Mark Newton: City of Ruin

Brynd looked on in disbelief. 'Is this sort of thing legal?'

'You soldiers!' the fat portreeve laughed. 'Always sticklers for the law. Lutto can assure the commander that everything here is permitted under our ancient by-laws.'

Brynd glared at him. 'By-laws, indeed – sounds spurious, that. I'll take a guess that you yourself get a cut of the proceedings taken here?'

'A minor tax, is all.' Lutto smiled. 'We must try to use some of this bad money for good! If I shut it all down, then we would not be able to pay for some essentials, and then Lutto would have to spend all his time chasing stronger and faster men than himself.'

You don't spend much on such services, though, Brynd thought. I've seen the accounts.

Enhancing the eldritch ambience of the place, there were perplexing, gelatinous light-sources fixed to spikes or grouped together in small cages, and now and then someone unseen would dowse them in water, whereupon the luminous glow would intensify and flicker and oscillate.

'The lights, what are they?'

'Biolumes,' Lutto replied. 'They are taken from the sea. It is a recent practice, and not something encouraged, for ecological reasons, but it cannot be avoided.' Brynd had never heard of them. Lutto's maw opened to say something else, but then he seemed to think better of it.

As they took their places up at the back, Fat Lutto leaned closer to Brynd, and introduced him to how combat was performed this far north. 'Malum is the man I want you to see, and then you will know why a meeting with him could be of use. He should be coming on very soon.'

'A good fighter then, this Malum?' Brynd enquired.

'He loves the golem fights, so it is said, and who does not? A chance for combatants to prove themselves. Now and then you will see one of the great underground cultists, Gento Dumond, Feltok Dupre, even the old golemist Ninety-Six – and they bring their talents and relics here to the side of a combat ring, such as this, where their misshapen golems transform themselves from stone into fighters. How they then go about it, tearing chunks out of each other and then change state back into stone, and sit calmly to one side – if they managed to survive. My word! Such stagecraft is one thing, but thrice yearly you see the cultists bring in something a little more exotic: weird relic-enhanced animal-hybrids, say. There are times, too, where mortal men have to prove themselves worthy, as aspiring gang leaders. They must step into the arena to face these things… these bizarre fuck-ups of cultist obsession. Look, here's one now!' Lutto gestured with one porky hand.

Three figures wearing brown-hooded cloaks were busy pulling something from a hatch over to one side of the ring, where there was a gap in the seats, and as the trapdoor flipped open there arose a cheer, followed instantly by a collective intake of breath.

Out shambled three awkward, grotesque creations, something halfway between a reptile and a man, their skin tinged green with tribal tattoos circling the major muscle groups, and each of them stood a good head taller than any man present.

'What the hell are they?' Brynd demanded in awe. 'Lutto, what are these things?'

'As I say, cultists create these breeds by whim. Delightful, are they not? The sheer inventiveness-'

'Are they legal?'

'Here in Villiren, yes, of course.' The fat man pressed a palm against his chest, shaking his head. 'Very clever, yes. They're made only for fighting here, so it's quite all right. These are the most impressive I've seen in a long time!'

The three reptile men staggered forward in unlikely movements, exaggerated yet reluctant, sharp yet strained. Yanking at the ropes around their necks, they seemed to know that they were destined for the arena. Suddenly one slipped to the ground, as if it had forgotten the motions involved in walking, whereupon a man darted forwards with some metal object, shoved it into the creature's mouth, twisted something, firing off a contained bolt of purple light, before retreating back into the crowd as the amalgam pushed itself off the dusty ground.

Lutto explained, 'Cultist,' and Brynd nodded his understanding. They weren't looking at anything natural here.

Within the minute, the hybrids had all been handed weapons, scimitars and maces, and they began to communicate with each other in some primitive tongue, guttural noises replacing dialogue.

They then moved apart, gripping their weapons, eyeing all around them with purpose. Screams and whistles arose as the creatures shifted into a position they were obviously familiar with, at three corners of the square.

A single word was being passed around, just a whisper at first hidden among all the noise, then something more definite, taking form:

'Ma-lum! Ma-lum!'

'That chanting – what are they saying?' Brynd demanded of Lutto.

'They're asking for their favourite fighter,' Lutto declared. 'The star of our little show!'

'The one you brought me here to see?'

Lutto nodded, his chins wobbling, sweat glistening on his forehead. The crowd's violent incantation was eventually rewarded as a hooded figure emerged at the front of the audience. Two men removed his cloak and underneath the man was bare-chested. He must be freezing, Brynd thought, going about dressed like that with all this ice enveloping the city. Wearing only a pair of black breeches, he stepped under the rope, entering the square itself, and then Brynd realized he was also wearing a red mask concealing the upper half of his face. In fact, many members of the crowd watching were masked, more so than he had seen above ground. This was a cultural tic of Villiren that he hadn't yet become used to.

Malum took a short blade from one of the attendants: a messer, an armspan long with a single edge tapering to a turned-up tip. It was a weapon of choice for the common man, and perhaps this selection said something about him. Lean and muscled with tattoos flowing around his arms, his flanks, and around the base of his back. Black-haired, a few days of stubble on his face. There was something about his teeth, something distinctly savage, and this man looked as though he knew his way around a dark night like this.

'His name?' Brynd wanted confirmation.

'He is Malum, leader of a gang called the Bloods, and considered the most powerful man in the city's underworld. The Bloods have hundreds, possibly thousands of men in their ranks. Lutto himself has had dealings with him several times – best to get these types on one's side, no? That way Lutto is in control, too.'

Malum took his place in the fourth corner of the square, barely glancing at the three reptilian hybrids that occupied the others. The face painted on his mask looked as if he was contemplating some far-off fury.

Eventually someone rang a bell and a relative hush fell on the crowd. A man called out the rules, so far as they went: anything goes, last man standing wins, no pause for rest. Let it begin.

Another ring of the bell and the crowd roared and Malum was instantly alert. He strode forward, immediately holding his messer blade out ready for action. He took a defensive stance as the three hybrids approached simultaneously, their guttural communication with each other drowned out by the furore amid the audience. For a moment, the green-skinned beasts looked down on him as if to consider their next move. Then one slashed out with a mace, Malum leaned back deftly and another moved in with a sabre. Malum never retaliated, seemed content to roll to one side or the other, and there was something about his manner that said he was reading these creatures, observing how they moved. The third hybrid screeched then lunged at Malum with his scimitar. The human fighter ducked and slammed his blade quickly and methodically into the creature's stomach, then withdrew to the sight of black blood dripping down. The creature stared at it in disbelief, and turned to face its quarry once again. But before it could think further, Malum had raked his messer blade across its throat. It collapsed to one knee, eyes bulging, then fell forward to the ground. The other two hybrids wasted no time in stumbling forward, and brought their weapons crashing down on Malum, who simply spun backwards and out of their way. Using his astonishing speed, he manoeuvred past them, and clipped his blade across the heel of the one with the mace. It screamed, buckled to one knee as blood surged across the dusty ground. The crowd cheered and Malum smiled, holding his sword out to the auditorium. He was enjoying this, was arrogant even as he considered the two creatures again.