Roggi walked down the dirt tunnel, trying to quell the excitement that fluttered in his gut. For all his big words to Dardeh, the truth of the matter was that it had been a very long time since he’d fought in an arena. There was something exhilarating about proving one’s abilities in such a way. In the arena the adversaries were as strong as you and not being restrained on a rack – but it had been a long time. He’d won at such contests before. He was confident, but far from certain. He shook his head.
I must be a fool. I wasn’t even twenty winters old the last time. I was just a kid. What makes me think I can survive this?
The greatsword bumped against his back, and he reached up to adjust its position. He noticed how far back he had to bend his arms to work around his own biceps and chuckled.
When I first met Dag I’d let myself go. Don’t know whether I could have swung this damn sword more than a couple of times without running out of breath and now – now I’m stronger than I was even back in the old days. It’s all the dragon hunting. Of course I can survive this. Because if I don’t…
He stopped short for a moment as the realization of what he was about to do fully registered. If he died, there was going to be nothing to rein in Dardeh. And Dardeh had been dangerously on the edge for some time now. He never knew when a simple Shout would turn deadly. Sometimes he conjured – things – without intending it.
Maybe Lydia would be enough. Maybe Rayya.
He frowned, and started trudging slowly along the passage once more. It wouldn’t bother him so horribly if Lydia was able to act as the buffer between the Dragonborn and the world. The two of them had an understanding, a mutual respect. But Rayya? He’d seen the way she looked at Dardeh. And even worse than that, he’d seen the way Dardeh looked at her, and it made him jealous in a way he hadn’t been for a very long time.
He’s attracted to her and he doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t recognize it for what it is. She confuses him and he doesn’t know why. But I can see it.
Roggi shook his head. There was something so pure about Dardeh. So innocent. It wasn’t that he’d never been with anyone else; he’d certainly shared some stories with Roggi. But Roggi knew what it was like to be confused. It had nearly been his undoing. He didn’t want that for his husband. Rayya wouldn’t serve as a calming influence over Dardeh if he died; she would add to the turmoil that already bubbled just beneath the surface and the gods only knew what that might mean for the future of Skyrim.
Well. I guess that means I can’t die. That’s all there is to it. Gods help me for being a hypocrite but we have to get Ulfric on that throne. And if Dar loses control of himself that might not happen.
He wandered through the branching passages, ending up in what the blood spatters on the ground said was the fighting area. It was currently empty, although he heard voices from the tall ledge that served as a viewing area. The doorway he’d come through had a cage door, open at the moment but reinforcing in his mind that this was a place where contestants fought to the death. Once the fight began, there would be no escape save for victory.
He broke into a slow smile, then turned and made his way back out. He needed to find “the cage” to present his letter of recommendation; it was back through the cave and up a ramp to the upper level. A blonde, bearded man leaned on the counter behind the cage.
“Hello there,” he told the man. “You must be Goreau. I’m here to fight. Here’s my letter of recommendation.” He slid the paper across the wide counter.
“Let’s see,” Goreau said, flipping open the letter. “From Rolf Stone-Heart of Bruma. Haven’t seen him in months! Tell him not to be a stranger, when you speak to him!”
Roggi smiled. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“My, he was an impressive warrior in his day, but age eventually catches all of us, I suppose.”
“Eventually.”
The man leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I heard he killed dozens of those Aldmeri bastards during the Great War.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. I missed it by a few years, sadly enough.”
Goreau chuckled. “Well then, if you’re a friend of his, you’re certainly welcome here! Go down through the passage underneath here and see Wiglaf down in the Blue Room. He’ll get you started. And, uh… don’t get yourself killed, OK?”
Roggi chuckled. “Not a chance.”
