Chapter 10 – The Fat Man

The holding room door groans open, and a massive shape fills the frame. The Fat Man waddles in, still consumed by his meal, red sauce and crumbs dribbling down his multiple chins. His very presence seems to draw the air from the room, replacing it with the stench of grease and meat.

He holds a half-cooked leg of teyrelsk in his hand, and a piece of slimy skin falls from it onto his belly. He flicks it from his shirt and greets the one-eyed bandit with a slap on the shoulder.

“What have you got for me today?” he asks, sizing us up like cattle at market.

“It’s a fine lot,” boasts the one-eyed bandit. “I’m sure the big guy will win you plenty of quill!”

“He’s probably the only one. The rest are a sorry looking bunch,” the fat man argues, grease glistening on his chin. “They are hardly worth the collars around their necks.”

“What are you talking about? It’s one of my best hauls in months.”

“Is your good eye not working? The only ones worth anything are the big bruiser and maybe this plaything here.”

The fat man reaches toward me to caress my cheek with the back of his hand, and I recoil. This makes him laugh—a wet, gurgling sound that makes my skin crawl. I can tell he’s used to getting what he wants.

“Oh, she’s no plaything,” the one-eyed bandit says, like he’s talking about a prized animal. “She took out two of my guys in three seconds.”

“Is that so?” The fat man scratches his scruffy face, sending crumbs cascading from his beard. “Nevertheless, I’ll give you a hundred quill for the lot.”

“A hundred? The big guy alone is worth a hundred and the girl is worth thirty at least.”

“Yeah, and the rest of them are nothing more than bait.”

“Ok. One-hundred-twenty quill, but I keep the girl.”

“How about one-twenty, and I keep the girl, and you keep your life.”

The one-eyed bandit sighs. “Fine, one-twenty it is.”

The bandit walks over, and the fat man drops a small pouch into his hand. The bandit dumps the contents into his palm and counts the coins carefully. Sunlight glints off the small, rounded surface and I notice Lord Solomon’s mark. The sight of it stirs my rage once again—even here, in this wasteland hellhole, his influence reaches.

The bandit walks off and the fat man waves his guards over.

“Welcome to Arcmire,” he says, his voice dripping with false hospitality. “I think you’ll like it here.”

He laughs and takes another bite of the greasy teyrelsk leg, juice running down his chin.

We’re led out of the holding room and down a dark corridor. The stench of rot and unwashed bodies fills my lungs. If the trash and rotten food particles littering the holding room weren’t enough of a sign, the smell confirms that cleanliness isn’t a priority here. The guard opens the door to a large cell, removes our collars, and shoves us inside.

Several prisoners pace the floor while others sit on a bench against the back wall, their eyes hollow with defeat. Papa takes my hand and rushes me to a corner away from everyone else.

“Don’t look them in the eye,” Papa tells me, positioning himself between me and the others.

“I’m not afraid of them, Papa.”

“Well then, imagine they’re spiders.”

Despite everything—Ambrose’s death, our capture, this prison cell—I almost smile. Even here, Papa tries to protect me, tries to keep our little jokes alive. But as I look around at our fellow prisoners, I know spiders are the least of our worries. The Fat Man didn’t bring us here to rot in this cell. He has other plans, and somehow I doubt they involve serving us teyrelsk legs.

A commotion at the far end of the cell draws my attention. Two prisoners are arguing over a scrap of cloth, probably meant to serve as a blanket against the cold desert night. The larger one wins, of course, shoving the smaller man away. No one intervenes. No one even looks up. I realize this is how things work here—survival of the strongest.

The bruiser from our group stands alone in a corner opposite ours, arms crossed, watching everything. Other prisoners give him a wide berth, though I notice a few eyeing him with a mix of fear and calculation. They’re already trying to figure out if he’ll be friend or foe when whatever is coming arrives.

“Listen carefully,” Papa whispers, his lips barely moving. “I know this place. I’ve heard rumors but wasn’t sure if they were true till now. This is where the Fat Man stages his fights.”

“Fights?”

“Not just regular fights. Sometimes prisoner against prisoner. Sometimes against baldagaars and other creatures. People come from all over the Wastes to bet on the outcomes. The Fat Man’s made himself rich on the blood of desperate people.”

The cell door creaks open again. A guard tosses in a bloody heap that might have once been human. The person—I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman—moans softly.

“Let that be a lesson,” the guard announces. “You fight when the Fat Man says fight. You don’t fight, you end up worse than dead.”

The door slams shut, but not before I catch a glimpse of the arena through a window across the corridor. The afternoon sun illuminates a circular pit filled with sand stained dark in places. Various weapons clutter the sandy arena floor—crude blades, clubs, even chains. Above, rows of seats rise toward the sky, already filled with spectators eager for the next bout.

“Look at me,” Papa says, drawing my attention back. “The Fat Man will probably use me as bait and you—”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” I interrupt.

“No, listen. Whatever happens, you must survive. You’re special, Neeka. Not just because of your legs, but because of who you are. What you might become. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

The sounds of the arena filter through the thick walls—cheering crowds, clashing metal, occasional screams. A bell rings somewhere above, followed by a roar so loud it makes the floor vibrate. Whatever battle just ended, the audience clearly got what they wanted.

One of the older prisoners catches my eye before quickly looking away. His face is a map of scars, and his left arm ends in a poorly healed stump. He’s a survivor of whatever entertainment the Fat Man provides, but at what cost?

Two guards pass by our cell, dragging something between them. They leave a trail of blood drops on the floor, but I can’t tell if their burden is dead or alive. None of the other prisoners seem surprised. They’ve seen this before, probably many times.

I squeeze Papa’s hand. Whatever horrors await us in this place, we’ll face them together. But as I look around at our fellow prisoners—some broken, some hardened, all changed by this place—I realize this might be our greatest test yet.