“Lords and layfolk, we have our newest challengers, young and full of fire. This duo is made up of Scaleen of the Brightly Hidden Blade. Quarter-century scout and if my sources are right, a former guard of our great city!”  The announcer was a deep but enthusiastic tenor, the source of which we couldn’t see. 

We descended a ramp into an octagon of hard stone. Four of the walls were likewise stone, with various braces, steel rings and chains set into them, while the other four walls were like ours, a ramp descending into the arena, with doors at the far end. The arena almost seemed open air, but it was clear that arena opened up into the building above street level, turning what I’d thought was a warehouse into a whole interior blood bowl. About fifteen feet up, there were screens where people watched, and cheered, and worshipped. At my introduction there were cheers, likely for my impending loss.

“And with him, we have but a fledgling to the scales of blood, Justice Kaedri, so called Ender of the Red Dawn and mage, and yes, you are hearing me right, she’s only level nine!”

The crowd went much more wild at that, causing Justice’s firm, cool confidence to flicker, as she stepped, just fractionally, closer to me. 

It said something to me, that Justice, a foreigner who’d learned about my world from a distant, top down view, was unsettled by the rituals of Ahmesh, god of slaughter. It said a great many things. For one, that Justice was not quite as overconfident as she had been when we first met. That her world likewise had reservations about outright worship of a deity of violence. 

It told me there was nothing in her knowledge that softened the image of Ahmesh over the course of my world’s history. We needed to get this fight over with and leave. 

We stepped into the octagonal stone arena, and behind us, a dark iron gate rose from the ground, trapping us in the arena unless we wanted to try to scale the twelve foot bars. The stone arena was surprisingly bereft of stains and marks, but the bars were not. 

“And returning as the victors of the last two matches, we have the Dread Viper Jarrec, Level Thirty-Four Ranger! That’s right, his last bout gained him that accolade of experience. With him is Soralee of the Silver Dart. She’s no slouch as a Level Thirty-Two Fighter. Seeing that grin on her face, I think she’s expecting this fight to push her over the edge to the next tier!” Our opponents sauntered down the ramp, waving up at the crowds, as if they’d already won.

Jarrec was short for a Human, only five feet tall and shorter than Justice. He carried a bow and had a couple hand crossbows hanging from harnesses at his waist. His armor was comprised of heavy clothing in greys and dark reds, perfect for slipping into the shadows, but easily spotted in the brightly lit arena. It was the sort of layered armor that I’d expect from someone wanting to deflect claws and lesser slashing attacks. If he were wealthy enough, there might even be metal filaments threaded through the seams, to further protect him.

Soralee looked like she might be an Elf, but it was hard to say under the voluminous hair loosely bundled under the sailor’s tricorne. She loosely, almostly aimlessly, held a rapier in one hand, twirling the tip to some unheard tune. Her armor was less conspicuous, chainmail that spread out into a weighted pleated skirt that swayed with her motions. Where the pleats ended, armored sandals extended up to her shins. She held only the one weapon, but she looked to have a spare set of short swords on her back just in case. 

The two were not completely fresh, as I could see bloody nicks, places where the grey was stained deeper black on Jarrec, and Soralee sported a bright black left eye that only just looked like the swelling was going down. It did not reassure me, but I affected a sense of unconcern, casually flipping one blade between a standard and reverse grip. Justice hadn’t stepped back either, and took my cue of casual alertness by shuffling through a few pages of her book in idle curiosity. 

“Which of these two duos will walk out of the ring? Will it be our fresh young agents, bright eyed and eager? Or will the bloodied but brutal walk away again, purses all the more full?”

From above, where the magic spotlights illuminated the arena almost too bright to stare into, a small platform slowly levitated down, upon which an orc of indeterminate gender stood, wearing the green robes of Whendil, the god of balance. They were older, and seemed weary by the task of moderating a bloodsport, likely having had to use their ability to heal a few contestants from the edge of death more than once this morning already. 

They stepped off the platform once it was a foot away from the ground. It ascended without them and they said, voice amplified, “By the power vested in me by the Order of Sumarian Gods, I am here to mediate this trial. This is to be a clean fight on even footing. You will stop when I say, and you will fight when the cymbals crash. Remember this is not a mortal fight, and if I have to stop the fight for excessive zeal again, it will disqualify the offending party.” The orc looked over at our opponents specifically, where Soralee blinked in mock confusion. Jarrec managed to maintain a stony stare at Justice and I. 

“You have been told the rules of this ancient rite. Do your cause just, and the Gods will smile upon thee.” They walked away from us, standing near the gate at our right. They turned around and raised their hand. They slammed their fist down into their other palm, and a loud, deep cymbal crashed somewhere above us.