The passage was, as Goreau had said, directly beneath the Cage. Roggi trotted down it, grinning, wondering if there wasn’t a good chance that he actually had met Rolf during the time he and Briinda had been in the Bruma area together. There were signs pointing the way to the Blue Room; when he got there he found it to be just a reinforced, Imperial-style structure holding some cots, a grindstone and workbench and some tables. Clearly, fighters came to prepare for their matches, fine-tune their gear, and rest between fights. A dark-haired man in ringmail sat at the end of one of the tables; he looked up as Roggi approached.
“You’re Wiglaf?”
The man nodded.
“Goreau told me to see you. I’m here to fight.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking Roggi up and down. “You think you’ve got what it takes to make it in the Pit? We have Myrmidon matches going on right now. It just so happens I have an opening on the Blue Team. All Pit Dogs start as challengers to our Myrmidon level fighters.”
“You mean we’re the goats.”
“Ha!” Wiglaf chuckled. “If you want to look at it that way. Everyone starts on the Blue Team and proves themselves from there. Prepare yourself and let me know when you’re ready to fight.”
Roggi grinned. He couldn’t help it; his pulse was accelerating and his hands were itching to swing his sword.
“I’m always ready. But what about my pay?”
“You have to live first,” Wiglaf said. “But each Myrmidon match pays 250 gold at the cage. When you’re done. If you’re ready to fight again after that, come see me.”
“Lead the way.”
“Very well,” Wiglaf said, nodding. “Your first match will be against a particularly nasty Orc with an enchanted mace. He’s a big brute, and can take a hit, so be on your toes. Follow me.”
Wiglaf led him out through the back of the Blue Room and opened the gate into the pit area. The place was buzzing with sound now as the gamblers laid their wagers and got themselves drinks to enjoy with the spectacle.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Wiglaf shouted as Roggi strolled slowly into the Pit, purposefully taking his time so as to make an impression on the Orc he saw standing just across the way in the shadows. “Welcome to another exciting round of action in the Fight Cave!”
There was a decent-sized crowd on the observation deck now, drinking and yelling. Wiglaf’s announcement got cheers and noise.
“Your first fighter – you know him, and you love him – hailing from Markarth by way of the Dragontail Mountains, let’s have a big round of applause for your favorite green Myrmidon, Mork the Fearful!”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Mork waved his mace and growled loudly. Roggi looked him over; he had some impressive armor on, but he wasn’t even an especially large Orc. He’d swung a pickaxe with several of their womenfolk who stood taller and had beefier arms that this fighter, in his estimation.
The audience reacted – mostly by booing. Roggi crossed his arms, shook his head, and tried his hardest not to laugh. Wiglaf turned to him.
“And for your challenger, today we have a new Pit Dog! From the Blue Team! Hailing from parts unknown!”
Wiglaf knows how to put on a show, Roggi thought, but so do I. He drew his greatsword and held it high, swinging it a few times. He heard at least one person yell, “Good job, challenger!”
“And so we have two fighters, full of rage and ready to do battle! Two warriors have entered this pit, but only one warrior will leave!”
Roggi took a wide stance and held the sword aloft, grinning across the way at Mork the Fearful as the crowd started chanting. He felt the years falling away. There was no Helgen, there was no war, there was no Ulfric. There was just himself: a man possessed of substantial strength, a razor-sharp greatsword, and the desire to hear the Orc before him scream.
“Two warriors enter! One warrior leaves! Two warriors enter! One warrior leaves!”
“Your wagers have been placed!” Wiglaf screamed. “And you’re ready for war! Let’s find out who will be victorious! Let the match begin!”
Roggi’s world narrowed to the few feet between himself and the Orc, who raised his glowing mace and ran forward. Roggi grinned and did the same, judging the steps and the distance and timing his massive horizontal swing so that it would strike just at the right moment. It staggered the Orc and sent him back several steps; but his Orcish armor deflected most of the blow. Mork moved forward and brought the mace down hard on Roggi’s shoulder, and Roggi hissed. It was a shock enchantment on the mace, and his much lighter armor did nothing to shield him from either its magical effects or the plain blunt force of its construction.
