigmatic smile only widened. “Then let grawl-boy fix it.”
Rytlock glared at Logan. “You could heal me?”
“Not all at once. A little bit now, and then an hour later, a little more.”
“Why didn’t you try?” raged Rytlock.
“You’d’ve taken my head off!” Logan shouted back.
“There’s that,” Rytlock growled. He sighed. “All right, I won’t. Promise. Now, get to it.”
ARENA
Next morning, Logan, Rytlock, and Caithe walked among stern-looking warriors who led them from the jail to the arena. Rytlock’s wrist was fully healed, but the rift between the man and the charr was only partially so. Last night, both fighters had fidgeted and fussed as Logan healed Rytlock. This morning, neither had spoken to the other.
They walked through a narrow set of winding lanes, with half-timber houses leaning over them. At last, they reached a much-trammeled plot of land with the overturned hull of a huge ship in its center. Many people milled outside the wooden hull, and money changed hands. A few of the people there stared with lurid admiration at Logan, Rytlock, and Caithe.
“Fresh meat,” one man said darkly.
Rytlock reached for Sohothin but, of course, his sword and scabbard were gone.
The guards marched them toward a wide rectangular entrance cut into one side of the overturned hull. The passage was preternaturally dark, shielded by a curtain of magic, but sounds came from within.
Feet pounded. Voices shouted. Swords clanged. Someone screamed.
“Are we making a mistake?” Logan asked.
“Quite possibly,” Caithe responded.
Rytlock scowled. “You two got any money?”
“No,” they chorused.
Rytlock swept his claws forward. “Then let’s go.”
The three strode among their guards through the mystic curtain. They emerged into a gigantic space—a huge arena carved into the ground. Rows of stone benches descended toward a broad, sandy arena. Warriors practiced there. To the right, a man and a centaur faced off. To the left, an ogre battled a charr. In one spot, a team of gorilla-like grawl assaulted a pair of scaly skritt.
“This must be the place,” Logan said.
“This is the place,” responded a new voice. Sangjo emerged from one of the nearby archways and glided placidly toward the trio. “Welcome to the arena.”
“We’re here for one reason,” Rytlock grumbled, “to get back my sword.”
Logan added, “And also to get back our freedom.”
“So,” Caithe said, “we’re here for two reasons.”
Sangjo’s face was a cryptic mask. “The only reason to fight in the arena is to win.”
“Right,” Rytlock said.
“Let me show you around,” Sangjo said coolly. He stepped away, leading them along a concourse among benches. “Below, of course, is the arena proper.”
“Ah, the blood-soaked sands,” Rytlock said. “How many die here per day?”
“None.”
“None?”
“Battles are not lethal. Combat is to exhaustion.”
Rytlock snorted. “Nothing to lose?”
“Actually, there’s plenty to lose. Those who lose don’t get paid. Those who win receive a cut of the total gate receipts.”
“Which means . . . ?” Logan prompted.
Sangjo shrugged, descending a ramp that led beneath the stands. “If you’re unknowns, as you are, a victory could bring fifty silver. If you’re headliners, if you pack the place, well—a hundred times that.”
Rytlock’s eyes flashed like coins. “When