Wildling's Woe 5

Delvin secures the aid of the Arena's Champion

"Delvin. You know this office isn't where bets are made. Finally thinking of fighting?" The Dweller's rough voice slid free from its lips even as he half-ignored his unannounced guest, two of his four arms working away, one copying most of a ledger into another, another rhythmically racking the beads of his abacus faster than any banker.

"Still can't get one past you, can I?" Delvin said, stepping free of the shadowed corner he'd been perched in.

"Indeed. So, fighting?" Adabald finally looked up, staring Delvin in the eye. "Not yet I see. Not many years left that I'll make that offer you know. Less than five I'd think, what with your knee."

Delvin gave a wry smile. He'd told no one of the trouble his left knee had started giving him if he crouched too long. Adabald, though, made his living assessing every poor sod who found their way to his office, willing or not. Of course, he'd spot the hesitation. "No need to take it. But I have an offer for you. How much for your champion?"

Adabald hadn't expected the request if the barely off-beat click was a clue. "Holg? Not for sale. He's still paying his debts."

"No, he's not. He's won every bout in the last eight years. He's paid his debt back twice over, on your official books alone." Delvin had had only a few moments to skim the correct ledgers, but he had found that little factoid quicker than he expected.

"Feeding, training and housing his kind isn't cheap. That glaive of his was the same cost as the debt that put him in here, before any maintenance of it." Adabald showed no reaction to Delvin's knowledge of the ledger's contents, not even a shift in weight in his chair.

"Had you paid market price for it, I'd believe you. But we both know you've not paid a market price in a century, Adabald."

"Are you suggesting something, Delvin? Need I remind you what I know of you?" His tone hadn't changed, but the rebuke told Delvin plenty. He'd caught Adabald off-guard with his reading of the ledger. Adabald hadn't known Delvin knew their letters and numbers.

"Not at all. I'm just saying that I've an opportunity that he'd be handy for. Something to line everybody's pocket. Above board too."

Adabald's arms stopped working, both pairs clasping in front of him. "And what would a thief need a gladiator for that was legitimate business?"

"Adventurer, Adabald, adventurer. Tracking some kidnapped Wildlings. Two kids."

"Gladiator turns local hero?" Adabald chewed on the idea but was not entirely committed to it yet.

"Aye, something like that. Think of it. The fanfare on his return. The mourning should he not. A man forged in your arena, risking his life not for gold, but for a stranger's family. Not with a Dukedom could you buy publicity like that." Delvin could see the twitching in Adabald's hands. The abacus wasn't moving, but the Dweller was still counting. He just needed one last push. "And who's to say you need to wait to see the first fruits of such a venture? A gold for every two days he's not here."

Adabald's twitching fingers froze for a whole second. Delvin had him now. "Paid when?"

"Ten days worth right now. Anything in excess to be settled after."

Adabald's fingers kept still, his eyes narrowing as they dropped to Delvin's purse. "16 days. If you want his armaments to go with him, that is."

"12. Arms, armour, bedroll."

"14. Arms, armour, bedroll. Last offer, Delvin."

"And a good offer it is, old friend." Delvin offered his hand to Adabald, seven gold pieces stacked in his carefully cupped palm. Adabald accepted the payment, his lower right arm quietly scratching the terms of their deal into the complete ledger, bound in black leather. Rumour claimed every Dweller had one like it, fashioned from the skins of ancient foes. The same foes had fathered Holg, in fact. A warlike people, rarely seen outside the mountains unless blood was being spilled, treasures taken, and women stolen away as their homes burned to ash.

None but the Dwellers dared to encroach on their territories beyond the foothills of any mountain range in centuries. Raids still happened, but fewer than in ancient days, with only a few score barbarians to see, instead of the great tides that had butchered whole provinces so long ago. The Dwellers had taken to hunting the barbarians in their holes, stemming the hordes of their vile kind. Holg was a rarity. A grim, shadowy reminder of what horrors waited on the frontiers of civilization. The clan of barbarians he'd been born from had settled in the open plains near Meurthurgard and, following a century of fraying tensions, had achieved a measure of peace for their service in the War of the Marsh.

The Lizard army had torn the Eastern Duchy to pieces in a matter of weeks, feeding on the dead they left in their wake. Until they made their last mistake of attacking the barbarians. The fighting lasted well over a month, the chosen ground becoming a mire of knee-deep mud, blood, and rotting, half-eaten entrails. The barbarians held their ground despite being outnumbered, defending their lands and pinning the Lizard army in place. Their children aided survivors fleeing the Lizard's assault, bringing the refugees and a message to the King outlining a plan to decimate the Lizards. Its success changed the barbarian's presence from a begrudging allowance to a superior foe to a cautiously welcome addition to the Kingdom.

Holg and a handful like him now could be found in the city; half-breeds descended not from the violent raiders of the past but from valiant shock troops of the King's army.