Then Mork cast a warding spell.
For a moment Roggi wanted to laugh aloud. A ward? Really? Does he think I’m a mage? Do I look like a man who has even the tiniest spell at his disposal? He blocked with his greatsword, then took another swing. As he had expected, Mork dropped the ward and blocked with his own weapon; Roggi was shocked again, but used the moment to step inside the Orc’s reach in spite of the pain, raise his sword straight in front of him, and bring it down three times in quick succession. He’d done the same so many times during the war; none of his opponents, no matter how strong, had been able to counter the fast, powerful, and ultimately lethal maneuver and neither did Mork the Fearful.
Roggi looked down at his feet and blinked. There’d been no scream, barely even a grunt of pain as the Orc had crumpled to his death. There was just Orc blood draining into the dirt on the floor.
“Huh. I expected more.” I wanted more.
Wiglaf looked at him, his mouth open. He stepped into the light and cleared his throat.
“And… there you have it.” Then his showmanship returned. “A devastating mauling by our challenger! Let’s hear it for the new Pit Dog! We’ll have another match coming soon, so don’t go away! Let’s see if this challenger from the Blue Team can keep it up!”
The spectators who had bet on Mork booed. Others cheered him. Roggi didn’t care. He pulled his sword and gave it a ceremonial swing again as he followed Wiglaf to the exit.
Oh yes, we’ll have another match. I’m just getting started.
Goreau greeted him with enthusiasm when he reported for his earnings. “Oh yes, you certainly earned this! 250 gold for a Myrmidon match! Well done!”
“Wasn’t much of a show, I’m afraid,” Roggi said. “He went down way too easily. Idiot tried to use a ward spell, of all things.”
Goreau chuckled. “Now, there’s just one thing, challenger. We need you to pick a name, so we can put it on the cards for any more matches you may fight in. You know, something… exciting. Please see Wiglaf and decide what you want to call yourself, will you?”
“Will do.” Roggi took his winnings and pocketed them, then started back down the ramp toward the Blue Room. He took advantage of the moment to down a light healing potion; for as good as he felt about his win the enchanted mace had definitely hurt, and he’d taken several blows from it. Then he chuckled. “An intimidating name, eh? I have just the thing.”
Wiglaf greeted him with a nod. “You really surprised a lot of people out there, Pit Dog. You fought well! Or at least well enough. Most Pit Dogs don’t make it through a Myrmidon match. But you? You might be special. Got an eye for that sort of thing. Time will tell.”
Roggi smirked. Most of your Pit Dogs don’t do what I do, I’d wager.
“So, what do we call you?” Wiglaf asked. “Deathcaster? Shadowbane? Blademaster?”
Roggi could almost see Wiglaf counting the coins as he anticipated the bets that might be laid on…
“The Inquisitor.”
Wiglaf laughed. “The Inquisitor! Good, good! That’ll strike fear into a heart here or there, won’t it?”
“It’s always worked for me before,” Roggi said, grinning again.
“Very well. You’ll now be known as The Inquisitor. Prepare yourself and let me know when you’re ready to fight again.”
Roggi found himself licking his lips. “Oh I’m ready. Lead the way.”
“Excellent! Your next Myrmidon is a local Nord named Vald. I…wouldn’t get too close to him if I were you. Just take my word on that is all I can say.”
Wiglaf started back toward the fighting pit. Roggi took a moment for a sip of water and some thinking. Don’t get too close, eh? I think I’ve run into a few people like him. Recently, even.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the Fight Cave!” Wiglaf was already well into his introduction by the time Roggi strode to the center of the pit. “For this battle, one of your favorite sons is back home, and ready to draw blood!”
Ready to draw blood, eh? I thought so. Roggi stared across the room at his fellow Nord. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, for he was wearing Dwemer-style armor with a full helmet that shaded them. I’d be willing to wager they’re yellow, though.
