~Chapter 1, part 2~
continuing on:

     The youths laughed and quickly drained the last of their ciders quickly and after Eveinis assured the wench who had been fraternising with the merchant’s son earlier that he would return the three friends fetched their now warm and dried cloaks, retrieved their sword from the doorman without incident and re-entered the fury of the storm outside. Unbinonsed to any of them the wench would never lay eyes on Eveinis again, nor would the youths set foot in the southern quarter for an eternity and only after it had been raised nearly to the ground and the capital and palace they called home’s darkest most bloody hour.

      They laughed and jested their way to their destination while maintaining their vigil against any hidden assailants but in no time at all the found the side street they searched for which would lead them to the in descript door they sought. Laornar did however pause momentarily claiming he saw a cloaked figure observing them on a darkened rooftop for an instant before it vanished into the night, but after Eveinis assured him it was more then likely one of the many anonymous rogues possibly gauging the worth of an assault and his sudden disappearance was most likely an indication that such a attempt was abandoned, the three youths continued on. 

  The simple door they sought was found a short time later, tucked into an alcove in between two abandoned and darkened decrepit shops, Phoenix approached and pounded three times on the plain wooden door then paused adding an addition rape followed by another two before stepping back to wait with is friends. One did not dare simply knock on this door without reason or invitation, its very location shifted between several undisclosed locations throughout the southern quarter from week to week and sometimes nightly if there was sufficient reason. It had taken the youths a full three months to earn their invitation to this place and gain enough trust and reputation of their cover stories to be accepted within. That in itself was quite the accomplishment, it had taken a great deal of legwork and had cost the youths dearly both physically and monetarily but in the end it had been well worth the effort, they had accomplished that which the authorities could never hope to and had already ventured and seen things that none of their upbringing had and lived to tell the tale. The infamous gang that controlled this place were by nature very secretive and caution as well as holding the well-documented reputation of weary and ruthlessly bloody in treatment towards strangers.

  A slat on the door slid open abruptly and a pair of pearly eyes glared out at them from the darkness within for an instant before snapping shut again. The door creaked open a fraction and the doorman’s heavily accent voice growled from inside demanding in his low tones.

      “Wot’s de werd lads!”

      “Jester.” Eveinis chimed in leaning forward.

      “No idiot; that was the other night’s password you dim witted numbskull!” Laornar corrected stepping forward a fraction in a harsh whisper. “Tis flail.” He said so the hidden doorman could hear.

      “Wot yous snivellin’ pups playin’ at! Git on yer stinkin’ way, or I’ll gut yous like de rancid fishmongerin’ sons of whores’ yous are! Stop wastin’ me time an warmth!” The doorman snarled and made to slam the door fast, but before he could and with blinding speed Phoenix stepped forward jamming his sword blade in the gap.

      “That’s alright Sergius, I think you will find the word tonight is ‘blade’, if you get my point.” Phoenix smiled menacingly with narrowing eyes levelled at those shining within the darkness. One could not afford to appear weak at a time like this, had they simply turned away they might as easily find a knife in their backs for their transgressions, still despite the prince’s posturing they all knew the man within was not one to be jesting with, nor were his subordinates.

  Phoenix knew very well that the doorman Sergius could just as easily fling the heavy door ajar and make a move to burry the gruesome single handed axe the prince and his friends knew full well was concealed in his free hand or just call for the four heavily armed men who sat just to the right of the door in an alcove. They also knew that it only took one ill placed word or action to lead them to be forcibly or fatally turned away or be slain where they stood depending on the huge dark skinned doorman’s murderous mood.

  There was a pause while the pair of pearly white eyes focused a silent venom a the youths then the door creaked open allowing the friends a view inside along with the doorman Sergius who barred their passage and growled evilly.

  “Aye, blade it be boyos, so it be.” Sergius sneered raising the axe in his massive callused left hand they had all been thinking about with dread moments before. “An no messin' aboot you wretched sackless bastards ‘er me an me mates’ll spill yer guts across dese stone as sure as de day be long ye ‘ear me!”

  “We get it Sergius, no trouble out of us, you have our word.” Laornar chimed in moving past his cousin gently pushing his sword out of the way smiling politely up at the doorman.

  “I’ll be havin’ more den just yer words from yous maggots trust in dat! I’ll…”

 Phoenix interrupted absentmindedly while sheathing his sword; all too late he recalled where he stood and whom he stood before but as the words had already left his sarcastic lips he knew any pause would appear as timidness which would be far worse then any interruption. “We know, we know; you’ll gut us like fish or something just as vile…” The prince paused looking back up into the Sergius’s stern brilliant white eyes while Laornar gapped in shock at his cousin’s side. “You have some morbid fascination with gutting, an unnatural and unhealthy obsession one would say. Did your father neglect to take you fishing with him in your youth; or did you even get the chance to find out who your father was or meet him before he fled from that giant bearded walrus you call you mother?”

 Sergius was a Venos-Zuallei, and an infamously deadly member at that; he hailed from the once proud clans of the distant southern chain of islands to the extreme south of Aultenvique and the kingdom’s newest acquisition no more then half a decade ago, his skin was as black as the night itself as was the standard of his brethren. The doorman was a full head taller then Eveinis and built as solidly as the masonry below their feet, he was not as bulky as the merchant’s son but every exposed muscle was chiselled and honed from a lifetime of hardships and combat. He wore a dark green well worn tunic beneath the heavy wild fur cape round his broad shoulders, a doubly thick black leather belt, the skilfully woven tartan kilt of his clan, naked yet powerful legs and high supple studded leather boots. On his hips Sergius wore a myriad of blades, from four long daggers, a cleaver on his left and several broad basilards on each, the doorman also boasted a second war hatchet lashed across his right shoulder as well as two long hunting knifes tucked into both boots. His eyes were large, round and like his pearly teeth seemed to shine in contrast against the blackness of his skin and though he rarely smiled Sergius was the type of man who could easily be read by the expression on his face, yet a broad smile was often the last mortal thing his victims would see before a bloody death. The tall doorman was nearly completely bald apart from a solitary tuft growing from the back of his head and the massive wild bushy black beard with streaks of white which betrayed the dark skinned man’s age.

