by J. P. Ashman
The boy grinned – a strange sight coming from one of the Caravaneer lads – and wagged his finger at the perceived priest.
‘Ah! I know ye, Priest. I know yer mind.’ He clenched his fists and rolled them in front of him, hopping from foot to foot several times. ‘Ye wanna see some scrappin’, don’t ye? Eh? Ye wanna see it, ye do. I know it.’
Cheung nodded, bowed, thankful for any excuse to distract the lad from Cheung’s snooping. Cheung punched the damp air half-heartedly with his gloved fists, nodding once more.
‘Ha! I have the right of it, don’t I?’ The lad beckoned Cheung forward, the grin plastered across his face. ‘Follow me, Priest. Follow me for the show ye’ve been searching for.’
Not wanting to do anything to make the boy suspicious, and more than a little curious besides, Cheung followed the wiry boy round the bend and into the torchlight before a blood-red door. Knocking on the wood several times, the boy grinned at Cheung one last time, before resuming his murderous expression and stepping through the opening portal.
The noise that burst forth assaulted Cheung after the near silence he’d experienced since Jevratt left him. Shifting his satchel so his kamas were easily retrievable should he need them, Cheung set his jaw firm and strode through the doorway after the boy, into the enormous, cuboid space beyond.
Scores of people shouted, roared and cheered all about Cheung as he followed his guide onto the steep stepped sides of the tremendous subterranean amphitheatre above and below him. The sudden height was dizzying. He looked down to the sunken fighting pits below, several of which were occupied by grappling and fist-fighting duos of men, women, goblins and adlets. Turning full circle, Cheung looked up and took in rows of stone steps above him, of which less than half were occupied. He looked up further to the flat roof and its dozens of antler chandeliers like those in Collett’s hall. Below ran more stone steps and scattered groups of cheering men and women, each watching their preferred fight.
‘Well, Priest? What ye think?’ the boy asked, this time without the grin or mirth.
Cheung merely nodded. Truth was, he was stunned. He’d never heard of such a place and that surprised him, considering the amount of talking and bragging the Caravaneers did along the road. They have barely survived a raid by adlets, yet they come here to fight some more. Cheung’s shoulders bobbed with a silent laugh as the scene sunk in. These people are insane.
‘Come, Priest. I’ll show ye about, I will.’ The lad pulled on Cheung’s sleeve and the assassin followed, down steep steps to the nearest sunken pit. The top of the square hole was topped with crude iron spikes and bits of broken pottery and glass. The floor was covered in sand. Sand and smatterings of blood.
‘Here, sit.’ The young Caravaneer motioned for Cheung to sit on the step behind him, and so he did, with the lad dropping down alongside whilst pointing to a tall adlet who was snarling and baring its fangs. ‘He’s a good’un, for sure he is, but he’ll be going down in this bout. You watch, Priest. I’d put coin on it if I hadn’t already lost it.’ He laughed at that and whacked Cheung on the back. His eyes never left the adlet.
Cheung watched the creature. Its bare chest and arms weren’t too dissimilar to that of the man circling it, but its legs were like those of a large wolf-hound stood upright, as was its tail and elongated face, despite its semi-human features. Cheung cringed. He’d seen plenty of the raiders before, but never had he had the opportunity to study one for so long. Alas, before he could fully take in the adlet, it launched itself at the man opposite and the fight began.
Shouts and inventive curses exploded around Cheung as quickly as the adlet sprung forward.
The boy was already on his feet, shaking his right fist about in imagined punches as he shouted down at the now wrestling duo. ‘Smash him, don’t hug him, ye prick!’
Unable to tear his eyes away, Cheung watched on as the adlet spun the caravan guard up and over, slamming him down. The sand clouded upon the man’s impact, but no sooner had he hit was he rolling away and pushing himself to his feet. He looked stunned, swaying, but as the adlet came on again he stepped to one side and struck the creature on the temple with a well-aimed punch.
The adlet went down hard.
Turning to look up at the crowd’s cheers and boos, the man missed the adlet’s counter attack. Several people laughed aloud as the Caravaneer was smashed from his feet and crunched into the stone wall. He received several hits to the side, the adlet punching him again and again. Arms bent and down, trying to protect himself from the powerful blows, the man eventually dropped to one knee. The adlet clenched its fists together and brought them down onto the head of its opponent.
Several onlookers cheered as the man collapsed, but most groaned and swore, handing over coins and other goods in the process.