“Welcome to the Pit your favorite Nord warrior, Vald the Impaler! And, fresh from his first victory in the Pit, please welcome your newest challenger, the Inquisitor!”
As before there was a smattering of cheers – and boos. But Roggi couldn’t hear them. All he was aware of was the big Nord opposite him. It would have to be another quick fight, and he’d need to stay clear of the claws and fangs, as well as the magic. But he had potions at hand.
He’s a Myrmidon. He’s not going to be much stronger than the last guy. This should be a walk.
Roggi was already moving when Wiglaf gave the signal, and had gotten in two solid strikes on the man before he could begin doing – whatever he was going to do. Vald cast healing on himself; but as he did so Roggi caught the red glow of magic collecting in his left hand and grimaced.
Vampire, alright. Gods damn vampires, always after Dar…
He roared, and swung his greatsword in a wide horizontal sweep once again. Whether the man had moved just enough to create an opening beneath his armor, or whether that armor had failed from the repeated sword strikes, he couldn’t tell; but suddenly Vald was down, and twitching at his feet. The crowd that had been roaring sat in stunned silence for a moment; then the cheers began again.
Roggi grinned at the corpse and slung his sword onto his back. Wiglaf scurried to the center, as if he hadn’t expected this match to be over so quickly.
“In another amazing match from the Blue Team, Vald lays slain in this Pit! This new Pit Dog is rapidly making a name for himself here at the Fight Cave! Stick around! We will have more matches later on!”
As Roggi followed Wiglaf out of the cave he heard someone shout “You’re going down!” He turned to the gallery, pulled out his sword and swung it hard enough to make an audible whoosh, gave a quick half-bow to the unseen spectator, grinned, and ran out to collect his earnings. When he returned to Wiglaf, he was pleased to learn that he’d been promoted to Myrmidon, and would be facing Warrior-level opponents.
Well, if one of them kills me, I’ll be worth 250 gold.
Seems like it should be more than that, all things considered.
“You’ve drawn a very crafty and unpredictable spellcaster named Ulnaril. Follow me.”
Roggi nodded, and reached into his pack to pull out one of the more potent poisons he’d brewed before their last bandit extermination. He applied it to all the edges of his sword and then entered the Pit, smirking. Ulnaril was dressed in glass armor, and for a moment Roggi saw Thalmor and felt the flames of rage rising inside him. Then he shook his head. Not a Thalmor. Not a Thalmor.
“From the Red Team, please welcome your Altmer warrior, Ulnaril the Unbeaten!” Wiglaf shouted.
Oh he won’t be unbeaten for much longer.
Roggi had tried very hard, over the years, to dampen down the worst of his instincts against the various races of mer. But the truth of the matter was that one of the things he and Ulfric had always agreed on was their bitter hatred of the Altmer, whether they associated with the Thalmor or not. He had no particular problem with Dunmer. He didn’t know many Bosmer, so he didn’t have an opinion one way or the other about them. But Altmer? Altmer represented everything in the world that he hated, aside from bandits.
He’s going to die.
Well before Wiglaf reached the end of his spiel introducing him as the Inquisitor, Roggi had his sword at the ready. He couldn’t see the Altmer’s face, but he gave the mer the same kind of smile he would give any of the people he’d ever entertained on the rack. When Wiglaf shouted “begin!” he took a huge swipe at the mer. Whether it had been his own powers of intimidation at work or the poison on the blade, he didn’t know; but Ulnaril didn’t react. Roggi’s forward slash bit through the joints of Ulnaril’s armor and delivered a first dose of potion.
“Die,” he growled as he reversed the direction of his sword and brought the other edge, also poisoned, to bear across the elf’s torso.
Ulnaril dropped dead having not cast so much as a single spell. Roggi sheathed his sword and looked down at the corpse, chuckling.
“Not so impressive now, are you?”