  Sergius’s face was unmistakable though rarely seen outside these walls, not only because there were so few of his ilk in the capital, or so far north in the kingdom for that matter but also because of the masses of scars littering his visage. From across his wrinkled brow and crown, cross his broad ridged nose and flared nostrils, over his brows, down both pronounced cheeks down across his square jaw line disappearing into his mess of a beard. The ones which made Sergius so distinct and earned him the nickname ‘the mouth’ were the array of thick scars splitting his ample lips in two, the story most circulated was that as a youth Sergius had been abducted by a neighbouring clan and had his mouth sown shut for over a year. Life in the tropical islands of his youth was a balance of serenity and bloody violence which could shift from one to the other as quickly as the brief but violent storms which frequented the sweltering south. Laornar later learned of the towering doorman’s tragic past one night which was a feat init-of-itself, Sergius did not speak of his past to anyone, rarely spoke at all if the need was not there; from his tribe, family, wife and daughter’s innocent slaughters when the age old feud between two warring clans spilled onto their lonely island, to his ill fated incarceration by the army one night when he mistaken as a member a particularly notorious marauding band of sailors and held for over a decade as both a slave and prisoner. There he languished until he was sold to a particularly vicious and cruel noble, he spent some time there and even fell in love with one of the servant girls, but when this was discovered, the noble took his love and ravaged her before her public execution. That very night Sergius escaped his cell and viciously massacred the entire keep, over fifty guards and the noble’s entire family, all save the servants then simply disappeared into the wilds. It was well known that the doorman was not one to mix his words and his smile was even rarer, but pleasant enough to speak to if his mood was agreeable as the youths had learned early on, but cross him even once and they knew he would not think twice in slaughtering them where they stood. 

 Another pause came as the two stared at each other; it was a dangerous moment for the three youths and one which felt like an eternity but at long last the midnight skinned Sergius’s mouth parted into a wide gleaming tooth filled smile and he erupted into a all too loud laughter. “If ye dunna mind shiftin’ ye idle lumps, be cold as a day-eld corpse oot dere an yous know ow I hates de cold!”

  With that the youths rushed in out of the storm and once again shook their cloaks and stomped their boots of the snow while the tall Sergius slammed the door shut behind them bolding two great rods back into place with a resounding finality. The four other guards looked up from where they sat round a table tucked into the alcove briefly at the newcomers before returning to their game of ‘sword, shield, sickle, spade’, evidently their entrance was nowhere near as interesting as the heated game they were in the midst of.

  Sergius returned before them and made a lifting gesture with both open hands, the youths complied once again opening their cloaks to reveal their weapons for the doorman’s inspection, there would be no surrendering them here; such niceties were ill placed here and should one be foolish enough to enter without arms such an psychotic act would be as good as signing ones own death-sentence. This was one of few places in the kingdom where one could carry one’s blades so openly, it was a necessity as much as it was for the wearer’s safety. Too many patrons would be carrying all forms of weapons below, most with concealed daggers or other such vicious blades, it could not be helped, nor controlled therefore those in charge quickly adopted the unspoken terms that if it could be seen and used it would be; one must be on ones guard at all times upon entry, there was no fair play here and one false step could spell one’s demise.

  Nodding and grunting with satisfaction the tall doorman waved for the three friends to follow, then lead them to the heavy solid iron door at the far end of the foyer. Behind the door was the steep stone staircase that led to the tavern acting as the front from their ultimate destination far deeper below. The tavern aptly called ‘the cellar house’ was easily two dozen steps underground, ten meters into the solid stone earth and was once the massive store cellar for the abandoned shop fronts above. It was a massive twenty meters square chamber with a dozen massive round arched columns acting as supports for the streets and shops above their heads. Scattered around the tavern were a multitude of simple tables lit by thick candles all with hoards of jubilant intoxicated patrons seated round or dancing nearby to the lively music being played by a eight piece stringed band on the slightly raised stage at the far corner of the chamber while also being entertained by dutiful wenches filtering about. Close to the entrance to the tavern was a long well stocked bar and two heavy oak doors leading to the tavern’s own makeshift storerooms. The massive tavern was well heated by the two huge hearths constructed into both flanking solid stone walls, both with enormous fires raging and venting up into the secluded alleys above. Even though the chamber laid well bellow ground level and the walls often dripped with moisture the tavern was sweet smelling, dry, comfortably warm and strangely inviting to the unsuspecting eye.

  They shed their cloaks as they followed Sergius past the drunken crowd, across the huge chamber without sparing too much notice to the entertainments within to the second door at the far end of the bar. There Sergius tipped his head and left the boys to return to his post without so much as a farewell after presenting them to the two burly well armed heavily armoured men supposedly guarding the contents of the storeroom; but the youths knew better then that. They each presented to the guards the simple coins baring the insignia of the ‘Stone Ravens’ a group who had appeared into the southern quarter as suddenly and violently as the tempest raging above and now widely controlled their dangerous streets; the coins they had been gifted upon earning their passage to the place hidden below, the guards inspected them then nodded to the door though they made not effort to open it themselves. That was not how things worked, though the youths never did understand this, the fact was, had anyone on staff or otherwise opened the door these men guarded they would only find a storeroom full of barrels, but with their coins in hand the door would lead deeper still into the earth. Laornar had often mused about the magic behind the entrance to their destination but when it came to the mystical arts none could be certain and certainly no one would offer an explanation, it was what is was, a magical door.

