"What a waste," Rena spat into the dirt beside her, "And here I thought we'd actually get to watch something worth our time."
"Wait, I have an idea," Maeve whispered, leaning close, "What if we join?"
"WHAAAT….?" Rena and the others turned to her, completely taken aback. Rena narrowed her eyes, "What are you pulling, Maeve? Tell me this isn't just your knight's code acting up, or some urge to swing your sword. We agreed to keep our heads down and stay off everyone's radar."
"It's not that at all," Maeve said with a sharp smirk, her eyes shone under the torchlight, "It's cold calculation, girl. If we keep hiding like mice in the dark, tracking down clues across this entire Lawless Land is going to take forever. We could spend years chasing a single lead while things fall apart back home for lack of intelligence. But if we put a prominent minor house in our debt right now? That opens doors. It gives us access to resources we couldn't buy in ten years on our own."
Rena smiled, winking at her, "Now that's my girl. I just wish some of the men in our group had half your brain."
Cillian's face flushed bright red as he looked away in embarrassment, while the half-orcs stood there scratching their heads, wondering why they were suddenly taking stray hits.
The sand in the upper glass was barely halfway through its fall when Rena stood up to strike the deal. Walking down to the lower wooden scaffolding, she looked down at the sweat-drenched, trembling Iron Fang representative and laid down her terms flat out. She would supply four fighters to fill his missing spots.
To the representative's absolute shock, she didn't ask for a single copper up front. If they won, the Iron Fangs would be keeping their territory, but her team took the priority bidding token for the midnight auction, the Syndicate Free-Pass Seal, and full sponsorship under the cartel's charter.
The crowd muted in surprise at her nerve, but the desperate representative didn't waste a second thinking it over. He signed the ledger on the spot to save his own skin.
When the heavy iron gate at the base of the arena groaned open, four figures stepped out onto the dirt- Maeve, Cillian, Jax, and Zot'r.
To the thousands of spectators crammed onto the balconies, roofs, and scaffoldings, the four newcomers looked like an odd mix of strangers, yet they carried an overwhelming, heavy presence. Maeve marched out with her head held high, clad in the polished plate armor of a Valorian justicar. Her heavy longsword was already drawn and was shining under the bright torchlight. Beside her Cillian moved as a focused no-nonsense warrior, his blade was held low at his hip while his eyes constantly scanned the arena.
Next came Zot'r, the massive half-orc bandit. He rolled his broad shoulders with a low grunt, resting a heavy two-handed war axe over his collarbone. Finally, Jax entered into the pit like a rabid beast, his posture was hunched,- like a predator on prowl; his long ivory-white claws were catching the firelight; and a mean, feral grin stretched across his snout.
Across the chalk circle however, the Veiled Dagger champions didn't look impressed.
The Overseer raised his hand and slammed his ledger shut. High on the stone walls, the heavy iron gongs struck- a deep, booming roar that made the dust jump off the ground.
"BEGIN!" the announcer shout and the crowd erupted into a massive wave of screaming noise, waving coin purses and yelling out odds over the railings.
Vaelen 'The Iron Thread' made a tiny gesture with his fingers, the subtle movement sent a faint glint of razor-wire through the air. "Kill them," Vaelen whispered, and his team moved into position to unleash hell.
In response, the four squad members immediately unleashed their full, terrifying combat skills. Each was a master of their own craft, hardened by years of bloodshed, and each charged forward to prove it.
Zot'r was the first to strike. Letting out a deafening half-orc war cry, he rushed across the sand straight at Kenan the Unbroken- the giant gladiator locked in black-iron plate. Zot'r put his entire weight into a downward swing, aiming to chop clean through the gladiator's shoulder. The strike was magnificent- fast, monstrously strong, and precise.
*CLANG!*
Bright yellow sparks showered into the air as the heavy axe bit deep into Kenan's spiked tower shield. The crowd roared in approval at the half-orc's raw power. But Zot'r was fighting purely as a solo brawler, focused entirely on his own target without checking his surroundings. Kenan didn't even flinch under the impact. Bracing his back against the shield, the gladiator rammed his massive frame forward, driving the iron rim straight into Zot'r's chest.
The collision sounded like a falling tree. Zot'r was blasted off his feet, skidding backward across the dirt and coughing up a dark spray of blood. Before he could regain his footing, Kenan stepped in, raising his short-handled war-pick to drive the iron point straight through Zot'r's skull. Zot'r was forced to roll frantically across the stones, completely cut off from the rest of his team.
"Keep your eyes on your own fight, half-orc!" Jax snarled, ignoring Zot'r's trouble as he launched his own assault.
Jax moved with wild, beastly agility; lunging straight for Vaelen's throat. The beastman's instincts were vicious and fast, as his claws swept through the air in lethal arcs that forced the executioner to take three steps back. The spectators cheered wildly as Jax pushed the feared assassin leader toward the chalk line.
"Rip his head off, beastman!" a spectator screamed from the upper rail.
