FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

Chapter 3: Arrival in the pits

The ship dropped anchor in the harbor of Korthos the chief port of Etoibard, on a morning thick with sea-mist and the smell of fish guts. Liam had lost count of the days, he remembered counting twenty-eight, perhaps thirty. His body ached from the chains, his skin was salt-crusted and his stomach gnawed at itself, but his eyes were clear and sharp when the hatch above him finally opened.

Rough hands hauled him up the ladder into blinding sunlight. He blinked, squinting at the sprawl of white stone buildings climbing the hills from the water, red-tiled roofs gleaming like scales. The harbor teemed with galleys and merchant cogs flying a dozen banners as the large bronze bell tolled.

“Move, princeling,” growled the sailor who had brought him extra water weeks ago. There was no kindness in the voice now, only business.

They marched him down the gangplank in a line of ten slaves, all shackled ankle to ankle. Liam’s bare feet hit the hot planks of the quay, then the rough cobblestones beyond. Crowds parted for them, some jeering others merely curious. A fishwife spat at his feet. A child threw a rotten fig that burst against his calf.

He kept his gaze forward despite all, memorizing the streets incase there was an escape window. He past the customs house by his left and the fountain carved by his right as he was matched uphill, towards the fighting pits.

He had heard the sailors speak of them in low voices during the voyage ‘Jarrett’s Arena’ they called it the largest and most notorious in Etoibard. Men fought men, men fought beasts, and the crowd wagered fortunes on spilled blood. Slaves who won often enough could sometimes buy their freedom. Most simply died entertaining the wealthy.

The gates of the arena loomed ahead: two massive iron-bound doors flanked by stone lions. Above them, an ironic carved hawk.

Inside the compound, the noise hit him like a wave, the roar of a crowd, the clash of steel, the bellow of some great animal. They were herded through a side entrance into a torch-lit corridor that stank of straw urine and old blood. Small barred cell cages lined both sides used to keep fighters waiting their turn.

A thick-set man in a leather apron waited at the end of the corridor with keys jangling at his belt. Beside him stood a taller figure in a fine green doublet, rings flashing on his fingers as he gestured. The slaver captain Gorran bowed low before them both.

“Master Jarrett,” Gorran said with eagerness. “Prime stock, as promised. This one’s special, he's of royal blood, fresh from Miraolden. Strong, quick and hates losing. He’ll bring the crowds.”

Jarrett turned pale blue eyes on Liam. He was younger than Liam had expected perhaps thirty-five with neatly trimmed black hair and a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Royal blood?” Jarrett repeated with trace of amusement. “How delicious. And how expensive.”

Gorran lowered his voice. “There’s…an arrangement. From across the sea. Certain parties prefer he not survive long.”

Jarrett’s smile widened. “Certain parties can go hang. I smell profit. Let’s see what he can do.”

He snapped his fingers. Two guards unlocked Liam’s shackles and stripped him of the ragged loincloth that was his only garment. Cold air hit his skin. They shoved him toward a wooden door that opened onto sand.

Behold it was the pit.

It was a circular arena perhaps sixty paces across, ringed by tiered stone benches already half-full for the midday games. The sand was darken with old blood that had soaked and dried in. Across from him, another door grated open.

His first opponent stepped out.

He was enormous, nearly seven feet tall, shoulders like an ox, skin crisscrossed with scars. A former soldier, perhaps, or a hill tribesman. He carried a short sword and a small round shield. The crowd greeted him with cheers: “Krag! Krag! Krag!”

Liam was handed a short blunt practice sword and nothing else. No shield or armor.

Jarrett’s voice carried from a shaded box above. “To first blood only, my friends! A taste of what’s to come!”

The gate clanged shut behind Liam.

Krag grinned showing his broken teeth as he advanced.

Liam’s heart hammered but his mind was strangely calm. He had trained with the finest swordsmen in Miraolden since he could hold a blade. His father had drilled footwork into him on the palace yards. Master-at-arms Ser Rowan had made him fight blindfolded, left-handed and even when exhausted.

Yet this was different. This was survival and not training.

Krag lunged with his sword hacking down in a blow that would have split firewood. Liam sidestepped, feeling the whoosh of air past his ear. He darted in low, slamming the blade into the giant’s knee. Krag roared as he went staggering. Liam spun away as the shield rim whistled toward his head.