  Phoenix stepped forward and tapped his coin twice against the heavy wooden door then waited, a moment later there came a sound of grinding metal, scraping rock then the door slid ajar of its own accord. Behind the door two more heavily armed, surely looking men waited at the top of winding staircase leading further into the depths of the earth, the darkness and at its base lay the youths intended destination; the place controlled by the capitals most infamous and dangerous gang known as the Stone Ravens, the place which had most aptly earned its namesake ‘The Pit’.

  The Pit was a mad place; forty stone steps and a further twelve meters underground the city streets and originally a waypoint, collection centre in the lowest level, part of the hive like sewer’s subsection. Soon after its completion in the quarter the sewer network was overrun by thieves, their passages and waterways were taken over by the criminals and abandoned by the workers, but this place went undiscovered for decades until the Stone Raven’s sudden and violent appearance, then this place became their well guarded meeting place, chief money earner and rumoured headquarters for their nefarious dealings and dominion. Its original purpose soon altered to serve the gangs whims, transformed in a fortnight from a dank and dreary cistern and water management centre to the hive of activity it was tonight. It was dry and warm compared to the darkened sewers which opened at each corner of this massive vaulted chamber with numerous fires crackling across each level, four enormous polished iron chandeliers and the myriad of torches lining the walls both spreading their heat and light throughout The Pit. Its arched solid rock ceilings stood a grand thirty five meters high with massive columns supporting its vaults, sixty eight meters long and half in breadth; The Pit was an awesome sight to behold. The Pit was separated into four distinct levels each with its own function and nefarious undertakings, each of the three wooden platforms masterfully constructed taking up one half of the gigantic chamber with an army of discreetly arrayed guards patrolling the crowds gathered keeping the peace as it were.

  The first level, the one the youths entered after stepping out of the winding staircase was easily as large as the tavern above and served its patrons their fill of food and beverages, its well stocked kitchen and cellars tucked into a side chamber behind the enormous elegantly crafted curved bar.

  Two sets of sixteen sturdy wooden steps led down to the second massive platform which as large as the first yet twice in length was full of tables where games of chance, cards, dice, tablets or various gambling took place on a nightly occasion. This was were The Stone Ravens made a great deal of their earnings and also where life was so perilous where fortunes were gained and lost every night as Laornar knew all too well; one moment one could be filthy rich, the next dirt poor or worse, in debt to the perilous gang, all in an instant and like the god Finneous ones very life could rest on the edge of a coin. 

  Below that a equal amount of broad sturdy steps was level devoted to levity, a secondary bar, two stages for various bands and dancers to entertain, a vast floor for dancing or congregating, minstrels, jesters, bards and wenches to please the gathered throngs, where all could enjoy themselves and with a grand balcony overlooking the activities taking place on the stone floor below. Also on that level, on each side of the platform were two round doors where patrons purchase the company of, for lack of a better term, The Pit’s legendary troop of whores to enjoy a more private experience, chiefly the pleasures of the flesh as Eveinis could attest vehemently.

  The final level was where the Pit gained its violent infamy and namesake, a further six steps to the sheer stone floor, where the pits reside. Here cut into the solid stone were three massive deep pits originally acting as reservoirs and the like, the cascading waterways which had fed them from the corresponding sewers now filled, each pit long since emptied or dried out and their smooth stone bases lined with fine dirt and sturdy railings constructed round their yawning openings for onlookers to cheers down, wager and celebrate the various blood sports held below.

  The smallest called the Yarhiller Asirreith, translated from the old tongue as the fiend pit; roughly six meters across was were the host of wild beasts were pitted in fights to the death each night and on rare occasions the odd scoundrel was condemned to survive a bout within. Such bouts were widely frowned upon throughout the kingdom but the beasts kept by the trainers were held in the highest regard, often eating and receiving better care then their masters, some of the ravenous beasts enjoyed a better lifestyle then any in the southern quarter. It was an honour to pit their most prized animals against another’s, also for the sake of variety wild beasts or monsters were caught and brought in to fight and on the rarest of occasions, if a particularly vicious and dangerous creature was captured it could be pitted against a human combatant much like the great arena in the eastern quarter.

  The second, standing slightly larger over nine meters across but far deeper was were men fought naked except for their trousers and bare fists and were most disputes were settled if problems erupted between patrons in The Pit; it was considered the fair and civilised way of proceeding if one could rationalise a gang of thieves rationale. Called the Ciffoes Asirreith or feud pit; every evening matches were arranged to fill the night with controlled fistfights, also there were periods left free so if any disputes of honour were raised such issues could be settled below, the victor retained his honour whilst the defeated suffered the pains and injuries of the lose and possibly forced to re-pay monetary damages if necessary. These contests were relatively fair and very few died within the feud pit, the rules were simple, one could utilise any part of ones body to defeat his opponent but weapons were strictly prohibited. It was rare for those who entered to escape without being bloodied but in the end most walked out of the pit, at the very worst the defeated would be carried off unconscious, beaten, bruised with perhaps a few broken bones or in the extreme cases suffer sever permanent damage which crippled the man. Also, every month tournaments were scheduled featuring the most successful fighters, this was usually an all night affair, sometimes several, but such events were filled with pomp and corresponded with huge amounts of gold changing hands wagering on ones favourite combatants. To the champion of the tournament went the spoils, his name glorified throughout The Pit, his purse made heavy by his share of the winnings earned from the wagering during the contests plus a further forty silver pieces, ten gold and one of several sizable gemstones. The only catch to this honour was that the champion was subsequently made a marked man, every warrior frequenting The Pit would be eagerly coveting a bout with him and the victor would have to defend his title the following tournament; essentially the one who won one of these monthly tournaments would be faced with a nightly onslaught of violence focused upon him and it was not surprising that no one in the short history of The Pit had ever successfully retained the honour of tournament champion and in some rare instances did not even live long enough to enter the following contest and defend the honour.

