The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

“Like water…like water…” Wurhi the Rat muttered, retreading the same words as she had for some hours. “I’m like water? …what in every hell, god and demon does that mean?”

The little thief paced the bottom of the pit, her feet shuffling through straw and creating a well-worn trench. The dried grass proved far cleaner than the mouldy mess in the first hole she and Merrick had been cast into. Thankfully, it was also free of bone and rot.

And - for now - mostly free of rats, though a furry body or two did occasionally scurry past her feet. The relative cleanliness of her new prison was no doubt a ‘reward’ for her ‘performance’ in the arena.

But - whatever reason this Milos had for placing her here - it was not a pen she intended to abide in for long.

Crnk. Crnk.

Stones shifted and the logs above were dragged aside.

The Zabyallan squinted up to spy Berard’s newly scarred face glaring down from a crowd of armed and masked acolytes. “Move, Rat. It’s arena time.”

She cursed. It had come sooner than she had hoped. Biting down on rising fear, she drew herself up to full, unimpressive height and - with not a word - began to make her way up the ramp.

The massive lycanthrope’s jaw tightened. No doubt he wished to savour the image of her writhing in terror. “I would not be so calm, rodent. This time it will be the death of you.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Wurhi kept her lips shut and her eyes pointed toward the dirt. The large man gave a sullen grunt and thrust the sack over her head.

Their journey was short and, when the sack was dragged off, she found herself in familiar surroundings.

The armoury spread before her, with the pit fighters once again sifting through bronze armaments and armour. The young Saxa, lean Gannicus and squat Agron sought similar weapons as they had wielded against the manticore, while Crixus barked orders and reiterated battle plans. A few unfamiliar faces had joined the fighters, hesitating with the uncertainty of lost children in the wilderness.

“Oi! Rat!” a voice like scratching glass called.

Merrick the Hawk sat against a stand of spears with a jaunty, dented helmet perched above his brow. The lean man was stripped down to a loincloth, revealing skin both drawn and pale as a corpse.

Reddened flesh throbbed about an ugly burn scorched into his breast.

A branding iron had seared its punishment into his skin, marking him with the symbol of a half-moon. “You see this?” he spat through gritted teeth. “Bastards marked me like some lord’s bloody cattle!”

“Oh shit,” Wurhi crouched before him. “Does it hurt?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “What you think?”

“Right, right, stupid thing to ask.” She held up her hands, drawing Merrick’s eyes to her bandaged mitt.

“Oi, who patched you up?” He squinted at it.

She scoffed. “The horse-serving bastard himself.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

Glancing to the arena gate, she cocked her ear toward the ceiling. No sound yet boomed from above. “Because the bastard’s mad, that’s why. Here’s what he said…” She recounted parts of her conversation with the cult leader while listening for the crowd. As she finished, the throng’s hungry voices began to seep through the rock.

They were gathering.

“Piss, so he means to make you some sort of pet?” Merrick nervously scratched his chin by the helm’s strap. “That’s a bloody bad turn. After that bastard branded me, he was on about turning me into one of his mangy followers if I ‘shed my weakness’. I thought that was a shit deal, but yours is a whole pit in a privy.”

The crowd’s din grew.

Thm. Thm. Thm.

Fists and feet hammered the stone in steady rhythm, tolling like doom in the deep.

Wurhi cursed inwardly as fear twisted her belly. “We need to get out of here, Hawk. You think of anything?”

He shook his head. “Working on it, but nothing yet. Only time there’s not half a dozen spears on us is when we’re in our holes,” he scoffed in disgust. “I looked at those logs from every angle, and there’s no way of getting through without a saw or something.”

“Saw…saw…” Her brow furrowed. “What about a sharp bone or rock?”

“Thought of that, but it’d take too bloody long and be too bloody loud. They’d stick us before we could cut through even a quarter of one.” He shook his head. “What about you, you got anything?”

“Nothing useful,” she said, raking her hair in frustration. “Shit, shit! Okay, we keep watching. They’ll let their guards down someti-”

“They won’t.”

Crixus approached the two thieves with a strange look in his eye.

Thm! Thm! Thm!

The crowd grew more ravenous.

The Garumnan handed a shield to Wurhi and clapped a helm on her head. “A spear won’t do you much good with that hand, so you just hold the shield and keep the wall up. And don’t bother with whatever you two were talking about: it always ends badly.”

“What do you mean ‘don’t bother’?” Wurhi quickly snatched the shield between her forearms and skillfully buckled the helm beneath her chin with one hand. “You want to stay here?”

Crixus’ eyes turned haunted. “…would that be so terrible?”

Silence followed.

Thm! Thm! Thm!

The crowd’s excitement soared.