The crowd murmured in surprise.

Krag charged again with fury replacing caution. Liam danced back, letting the giant overextend before he struck twice: once to the wrist, numbing the sword hand, the second to the temple. Krag dropped to one knee.

Liam could have ended it. Instead he stepped back breathing hard and looked up at Jarrett’s box.

The arena master was leaning forward, his eyes brightened with interest.

“Enough!” Jarrett called. “The boy lives. Take him below.”

Guards seized Liam before Krag could recover. As they dragged him back through the gate, the crowd’s murmurs turned to scattered applause. Not for mercy but for the promise of another fight.

They threw him into a cell barely long enough to lie down. A tin cup of water and a heel of bread were shoved through the bars. He drank greedily, then sat with his back to the wall, replaying every moment of the fight.

He had won against a tired opponent with a blunt weapon.

Next time would be worse.

Hours later, the cell door opened again. A grizzled man in his fifties was pushed inside, he was lean, scarred and one of his ear was missing. He carried the faint smell of herbs and old blood.

“My name is Garrick,” the man said, sitting cross-legged. “Used to fight here twenty years ago. Now I patch the ones worth saving. Jarrett says you’re worth saving.”

Liam studied him warily. “Why?”

Garrick shrugged. “Because you didn’t kill Krag when you could have. It showed you had control and the crowd liked control. Jarrett likes coin. Coin comes from crowds.”

He produced a small clay jar and began rubbing sharp-smelling salve into the bruises along Liam’s ribs.

“You’ve got training,” Garrick continued. “Good training. Not just pit training. You fight pretty well. But that will get you killed quickly here.”

Liam winced as fingers probed a tender spot. “Then teach me pit fighting.”

Garrick barked a laugh. “I might do so only If you live long enough.”

He leaned closer as his voice dropped. “Word is you’re meant to die quiet-like. Someone paid extra for it. Jarrett took the gold but smells bigger gold if you win. Greed against greed. This is a dangerous place to be, boy.”

Liam met his one good eye. “My name is Laim.” He chose the shortened form deliberately, one with no trace of Walton. “And I don’t plan on dying.”

Garrick nodded slowly. “Good. Hold on to that thought. You’ll need it.”

Over the next few days a pattern was set.

Thin gruel and water in the morning, then training in the yard behind the cells, running laps in the sand, lifting stones, sparring with blunt weapons against other fighters. Garrick watched, correcting stance as he teach Liam dirty tricks, how to blind with sand, how to strike groin or eyes when the crowd wasn’t looking, how to turn an opponent’s weight against him.

His second fight in the pit was against twin brothers armed with nets and tridents. He bled from a dozen shallow cuts but trapped ones net and used it to yank the brother off balance and beat both of them senselessly. The crowd began to chant a name: “Laim! Laim!”

His third fight was with a lithe woman from the eastern isles who fought with curved knives. She nearly gutted him before he disarmed her with a desperate twist Garrick had shown him.

The fourth fight was with a starved wolf released from a cage. He killed it with a spear, hands shaking afterward as the beast’s hot blood steamed on the sand.

Each victory earned him better food, a straw pallet, the removal of ankle chains inside the compound. Jarrett visited once, strolling along the cells with a ledger.

“You’re profitable, Laim,” he said pleasantly. “Keep winning and we’ll talk about…arrangements.”

Laim met his gaze steadily. “I want my freedom.”

Jarrett laughed. “All in good time boy. Eleven more months of this without breaking and perhaps we’ll discuss a price. Until then, you’re mine.”

He walked away, humming.

That night Liam was alone in his cell with his forehead pressed to the cool stone wall.

”Eleven months.”

He could endure eleven months.

He thought of his mother’s last words on the palace steps. Of Calista’s terrified face. Of Tamira clutching Silas. Of his father’s body on the throne room floor. All these thoughts fueled his determination to survive.

He would win every fight. he would buy his freedom with blood and sand. And then he would begin the long road home.

In the cell beside his, Garrick spoke softly through the bars.

“Sleep while you can, boy. Tomorrow they’re bringing in the Fievian. And undefeated fighter that likes to break necks

Laim closed his eyes. “Let him come.”