  The final pit, largest by far then her sisters just over ten meters wide and equally deep was the Veirshieus Asirreith or the Blood Pit and the one which held the highest infamy within The Pit. This was singularly the place where the greatest wagering took place each night, where vast fortunes were won and lost in an instant like the unending tide and where the rivers of blood was spilt adding to the flow of nightly corpses unceremoniously disposed of in the vast reaches of the sewers. Like the great stadiums and arena in the capital combatants fought furiously full armed, armoured and to the death for glory, honour, revenge and most importantly for coin. The rules within the Blood pit were simple, there were no rules, one could sport ones own armour or be supplied with a wide variety by the Pit Master and utilise an equally vast array of weapons of choice and let the fates be the judge, the victor lived and obviously the loser did not. Contests ranged from men with severe grievances with one another, disputes between gangs or affiliated groups, pre-arranged bouts (these were usually filled with vagrants, beggars and various criminals), challenges of honour (these were the most common and typically involved money or a woman’s affection) and like the Ciffoes a monthly tournament was only permitted in its lethality in the final stages limiting early bouts to first blood. The champion of which received a bloated purse of gold and gems and like the feud pit was forced to defend his title the following month, whenever his honour was challenged or on the whim of the Pit Master.

  The last area within The Pit, albeit the most secretive was hidden behind a great solid iron door constantly guarded by a half dozen well armed men which could be found directly behind the Veirshieus Asirreith. This place was widely rumoured to be the enclave of the Stone Ravens themselves, where the gang conducted it bloody affairs and where it’s equally notorious membership resided. Few entered within its door without invitation and none who were taken there without were ever seen again, to be summoned there was an privilege, to gain an audience by the gangs anonymous leader; an individual called only by ‘The Boss’ was by far the highest honour and most sought after by all who frequented The Pit. Rumours about what might lay behind the iron door, what might go on within and the identity of ‘The Boss’ were too numerous and varied to state but the latter ranged from a simple whore who had risen to power after slaughtering her master taking no prisoners since to the king of Aultenvique himself secretly controlling the infamously powerful and notoriously violent gang.

  Each of the youths had very different but none the less obvious reasons for coming to a place such as this though they shared only the one; the lust for adventure, danger and their shared company. For Laornar it was the thrill of the wager, the ecstasy of winning, the agony of defeat but the unquenchable desire to earn an elusive fortune to seemingly finally satisfy his father. What even his dearest friends did not know was Laornar’s dreams of earning enough gold to disappear from his family, his title and loose himself in the distant tropical south where he planned to purchase a particular island he could only imagine about. The beautiful yet deserted little island was called Shouphaer, one of the many in a long chain of abandoned islands near those occupied by the Venos-Zuallei and as it turns out the birthplace of the doorman Sergius. Laornar had learned of it one particularly fortunate evening where the young noble had done more winning then loosing and had caught the dark skinned man in a very rare jubilant humour and equally talkative mood. Laornar had filled the large man with enough ale to kill a horse and they had a relatively pleasant albeit an awkward one when the doorman’s past was brought up. Still once Sergius mentioned his clan’s island, describing in such detail and passion her white beaches, the lush vegetation and groves of fruit trees, tranquil aqua seas, warm sun and pleasant breezes the young noble could think of nothing else. He had made subtle discrete inquiries into the island’s ownership, purchased any and all information and maps regarding the place and even sent a number of correspondences to the clan chiefs who resided nearby. In the end Laornar discovered the island could be purchased in whatever name he chose to live by, but for a sizable sum yet not one that the noble could not manage if only his luck would change. His desire to live a life of leisure on her sandy beaches basking in the midday sun was what kept the noble going, it was not just the fact that the island was a world away and so pleasing by all who described it, it was the notion of leaving his life behind, his family and most importantly is disapproving father behind, the island of Shouphaer was as close to the ends of the earth as one could get without disappearing of it’s know horizons altogether. From that fortunate night he had spoken to the doorman to this Laornar had thought of nothing else; but as it seemed Finneous had other plans for the youth, it appeared that from the moment his dreams were hatched in his mind all attempts to gain the gold he required to realise it flitted out of his reach which depressed the young noble more then his friends could ever imagine.

  Eveinis on the other hand coveted the company of the luxurious women the Pit could offer and though he dreamed of exploring the eastern wildernesses far away from Aultenvique’s great wall he was contented in waiting until his friends decided what their futures would hold. His plans, although just as lofty as Laornar’s took a back seat in his thoughts to that of the fairer sex or the well being and happiness of his friends. He had made the mistake only once in discussing his plans with his father and received nothing but grief and cruel jest at his expense for his troubles, ever since he had kept his dreams and company to himself. Should his mates wish to leave their lives behind and disappear into obscurity Eveinis would not be troubled as long as there was a healthy supply of fair wenches along the way, his dreams of exploring and exotic trade routes could wait. He knew the prince was itching to escape his gilded cage, leaving his title behind to start a new life, but Phoenix was not one for thinking too far ahead and Eveinis knew that the prince would be more then content to follow his cousin wherever he chose and that he was no different; he was certain of one thing, it would be the greatest adventure to date and that was more then enough for the merchant’s son.

