Page 5 of The Ballad of a Bard

There was no Saint for that.

If the fighter did not make it out of the pit, then a compensation fee would be sent to their family and relatives in order to ‘make things fair’.

Most mortals tended to be a bit barbaric, as shown by the two men currently fighting in the pit.

West watched in a disgusted way that wouldn’t allow him to pull away. From their spot up in the veranda, he could make out the entirety of the fighting pit. The large chamber was a massive circle. Surrounding the pit that was filled with a thick layer ofbeige sand, was a wall of granite. The bedecked sponsors and the announcer stood around it, eagerly awaiting the outcome of the soon-to-be-over battle between two very different men.

Then, slightly up by eight feet, was the first row of spectators. There were about thirty-eight men shoved all around it, screaming down at the warriors that beat each other into a senseless pulp. The calibre of humans was not that of the finest, mostly heavy-pocketed men. These were the hardworking folk that made up the Bronze Gate.

In the second row, another eight feet up, were the men of the Silver Gates. With slightly more to their names. Names were everything here. A certain surname could get you into the right sort of places.

Or the wrong, such as this one.

The third row was for the richest men of all, the men of the Gold Gate. They held the strings and controlled the puppets below as they funnelled coins into illegal fights like these ones. Pitchers of wine were passed around by serving boys, no older than twelve and girls who carried out sweet and savoury treats which often included themselves, if they were of age.

In order to enter the Pits, one had to find the tavern marked with a swinging sign that read, “The Bronzed Goblet”. A simple cup sat on it, but the scarlet liquid inside wasn’t wine; it was blood. At the counter, Altviar whispered an order for a steel cutlass. The barmaid wiped her hands on her apron before ushering them to a secluded room, showing them the door that led down into the depths of despair and death.

West hated the sneaking suspicion that coated him in an oily layer as they entered the establishment. Down they went, through many staircases until it felt like they found the bowels of hell itself. Now, seeing the pits for what they truly were, heunderstood why they had to fall so far down in order to reach their final destination.

Itwashell.

They remained in the second balcony, because anyone in the third and top tier would most definitely recognize the handsome Prince. Even in his shawl of cerulean that wrapped around his face and hid his sensual lips, his eyes were never forgettable.

“You seem like you’rereallyenjoying yourself.” Altivar commented from his right, smirking like a wild cat. “Loosen up, West.Unless you want to offer yourself up for the ring and show these miserable creations what arealfight looks like?”

“That wouldn’t be a fair fight.” West couldn’t help it; he chuckled softly. “And you know it.”

Because Saints, no matter their gender, were blessed with strength and skill. It didn’t matter what their outer shell looked like either, when they could choose to be as masculine or feminine as they pleased. West preferred to remain as a male, even if some of the others dabbled back and forth between the two sexes.

The Imp, in particular, went through a phase nearly twenty years ago where they’d popped back and forth, claiming that they held neither gender and yet both at the same time but the Saint represented the mind, good and bad, sane and insane. It made sense that they dabbled between all and nothing at once.

The crowd in all the levels roared like a mighty lion with bared teeth as the second competitor fell to his knees, blood spurting violently from a thin slice in his wide neck. He rapidly wheezed and tried to salvage his dark skin, but to no avail. Three minutes passed rather slowly and the man was dead. Two guards, dressed in studded leather entered the ring from the raised gate in the back and began to drag the dead human away, a red trail following in the golden sand.

“You’ll want to pay attention to what comes next.” The Prince seductively whispered to him, angling himself closer to the railing and reminding him of a slithering serpent weaving through stone cracks. “I think evenyou’llbe impressed by this specimen.”

“Is this who you’ve gambled all your mother’s money on?” West inquired without a hint of care. He highly doubted anything in this slop-pit could snag his interests enough to make this night fly faster.

Time was dragging.

He had more important things to do, such as picking up the portions due from his tenants and checking to see if repairs were required before another shift in the early hours.

“I don’t waste her money, Captain Saint. Iinvestit in winners.” He reprimanded, lowering his focus to the wrought iron gate that shut behind the victor. A new champion walked into the field from the opposing end, pumping both of his fists into the air to gain a ripple of support.

Red rose petals began to randomly fall from somewhere above them all, as if children climbed onto the unsturdy support beams of the tavern that hid it all, and dropped them by the bucket. West wouldn’t put it past the owners of this establishment, considering all of the other horrible things that happen in the dark.

The petals collected on the amber sand, mirroring that of drops of ruby blood. A fluttering feeling sank into his stomach as he began to hear the murmurs of men all around him. A chant started in the massive group of people, two words over and over again until it became a harmonic song that even Muse wouldn’t ignore.

A prayer, almost.

As if these men and women needed a bit of holy light added to their miserable lives, and this person, this mimic of aSaint,was the one to give it to them. The only gods that would listen were the ones in the room, and he held no pity for them at all as they put on plays of destruction and bloodbaths. Over and over again, until he could finally make the name out.

“Red Lyric.”

A strange conglomeration of words, even if the rose petals began to make sense now.

“Red Lyric.”

West wasn’t sure if it was the name of the next fighter, or if it was simply a memorised title that went up between all sorts of humans.

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