The crowd was cheering wildly. Roggi thought he heard one voice in particular rising above the rest and nodded up at the gallery. Reinhardt must be earning his money back. Roggi himself earned 300 gold for that match, and smiled to think that his payment to Rolund would be covered soon.
“Well,” Wiglaf told him, “you certainly handled that Elf like a seasoned warrior. I hereby advance you to Brawler class.”
Yeah. I’ve been down this road before. I know the routine. But tell me anyway, Wiglaf.
“For this fight, one of our Gladiators has arrived from Cyrodiil just in time to face you. His name is Brutus, and he’s a seasoned fighter, so watch yourself.”
“Yeah,” Roggi said, “but as you’ve noticed, so am I. I fight dragons regularly. Pretty sure a guy from Cyrodiil won’t be an issue.”
Wiglaf tossed back his head and roared. “Dragons! That’s a good one. An Inquisitor who fights dragons. I’ll have to find a way to use that. You’re good for business, Inquisitor.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
The Champion was going to be a tougher fight, that he could see from the moment he entered the Pit. The man was in full steel plate with helm, and he already had his greatsword at the ready. The crowd seemed lukewarm at best, which Roggi noted with interest. Perhaps they’d grown to like the Inquisitor and didn’t relish the idea of losing him to someone from Cyrodiil? It was hard to know.
The two of them advanced on each other warily, circling. Roggi struck first; Brutus blocked easily and made a backhanded swing that caught Roggi in the arm, slicing through the light armor and biting into his arm. He hissed at the pain.
Damn it. He’s good.
He raised his sword straight up and brought it down in spite of the screaming of his left arm. He struck Brutus, but only hard enough to send him stepping backward.
“Think you’re pretty good, don’t you, old man?” Brutus murmured from under his helmet.
Old…man?
For the next few moments there was no Roggi, soldier and torturer in the service of the Stormcloak Rebellion. No Roggi, husband of Dardeh at-Dadarh. No Roggi Knot-Beard, miner of Kynesgrove. No – what took his place was the red-hot anger of the young man who had watched his family die before his eyes, the one who had been taken down by a bandit in steel plate who had said “think you’re pretty good, don’t you, punk?” He brought the sword up again and stepped forward, a grim smile on his face, and brought it down once, twice, and again, the third strike severing the man’s arm at the shoulder and sending him screaming to the ground.
Roggi reached into his pack for a healing potion and stood smiling at the screaming man as he drained into the floor of the cavern and died. Then he raised his sword in his right hand and waved it in the air. The crowd roared its approval.
“Oh my!” Wiglaf screamed. “Our Warrior’s victories continue! Brutus has been defeated!”
Roggi didn’t wait to hear the rest of the accolades. Instead, he trudged up to the cage to collect his earnings. He was tired, and hungry, and hadn’t quite recovered from the overwhelming surge of rage that had taken hold of him for those few moments in the Pit. He made his slow way down to the Blue Room and sighed, flopping down onto one of the cots and closing his eyes.
I am old. I’m getting old. I’m tired.
Then he smiled slowly.
But I took that guy apart, old or not. He screamed so well.
He opened his eyes some time later – how long he wasn’t sure – and went to find Wiglaf again. Wiglaf smiled and shook his head.
“You defeated one of our most accomplished warriors, Brawler. Well done. Beating a Gladiator gains you the new rank of Warrior, which means you’ll be fighting one of our Heroes. He’s a Breton with skills in magic and the blade, so he’s likely to throw anything at you.”
“Hmm. Pretty sure I’m good enough. Alduin was tough, too.”
Wiglaf stared at him for a moment and then laughed, somewhat nervously. “You do have a fertile imagination, don’t you, Inquisitor?”
Roggi smiled. “You have no idea.”
The Breton’s name was Theranis. He was – somewhat oddly, to Roggi’s mind, given that he was a spellcaster – dressed in full ebony armor.