  Unlike his friends prince Phoenix had no dreams, no aspirations of grandeur, adventure or lives of leisure; he knew he would never be king, nor did he wish to. The prince loathed life in the courts and despised politics and nobility. He found the notion of being a lord of lands dull and hated the idea of commanding any other let alone a part of the royal army. He was not a leader, he was content just to live as he pleased, which was impossible as it stood at the moment which was precisely why he chose to venture away from the palaces comforts as often as he could to seek out a way to feel alive. Plainly speaking he never felt more alive then when he fought, combat was his life though he had no taste for war. Most people would call his mad for turning his back on his royalty, others would say he was being , most people would kill to be as wealthy or enjoy a life of luxury as the prince did, others would kill just to have a stable roof over ones head and no fears of going hungry but Phoenix didn’t care what anyone thought of his actions. That was the point, he never chose to be royalty, he never wanted to be one even as a child, he did not ask to be a royal and could no more choose his royal lineage then the most unfortunate soul could theirs, his lot was his to bare, and theirs was theirs. Phoenix often entered himself in as many bouts in the Ciffoes pit as he was permitted and if there were no positions available he would inevitably find ways to seek out a fight. He had never killed a man before though there were many nights he was pulled off an unfortunate unsuspecting bloodied soul with his blade poised at another’s throat. His friends often worried about their friend’s wild abandon in which he sought combat and Phoenix was often scorned for bloodying a member of the court, hapless guard or even another noble for little or no reason other then simply because he could or the desire suited him. In the Pit his pension for violence was tolerated which is the primary reason he followed his friends there each night, but whilst there he was far away from the palace’s lenience’s and the possibility of viable mortal threat to his life was very real and yet this did not sway the prince one bit. Still his actions were never far from the watchful eyes of the court and more importantly the royal king himself, both struggled to ascertain a means of quelling the prince’s lusts, the solution thus far was to have Phoenix mercilessly followed by the palace guards, his movements closely scrutinised by the staff in an attempts to keep to keep the prince from himself. The king had once tried to council his son and even considered sending the prince to a far off temple or monastery to quell his aggression, or place him under the influences of his vast army to give his son’s lust for violence more direction yet Phoenix’s mother, the regal queen had always interceded saying her son suffered from nothing more then the madness of youth. Phoenix adored his nightly indulgences of bloody sport and danger, the praises and rush he received in victory and even relished the pain of the wounds or injuries he received in gaining such violent victories. He relished the reputation he had earned with these criminals more then any he held within his father’s courts, the king’s champion was the only one within the palace who saw the prince for what he truly was and the infrequent praises the massive warrior had imparted on Phoenix were held closer to heart then any which might have come from his own father.

  Tonight prince Phoenix was in an eager mood for that evening he was scheduled for two bouts in the Ciffoes pit but was now running extremely tardy for his first fight and the faster he could find the Pit Master the quicker he would find his way into the dirt floor and across from an opponent. This excited him far more then any intoxicating drink, gorgeous whore, wench or game of chance could ever offer; his two closest friends knew this all too well and could plainly see this in his eyes the moment they entered. They reached the bar and the prince purchased a round of ales for the three then leaned against it fidgeting with as much pent up frustration as a caged animal who yearned for nothing more then release.

  Both Eveinis and his cousin watched him as he surveyed the crowd with hungry eyes and when a brawl broke out on the platform below it was Laornar who stepped in front of his lustful gaze and jested to break his bloody concentration.

  “Fancy a game of the tablets cousin? I could use an opponent I was certain to defeat, I would thank you and so would my purse.” The young noble laughed giving Phoenix a playful jab to the gut but stepped back instinctively went the prince flashed his crazed gaze upon him.

  The Phoenix’s face softened and managed a slight smile. “You both aught to keep your purse stings fastened for as long as you can, the gods only know you cannot afford to loose further coins dear cousin.”

  “Too right Phoenix.” Laornar agreed taking a sip from his mug of ale flashing the merchant’s son a quick look for aid.

  “Aye, let us take the place in for a moment before we loose ourselves into its passions.” Eveinis added nodding into his own mug. “Another drink to warm our bone perhaps, then it’s down to business, yes?”

  “Agreed.” Phoenix said quickly but unconvincingly.

  They finished their ales in silence, the two friends staring at the prince who had returned to watching the gathering crowds, ever watchful sings of aggression or fight to step into. He barely noticed his friends whispering to one another, nor did he hear how worried his cousin was at his state, neither mattered to the prince; his rage was becoming focussed, he barely tasted the ale he drank or knew he was drinking it at all.

  At last he was interrupted when Eveinis presented him with a fresh mug while politely taking away the empty on the prince was still making the motions of drinking. The prince accepted the mug without speaking and it was then the friends decided it was best just to let the prince to his devises.

  Eveinis was the first to speak making and exaggerated cough to gain the prince’s attention. “Well my fine fellows, I have to see a man about a dog… if you know what I mean.” The merchant’s son smiled pleasantly nodding in the direction of the lower platforms where a particularly fetching wench was beaming up in his direction, smiling invitingly whilst chatting to an attractive whore. 

  And with a playful punch to each of his friend’s shoulders, a broad smile and a knowing wink Eveinis left them to sauntering off disappearing into the crowd. With the prince’s attention momentarily swayed from the bustling crowds Laornar stepped into his field of vision and smiled warmly. “Eveinis eh; like a dog in heat he is.”

  The prince did not acknowledge the young noble’s jest leaving Laornar to laugh uncomfortably alone into his own mug.

  “I suppose that leaves just you and I dear cousin.” Laornar added looking over the rim of his mug of ale, but the prince’s gaze had once again drifted back to inspect the crowds before them.