“Oh shit, you’re not drinking that bastard’s hemlock, are you?” Merrick shifted away from the bald man as though he bore the pox.

“It is not poison. There’s sense to what he says: brotherhood and rewards for deeds done.”

“Aye, and becoming a bloody monster.”

“A ‘monster’ that wields heroic strength. One who can heal from any wound. Think, man. You moved like quicksilver last fight: what could you do with the power of a wolf within you?”

The Hawk’s already large eyes widened further. “Oh piss, you’re serious.”

“And what about me?” Wurhi’s gaze was knife-like. “He’s going to make me a slave.”

The bald man shrugged. “Lord Milos is not cruel to those that serve him well.” He eyed Wurhi’s hand. “Care went into that dressing: that tells me you will be favoured, just as his beasts are. He fawns over them. You will want for little, Zabyallan.”

“Oh yeah, what else could I ask for?” she growled. “A dark cave for the rest of my days? Following that bastard’s every order, scared every damn breath that I’ll do something he doesn’t like?” She jabbed her broken hand forward. “He said this was a favour, what’s he gonna do when I piss him off?”

Crixus frowned. “You’re not being-”

“And! When I’m dead and done, he can pose my bones beside a window and talk about me to his guests! To hells with that! To hells with all of that!”

“Aye, you’re talking sense, Rat,” Merrick agreed.

Thm! Thm! Thm!

The pit fighters paused; their gazes drawn by Wurhi’s rising volume. The newest of their number eyed each other, while Saxa and Gannicus looked on in muted approval.

Crixus gave a great sigh that sank through his shoulders. “You say that because you don’t know what they do to those who try to escape. I’ve seen a lot of bad ways to die, but…”

His lips tightened beneath his dark moustache.

Crm!

Clinkclinkclinkclink.

Chains hidden within the stone coiled about wheels.

The gate to the arena began its ascent. Crixus’ bearing straightened as its rose.

“Do yourselves a favour. If you cannot live like this? Run full on at whatever beast they’ve got for us. At least, then your deaths’ll be quick.” He paused. “Just make sure you don’t wreck the formation when you do.”

The Garumnan turned to join the other fighters as they trudged through the gate.

“Some of us wish to live.”

The Rat and the Hawk entered the arena beneath a hail of jeers and curses. The black robed crowd filled the seats above. Many were on their feet, hurling all manner of insults down on them. Guards positioned upon the arena’s walls gripped their spears - poised for any excuse to skewer runaways.

“Don’t think they like us too much,” Merrick muttered, raising his spear as he joined the other fighters.

“Yeah, well I don’t like them either.” Wurhi slipped into the front line between Saxa and Gannicus. She hefted her shield, grunting beneath its weight. Her eyes drifted to where the manticores had met their end during their last battle. The rust of dried gore stained the sand and tiny prints marked where rodents had dragged away stray scraps of flesh.

They truly were everywhere in this mountain; it was no wonder, these wolf-men provided plenty for them to eat and left them alone. She supposed anyone would ignore them if they lived long enough in these caves.

Wurhi sighed; she was somewhat a rat - if only they would do the same with her.

Thm. Thm…thm…

The throng’s thunder died away.

She drew a tremulous breath and forced her eyes up.

Milos of Crotonia had risen from his throne.

“Once again,” his voice boomed across the cavern. “We witness a trial under Lycundar’s gaze. Souls shall be tested by bloody combat, but victory will not truly lie in life or death - though I am certain He Who Consumes Himself will receive his measure of blood this day. Today, you and I shall decide the fate of the defeated. If they fought well…”

He balled his hand into a fist and extended his thumb toward the ceiling. “They shall live. And if they fought poorly…”

The thumb turned until it faced the earth. “…then it shall be death.”

An exultant roar swept the crowd, drifting through the rent in the cavern’s ceiling to reverberate over the mountain. Wurhi swallowed hard. Her fate was to lie in the whims of these murderous, vindictive, mangy scum-wolves? Her heart already thumped like a frightened hare’s, but this new game of theirs was fresh cause for panic.

“The Will of the Mob: like it is in the Olubrian colosseums,” Crixus noted. “Where the crowd and governor decide gladiators’ fates.”

Merrick’s eyes drifted nervously across the mob. “Seems a might better than when we fought the man-faced lion. So-”

Croom.

Clnkclnkclnkclnk.

Chain pulled through stone. The gate opposite them yawned open above an inky passage.

Crm.

Silence fell on the arena.

“Steady…steady…spears down.” Crixus lowered his spear over Wurhi’s shoulder.

Thm. Thm. Thm.

Something moved in the dark ahead. Something ponderous.

Something very, very, large.