“From the Blue Team!” Wiglaf shouted. “Fresh from a mauling defeat of Brutus, welcome back The Inquisitor!”
The crowd’s reaction was mixed. Roggi heard someone yell “beat the Blue Team!” He drew his sword and turned to salute the gallery. What they had no way to know was that on their way down the tunnel to the Pit, he had downed several potions. The most important of these had been one of the finest things he’d ever brewed back at Mammoth Manor: a long-lasting resist magic potion. He trusted his own sword arms. He didn’t trust himself to withstand shock, or fire, or anything else a mage could toss at him.
It was a good thing he had. He got in one blow before Theranis cast a fireball at him with one hand, and conjured a storm atronach with the other. Roggi grimaced and squinted as the flames raced before him, and winced as the atronach’s lightning prickled around his body, but the potion did its work and he kept hammering at the mage over and over with his blade. In spite of his advantages in armor and magic, Theranis wasn’t able to withstand the diagonally slicing blow Roggi delivered that struck the tiny gap between his helm and his cuirass. Theranis clutched at his throat and dropped to the floor, gurgling and twitching before he died, and his atronach along with him.
It had been a quick fight, much quicker than he had expected. In spite of being slightly singed and a bit breathless, Roggi grinned triumphantly up at the onlookers.
Call me an old man, will you?
He earned four hundred gold for those few minutes of work, and returned to find Wiglaf again. Wiglaf was shaking his head and smiling as he approached.
“Brawler, you have really impressed everyone, including our current Grand Champion. He has requested a match with you, so we’re going to forego the customary procedure and let you fight.”
“Requested me? Well isn’t that something.”
“Yeah. And I hereby promote you to Gladiator.”
Roggi grinned. “Alright then.”
I shouldn’t get excited about this but… I left it behind, back when I was just a kid, because I was afraid I’d lose. I almost did. And now I’m about to fight the best.
“Make no mistake,” Wiglaf continued. “This Khajiit is Champion for a reason. He is one tough opponent. I hope you’re ready for this. Follow me.”
“Be right there,” Roggi said. As Wiglaf nodded and headed for the Pit, Roggi reached into his pack once more, and pulled out a sizeable potion bottle.
I may not be ready for a Khajiit without some kind of edge, and not just the ones Dardeh put on this sword for me. But I didn’t spend all those hours grinding up ingredients for nothing.
He applied the potion to his sword, making certain that all the edges and faces of it were liberally coated, and smirked. That ought to hold him long enough for me to take him down.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Wiglaf shouted as Roggi walked slowly into the Pit. “We have something special for you for our last match! Our Grand Champion has returned to Skyrim! Please welcome back to the Pit – Subra!”
The crowd cheered wildly. They knew the Khajiit; and regardless of whether or not they liked him it was clear that they respected him.
Bet they think they’re going to see Inquisitor blood today. Bet they’re wrong.
“And our challenger, from the Blue Team! Please welcome back the man who fights dragons, our very own Inquisitor!”
This time, he got booed. He turned to the gallery and smiled the smile he would have given them in the dungeon of Windhelm; then he saluted and turned back toward the Khajiit.
“Fighters, take your positions. Let the match begin!”
Once again the world fell away, leaving only Roggi and the black-clad Khajiit before him. He rushed forward to make his first strike, but the nimble Subra leapt to the side and Roggi’s sword struck the ground. He growled and raised his sword; Subra hissed, and bared his claws.
“This one does not fear you, Nord,” the Khajiit said.
“You’ll make a fine rug, cat,” Roggi growled from between clenched teeth. He stepped forward with his left leg, planted, and swung horizontally with everything he had, howling with rage as he did.
Subra stiffened and fell over, paralyzed.
From that point it was a simple matter of striking, over and over. He heard someone in the gallery shout “take his head off!” but Roggi didn’t care whether that would happen. He just raised his greatsword and brought it down into the cat again and again, his arms screaming from fatigue by the time he landed the seventh blow and the breath left Subra for the last time.