Jax grinned, smelling blood, and leaped forward for the kill. But he was hunting alone, completely blind to the trap Vaelen had spent ten seconds weaving across the arena floor.
But suddenly, an invisible brass wire caught Jax mid-air across his chest and shoulder. The razor-sharp monofilament sliced straight through his leather harness, carving deep, bloody gashes across his ribs and arms. Jax hit the sand with a heavy thud, snarling in agony as blood poured down his torso.
Before Jax could scramble back up, Brother Malakor- the shirtless, scarred ex-monk, leaped over Vaelen's shoulder. Malakor whirled his heavy, spiked iron flail over his head, bringing the iron ball down in an arc aimed at Jax's head. Jax barely managed to roll out of the way as the spiked ball shattered the cobbles an inch from his ear. He was forced onto the retreat, bleeding heavily and trapped between Vaelen's wire field and Malakor's wild, pain-blind attacks.
On the left side of the pit, Maeve fought with the clean, heroic perfection of a knight-justicar. She engaged Corvus 'The Carrion', stepping into his guard with a swift thrust of her longsword. Her footwork was flawless and her blade control was superb. For a moment, she had the dark alchemist backed right against the wooden barrier.
"Yield, murderer!" Maeve commanded, as her voice roared suppressing the noise.
Corvus only chuckled behind his leather beak-mask, "Yield to a foolish knight? Never."
Because Maeve was focused entirely on her personal duel, she failed to notice that Cillian was twenty feet away, locked in his own desperate struggle against Sorsha of the Split Tongue. Maeve had left her lower flank completely exposed to the alchemist's dirty tactics.
Corvus flicked his wrist, smashing a small glass vial straight against the cobbles at Maeve's feet. A thick cloud of bubbling, acidic tar erupted over her boots and lower legs. The foul substance hissed loudly, eating through her steel greaves and searing into the skin of her calves.
Maeve gasped as the agonizing heat forced her down onto one knee.
"Look at the shiny armor melt!" Corvus cackled, drawing twin short daggers coated in acidic slurry and stepping in to slash at her throat.
"Maeve!" Cillian shouted, trying to disengage from his own fight to help her.
That momentary lapse in focus was all Sorsha needed. The elven rogue moved like a dancing snake, her twin curved obsidian falchions flickering through the torchlight.
Cillian felt a biting pain in his thigh and forearm as Sorsha's blades sliced clean through his leather under-armor. Blood sprayed across the dust. Cillian stumbled back, parrying frantically, but Sorsha was too fast, cutting him again and again with passing strikes. Cillian was now trapped on the defensive, his leg was growing weak from blood loss, and he was now unable to reach Maeve or protect his own back.
For five long, agonizing minutes, the arena echoed with the sound of desperate combat.
The crowd was screaming at the top of their lungs, thoroughly entertained by the bloodbath. The four newcomers were putting up a valiant, terrifying fight- Jax was tearing into Malakor with bloody claws, Zot'r was parrying Kenan's crushing pick strikes with sheer brute stubbornness, Cillian was keeping Sorsha's lethal falchions at bay with brilliant defensive swordplay, and Maeve was swinging her longsword from her knees to keep Corvus from plunging his daggers into her chest.
They were fighting with everything they had. They were brave, powerful, and relentless.
But they were still clearly losing.
The Veiled Dagger, afterall, wasn't fighting five separate duels; they were fighting as a single machine. Whenever Zot'r tried to press Kenan, Sorsha would dart in from his blind side to cut his hamstrings. Whenever Jax tried to flank Vaelen, Malakor would step in to take the blow while Vaelen pulled his wire tight. The assassins covered each other's weaknesses, used the arena terrain, and systematically pushed the four heroes into a trap.
Slowly, inexorably, the five assassins drove the four newcomers back, crowding them into the far corner of the pit against the sharp wooden barricades.
Zot'r collapsed back against the wooden wall, his chest was heaving, blood dripping from his shoulder and mouth. Jax dropped into a low crouch beside him, as he felt as if his ribs were being carved open. He kept panting heavily as bloody saliva dripped onto the sand. Cillian limped back into the corner, his left leg was soaked in red, his longsword was trembling slightly in his grip. Maeve dragged herself up against the barrier as well, her legs were scorched by acid, and her armor was now cracked and battered.
Across the chalk circle, the five champions of the Veiled Dagger formed a deadly semicircle around them. Vaelen stood at the front, his monofilament wire was glinting, his pale eyes appeared to completely devoid of emotion as always.
"You fight hard," Vaelen said softly, his voice carrying over the crowd's dying cheers, "You are strong warriors. But you were never a match for us. This is where your trial ends."
Maeve looked around at her companions. Zot'r was near exhaustion. Jax was bleeding out. Cillian could barely keep his balance. They had used every trick, every bit of their martial strength, and every ounce of their courage- and it hadn't been enough.
A cold, horrifying realization settled deep in Maeve's chest. They weren't going to win. In less than two minutes, the five assassins would step forward together, and all four of them would die on the cold stone floor of Bozkar.