  He did not respond absently sipping at his own drink glaring at any patron who passed too close to them.

  Laornar raised an eyebrow, sighed and stepped closer to his cousin and raised his voice. “Phoenix! I am speaking to you, the very least you could do is pay some heed!”

  The prince finally shifted his eyes back focusing his attentions on his cousin. Laornar saw the look of madness in his eyes, the stony mask of his stern face, yet they each softened as their eyes met and Phoenix eventually broke into a genuine smile.

  “I apologise Laornar.” Phoenix said warmly taking a long draw from his mug leaning back onto the tall bar.

  Laornar rolled his eyes, he knew he would not be able to sway his cousin for long, this was as good as it got when the prince had blood on his mind. “When do you fight?”

  “I am not entirely certain.” Was all the prince responded with.

  “In the pit or out cousin? Or does it matter to you this evening? In any case I should like to place a wager on such a contest so do me the honour of at least attempting to make your fight a creditable one. Will you do that much for me?” Laornar said leaning close to his cousin’s ear speaking just loud enough over the crowd’s hum so as to be heard but did not take his eyes from the prince’s.

  “I will try cousin; I was meant to present myself some time ago for my first bout. Arrabey shall be extremely cross, but I am sure he will arrange another opponent for me before night’s end. But either way; inside the pit or out maters not to me, but I shall compensate you should I be unable to be arrange a bout this eve, will that satisfy you Laornar?”

  Laornar frowned deeply and looked away. “I do not need you charity Phoenix.” The noble said openly but knew his cousin likely did not hear or knew how his words had wounded him. For a long moment he did not turn back, then did so only to add. “There is that shyster Malenvoih, that bastard owes me a bloody small fortune.” He said thus barely opening his mouth and began to walk away but turned one last time. “Do inform me when you are to fight Phoenix. Until then, may Finneous smile on us both.” With that Laornar departed without a smile to loose himself in the games of fortune on the level below.

  Phoenix shrugged oblivious to his hurtful remark and thought no more of it, he drained his mug of the last of it’s ale and feeling warm with intoxication quickly purchased a refill and began to work his way rather forcefully down to the pits. He passed both anonymous patrons and those who thought they knew him, some attempted to hail him or make some effort acknowledge his progress but most simply moved from his path, he paid none of them a glimmer of heed on his focused journey down to the Pit’s floor.

  With the stone floor in sight the prince quickened his pace shouldering his way threw the tightening throng and reached the broad wooden steps leading down to the final level; it was there that a extremely tall deep forest green brilliant white fur lined trench coat wearing stranger with fiery ginger hair struck shoulders with Phoenix’s as they passed spilling his fresh ale over the prince’s thick coat. The Prince spun about in a sudden drunken rage, seized the stranger’s coat arm and roared, his white knuckled fist clenched round the hilt of his sword.

  “Watch yourself you ignorant slob! Mark me you miserable wretch and I shall make you drown in your own blood!”

  The stranger turned very slowly standing a step above and towered over the prince and gazed down at him evenly with shimmering clear blue eyes that, for the briefest of moments between fury filled murderous thoughts the prince found familiar but that moment fleeted away without recognition. The long fiery haired man, who stood a breath taller then any Phoenix had ever met or known and looked the prince up and down with an expression that the young royal could not fathom out and spoke evenly with a thick rolling accent the prince could not place. “That I shall boy.”

  Then without another word the stranger simple shrugged his arm free of the prince’s grip, lazily flipped a gold coin into his mug of ale, turned his back to the still enraged royal and continued on his way up the steps.

  Phoenix, still full of fury’s heat mixed in equal doses with his intoxication, made a move to pursue the offending stranger but an unseen hand grasped his shoulder making the prince swing around ready to strike dead whomever dared touch him.

  “Your late!” The all too familiar growling raspy voice of the ‘Pit Master’ roared somehow remaining behind the prince.

  The old man had been the Pit Master since the Stone Ravens had entered the southern quarter and laid claim to this place, it was rumoured that he had been a career officer in the king’s vast army and though he may appear to be past his fighting prime Phoenix knew the old soldier was a fierce, ravenous and cunning warrior. The man must have been well into his sixties but he was built like a man chiselled from pure granite and scared just the same, his face was marred with more scares the wrinkles. His hair was thinning, short cropped and dirty grey, his angled jaw covered in a carpet of stubble and he wore a crimson bandage diagonally across his brow covering the eye he apparently lost in combat an untold number of years ago. Other then the distinctive bandage, the upper right side of the old soldier’s face was horrible scarred from a burn. No one knew why or what events lead Arrabey to quite his Majesty’s services but it was clear he had lost none of it’s training and discipline, the Pit Master ran the pits as if he were a general and her combatants were his unflinching troops.

  For an instant Phoenix forgot about the offence and stared back at Arrabey who violently pushed several hapless patrons aside harshly glaring up at Phoenix. “Your late, you were meant to be presented over an hour ago!” the ‘Pit Master’ snarled shoving a half drunken man over the side of the railing.

  Phoenix glanced over his shoulder to search for the stranger who had vanished into the crowd above then watched the helpless drunkard tumble to the stone floor below crashing threw a crowded table scattering those once perched around it to the winds only to return hovering over the broken man. He then turned back to Arrabey and shrugged whilst taking another sip of his ale, tasted metal and fished out the smooth coin within his mug. He stared at the flawless coin in his gloved hand and marvelled, for the gold piece did not bare the king’s mark, it bore no markings at all. “Have you seen the madness outside? There is a bloody gale force tempest raging out there! My mates and I were delayed, it wasn’t our fault!”