He stopped, panting hard to catch his breath, and stared down at the ruin he’d made of the late Grand Champion. There were a few scattered cheers from above, and one or two boos, doubtless from people who had bet on Subra. Wiglaf ran to the center of the space and looked up, shaking his head.
“Amazing! Our Grand Champion has been … defeated!” He turned and looked at Roggi and then back at the spectators. “Stick around; we will have more matches later on!”
Roggi followed him to the arena’s door and caught him by the arm before he could return to the Blue Room. Wiglaf flinched, but recovered his composure quickly enough and said “yeah?”
“More matches later on won’t include The Inquisitor,” Roggi said. “I’ve got things to do.”
“But…”
Roggi shook his head. “No. I need to get back to Helgen. You’ve heard of a guy called the Dragonborn?”
“Yeah, I have,” Wiglaf said. “What of it? Is he a pit fighter, too?”
“No, he’s not.” Roggi smiled. “But he is my husband. I need to go back to him. But maybe after we’re done with what we have to do…” He shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll come flex my muscles again for awhile. Probably not. We have to go help Ulfric get a throne.”
Wiglaf stared at him for a long moment. Then he burst out laughing.
“I don’t know where you get that imagination, Inquisitor, but it’s a good one. Dragons, Ulfric… Alright, go get your earnings. And good luck to you.”
“Yeah,” Roggi said, nodding. “See you around.”
He collected his five hundred gold and made his way back to Falkreath. All the way there, the battles replayed in his head. They’d all been tough fights, some tougher than others; but the one that stood out in his mind was the fight against Brutus.
Old man, he called me.
It hadn’t been that, so much. Yes, he was older than Dardeh by a good decade; but he was in the best condition of his life in spite of several near-death experiences, and he felt younger than he had at half his current age. It had been the memory that had crowded all other thoughts from his head that was haunting him. It was suddenly being back on the volcanic flats in Eastmarch, bleeding and broken, being taunted as a punk while he watched his wife …
He ground his teeth.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. The time with Ulfric doesn’t matter and it doesn’t matter that I lost Briinda and everyone else. I have Dardeh now, and that’s all that I need.
Isn’t it?
Then he laughed a bitter laugh of derision at himself. If it hadn’t mattered, he wouldn’t suddenly have erupted in a murderous rage equal to anything he’d ever seen from Dardeh. The fact of the matter was that he, too, was a violent and unpredictable man, and always had been; and he probably always would be.
He knocked on the door of Reinhardt’s home and, once inside, nearly spat at the man.
“I won your damn fights for you.”
“Boy, did you ever!” Reinhardt said with a wide grin. “We haven’t had a challenger that exciting since, oh I can’t remember when!”
“You’re finished with that place. And so am I. And I swear if you don’t get that lumber cut and delivered, I will be back to see you.” He stepped forward and took hold of the front of Reinhardt’s shirt. In his calmest, most professional tones, he smiled and said, “You see, I really am an Inquisitor, with a lot of years under my belt. And if I don’t hear that the lumber’s been delivered right away, I’m going to take a great deal of pleasure in showing you that I’m not simply a good pit fighter. You’ll find it… exciting.”
Reinhardt swallowed. “Tell Mr. Jannus I’ll have a shipment out for him tomorrow. How about… the first two shipments are free of charge and I’ll take, say, ten percent off the rest?”
“That will do. So long as it’s in writing.”
Reinhardt walked to his table, took out paper and quill, and wrote hurriedly for a few moments. Then he handed the paper to Roggi. “Here’s a new contract for Mr. Jannus. Please give him my warmest regards, will you?”
“Sure. Now you’d better get to work.”
He left the building, tucked the paper into a pocket and started jogging back down the road to the northwest. Jannus would get his first shipment in the morning, and Roggi would return with the contract later in the day. Right now, it was time to get home to Dardeh.