  “I don’t give a rat’s damn if the heavens themselves fell with fire and brimstone, it is you problem and not mine! You missed you bout and I’ve been the one forced to re-schedule around your blasted idle tardiness, if your harbouring any hope of being entered into the tournament at the end of this month you’d better get that festering slothful arse of yours into gear! Your just fortunate that ‘the boss’ has taken notice of you, though I can’t imagine why, he reckons you’re at very least a competent fighter and worthy of another chance or I’d be cutting you a new smile sooner then look at your mug again!”

  Phoenix cleared his throat hiding this by taking another drink; suddenly his warm drunken buzz fell away leaving the prince in a very cold sober place on the steps. “Sorry Arrabey, like I said, it wasn’t our fault, you know I wouldn’t disappoint you on…”

  “Shut up you snivelling wench, I care not! Wipe your tears away, pull up your knickers and follow me, your due in the pit presently!” Arrabey snarled turning away kicking a man in the face who made the unknowingly grievous error to cross the Pit Master’s way then stormed away.

  “Who am I fighting?” the prince called after the gruff old man while balancing his goblet of ale as he pushed his way to follow.

  “Never you mind, you worthless maggot infest motherless bastard! You bloody well fight who I say you fight!” Arrabey spun suddenly slapping the prince’s drink from his hand levelling his eye to the youth’s and a hard stare. “And you’d better get your head outta your own arse, outta the drink and into the game sonny! If I hadn’t made myself perfectly clear, I’ll tell you plain; this is your last chance, impress ‘the boss’ and you’ll win your place in the tournament, keep acting the drunken louse and they’ll be fishing what’s left of you outta the lake in the morn! Understood!”

  The prince’s goblet flew in the air striking a large man in the back; he turned blades drawn with murderous intent in his eyes but upon Arrabey tearing his gaze from Phoenix to the soaked stricken man, the stranger’s face fell and slinked away into the crowd. Shocked but no less upset the prince smirked then faced the pit master. “My thanks for your lenience…”

  “You listen clear aye,” Arrabey interrupted again grabbing Phoenix by the nape of the neck snarling up at his from inches away. “I do not re-schedule for ANYONE you hear, wouldn’t do it from the flaming king himself if he were here, do you get me! If it were up to me you’d be hanging from the chandeliers by your hairless balls, but ‘the boss’ says you fight, so you fight. You got his good graces to thank sonny, not mine!” Arrabey snarled levelling a wicked finger in the prince’s face then clapped him across the back of the head with his free hand.

  There was only so much ribbing one could take in such dangerous company without appearing weak, Phoenix knew this and made his point clear with an evil smile tapping his once concealed basilard against the aged soldier’s inner thigh. “My balls may be shern as you so elegantly put Arrabey, but at least I have them, which is more then I can say for you if your not careful.”

  Arrabey froze suddenly, locked a narrowed steely gaze with his lone eye onto the prince, frowned but did not speak.

  “Now who was that man who so rudely struck me just then? I should like to thank him for his troubles after I fight!” the prince growled replacing the sharp blade back in its home within his belt.

  “Do as you wish, but I would not if I were you, and if you have a sensible fibber left in that sluggish brain of yours, you’ll let the matter lie. If not you will not walk out of this place tonight, they will be carrying your bloody morsels out in a sack!” the old grizzled man snarled while tilting his head in the direction of the highest platform, Phoenix turned to catch a fleeting glimpse of the stranger reached its summit before once again disappearing from view.

  “That stranger is not one to be trifled with sonny and frankly he’s outta yer depth. Best save your strength for the pit boy, if you knew what was good for you!” Arrabey added tugging the prince back down towards the stone floor at the base of the stairs.

  Phoenix tore his gaze away from whence the stranger had vanished, his attentions abruptly turned to a brawl which had suddenly broke out two levels above and his unbridled rage turned to concern. Gambling tables were overturned, several of the staff and innocent bystanders were thrown aside and as the prince watched, three men met their violent bloody demise, two lay covered in blood and another was dashing from the scene before the closest group of guards had a chance to arrive. He scanned the on looking crowds and was relieved to find his cousin Laornar playing some game of chance on the far side of the platform and blissfully unaware of the nearby fatal violence, the prince found himself letting loose a sigh of relief as he continued on. As Arrabey led the prince to the stone floor of The Pit the youth spied Eveinis leaning against one of the massive support pillars and motioned his awareness of the young noble’s proximity with a slightest of nods. It was the massive grin and knowing wink which alerted Phoenix to the wench kneeling before his friend along with the indiscreet act she was performing on the merchant’s son.

  The prince had to laugh and muttered to himself as he moved through the crowds gathering around the pits. “Good and faithful Eveinis, eye always on the prize eh; even in the face of all his distractions. Good lad!”

  “What was that boy?” Arrabey hummed without turning as the old man led him past the first pit where two massive dogs tore each other apart to the thunderous cheers of those leaning over the rails to watch.

  “Hmm?” Phoenix paused shaking his head with shock, he was certain he had spoken only to himself and had to focus through a drunken wave of disorientation. His mind cleared the prince responded. “Who was this stranger that I should be so weary of him?”

  “He has no name that I am aware of lad.” The Pit Master growled continuing on his way unceremoniously hoisting a man in his path over the rail and into the pit below where the unsuspecting man was promptly mauled by the wining dog much to the entertainment of the crowd. “ The man comes and goes as he pleases and never leaves a name on his departure, though just the other day Hoametan challenged the stranger to a duel for looking at his wench.”

  “And?” The prince pressed.

  “The stranger lives, Hoametan does not and his whoring wench is back plying her trade with scarcely a tear shed.” Arrabey said as a mater of fact as he moved towards the second Ciffoes pit.

  Phoenix pursed his lips and spat as he walked but did not comment fully aware that the old man would elaborate should he feel the urge to. “That bloke strolled into the Veirshieus Asirreith cool as the fresh winter’s night, bowed to Hoametan proper like then cut the bugger’s stupid head off quick as lightning without so much as a twitch and sauntered back to the bar above, bought a drink and sat as if nothing important had transpired. He’s a queer one, didn’t even stay long enough to accept the purse of winnings and never spoke a word of it to anyone; in fact whatever he said to you would be the first words that fellah has uttered since he first started coming here. I’d steer clear of that one I would.”

  That was quite a feat and would have been quite an event to behold, Hoametan was quite a weight in the Blood Pit and threw his standing inside and with the Stone Ravens eagerly. Many had feared the likes of him, more gave him a wide birth and Hoametan had gained a cruel and bloodthirsty reputation often killing a man for no reason at all let alone one who dared spare a glance at a particular wench he fancied. But that was how things were and the prince knew it all too well, one instant a man could be rich and respected, honoured and feared then the next destitute or worse a headless corpse.

  Phoenix shrugged as they reached the railing around the Ciffeos pit, peered down watching the two men locked in vicious combat and thought aloud to no one in particular. “Where was I that night?”

  “The blazes if I know nor bloody care boy! Do I look akin to that saggy breasted whore you call a mammy?” \Arrabey snarled looking over to the prince who was transfixed on the fight in the sandy pit below. “Don’t think I’ve met that whoring mother of yours. Where did you say she plied her trade again youngin’?” the Pit Master’s sole eye narrowed but know that Phoenix was scarcely listening, the old man knew the type of man the prince was, he knew that type all too well; fighting was in the youth’s blood, it was in his sole and it would consume the young man whenever it was nearby.

  Phoenix wouldn’t have paid the insult any heed even had he heard the Pit Master utter it, he was too transfixed on the men pummelling each other no more then a few meters below his feet and longed to be no other place but in their midst unleashing his pent up fury upon them with his bare fists. There were two reasons why the prince would not have taken offence; the first was the prince was never close to his true mother in the first place and secondly, he had told everyone that his mother was in fact a whore. It was only when one of the combatants had bludgeoned the other into an unmoving bloodied unconsciousness lump in the centre of the dirt floor that the Pit Master Arrabey shouted for the contest to halt snapping the prince from his trance. Then the old man tapped Phoenix gingerly on the shoulder and waved for him to follow, from the rail they circled round the outer ring to the solid iron gate propped open which served as an entrance to the two rooms the fighters utilised to disrobe and prepare for combat below. The prince lazily descended the sheer stone stairs carved from the solid rock just as the passages and two chambers twelve steps further into the earth. There he paused giving polite passage to the victor of the previous bout who’s body was severely bruised and face painfully swollen, to Phoenix the man scarcely looked pleased at his victory which the prince could barely comprehend. He turned back to find Arrabey waiting half way up the steps regarding him evenly with his lone eye.

  “Alright lad, you are on the right, you know the drill. Get yourself prepared, you fight after the next bout. Fight well, be strong and may the gods smile on you tonight.” The old man growled with moderate friendliness turning back to climb the stair disappearing from the prince’s view.

  He had turned to enter his designated chamber when the Pit Master shouted from above. “I have a few coins on your head boy, do not disappoint me! And remember you worthless sack of rancid dung, the boss will be watchin’!” Then the iron gate slammed down with a resonating finality.

  Phoenix laughed to himself, he was in no mood to loose tonight, so he walked to the yawning leading to the side chamber and had to step aside as a bare oily chested man who was obviously fighting next came out of the room all fired up for his match and watched him walk up the slight slope leading to the gated pit entrance before entering the room. Inside the dressing chamber were two other men preparing to fight, Phoenix recognised them both and one in particular whom the prince had defeated a full month ago. Both men solemnly acknowledged the young royal’s entrance with either nods of the head or slight waves before returning to their routines. The prince took his place at the far end of the long dank hollowed out chamber and began to disrobe slowly handing each article of clothing, his coin purse along with his sword belt and other concealed blades to a patiently waiting attendant who ceremoniously handed the youth a wooden token accounting for his items. The attendant then slid a stone chest from the sheer wall at the prince’s feet, places his belongings within then locked it before sliding it back into the wall. After which Phoenix was painstakingly frisked to ensure that the prince was no longer carrying any hidden blades, once satisfied, the attendant departed without uttering a single word throughout the entire transaction.

  Now naked from the waist up prince Phoenix busied himself by rubbing an oily salve over his skin, methodically massaging his muscles as he went. Next he began wrapping both his wrists, palms and knuckles with the immensely long linen bandage provided for each fighter to give their hands a margin of protection as they fought. All that remained was for the prince to stretch his limbs and muscles for combat and run through his own pre-fight routine of practicing his various strikes all the while his breathing and heart remained constant and by looking at the youth one would never know the quaking anticipation with charged his taunt body. Moments later roars and cheers echoed from the passage from the pit and filtered into the chamber, all three men straightened instinctively, they each knew what an eruption of noise like that meant; someone within the dirt pit had just unleashed the violent flurry which had ended the bout leaving another probably broken and bloodied in the sand. It was not surprising then when another attendant ducked into the side chamber and motioned for Phoenix to follow; finally he was being summoned to combat, at last it was time for the prince to enter the feud pit and for the young royal, that time could not have come any sooner. Every inch of his body screamed for it, his thoughts lusted for the fight no matter whom it might be against, he was not afraid, young Phoenix was like a frenzied beast about to be unleashed upon it’s unsuspecting prey, a prey with no place of escape and in the prince’s mind, no hope of survival.



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