The adlet was ordered back into a corner as the crowd argued amongst themselves, the unconscious Caravaneer being lifted out of the pit.
Cheung looked to the lad next to him who merely shrugged. ‘Told ye I lost me money, didn’t I? Wouldn’t bet on what I say.’ He stood, patted Cheung on both shoulders and turned to leave. Looking back, he winked once. ‘Enjoy! Ye can find yer own way back to Mistress Collett’s, can’t ye?’
He was gone before Cheung could nod.
Cheung thought it best to make his way back to his alcove. He felt exhausted, slightly drunk and although part of him wanted to climb down into a pit and stretch his muscles and skills, he knew he should save his strength and not risk himself. After all, he had a job to do and he was determined to do it and return home afterwards, despite the odds. The most important thought, that he was supposed to be a priest not a fighter, never entered his head.
Standing, Cheung turned away from the pits and looked up to the dizzying heights of the amphitheatre. As he did, he heard the biggest roar and cheer yet. Many of the people around him filed across to another pit as the crowds pushed and shoved to get closer to the action.
Reaching up and pressing through his hooded robes to the fresh scar on the back of his neck, Cheung tilted his head and wondered who or what was fighting to draw in such a crowd. Masters forgive me, but one more won’t hurt. Cheung checked his satchel by his side and hurried after the spectators.
As the people cheered again, Cheung made his way around and down the steps to get a closer look at the fight that was under way. His priestly robes allowed him passage through the throng, something he was getting used to, and when he looked down to the sandy floor below, he nearly made a sound through shock alone.
Jevratt!
The lead caravan guard was sporting a bloody lip and a black eye, yet he looked in much better shape than his opponent. The older man staggering around Jevratt was holding his left arm at an awkward angle, the skin about his ribs darkening.
‘Finish it, Jevratt,’ a woman next to Cheung said, before shouting the very same at the top of her shrill voice. Cheung groaned and moved a few places as more of the same followed.
‘Do him!’
‘Don’t be going down now, ye fecker!’
‘Me ma could do better!’
‘Quit dancin’ and get in there!’
Cheung settled again and watched as the older man staggered in towards Jevratt. He’s done, Cheung thought, before seeing the speed with which the man launched his attack.
Jevratt ducked left and right, stepped back and in. He accepted the left hook to the jaw, spat out a tooth and came around with a punch of his own.
The older man took the hit in the kidney and staggered before lashing out with his right foot to connect with Jevratt’s right knee. Cheung’s host went down.
It wasn’t hard to hear Collett’s voice, cough and voice again, despite the rising din. Cheung saw the woman higher up, behind him, pipe in hand. She saw her guest priest, nodded, winked and motioned for him to look back to the pit, a grin on her wrinkled face.
Cheung spun as the crowd sucked in stale air as a single entity.
Jevratt stood over the older man, who
’d been knocked out, and who’d pissed himself in the process.
Looking up to all those looking down, Jevratt raised his bloody, bone-bare knuckles high.
The crowd chanted Jevratt’s name and went wild.
As did Cheung…
Chapter 7 – A painful belch
Following Jevratt’s victory in the fighting pit, and Cheung’s vocal celebration, near silence fell across the amphitheatre like the gradual cessation of a torrential downpour. Scores of eyes turned to the supposed priest of tears – the should-be mute – and those eyes were either wide or, mostly, narrowed.
Cheung’s heart quickened, his gloved hands moving towards his comforting satchel and kamas; what good would they do him against scores of capable fighters? Looking around in genuine fear, more for the failure of his mission than his own life, Cheung saw movement. Movement towards him. He scanned for a way through the closing crowd, for the blood-red door he’d passed through with the boy. For any door.
And will I make it out of Grounding even if I do make it to a door? Cheung cursed his stupidity and lapse. He cursed his intrigue and curiosity. But most of all he cursed the fear clouding his judgement, and in doing so, pushed it aside, sobering in an instant.
They know I can speak, so speak.
Before he could, Collett rushed down the steps towards him. Cheung braced himself and slipped one hand into his satchel, but Collett turned her back on him and held up her hands, smoking pipe held out in one.
‘What’s the business here?’ she said, voice carrying an air of authority that stayed everyone present. ‘So the feckin’ priest cheered for my son, so what?’ Her eyes darted here and there, daring anyone to move or question her. ‘Are ye all so proper that ye can’t believe it possible? That ye can’t believe one such as he…’
Cheung pulled his head back as the long pipe whipped around and hovered in front of his shadowed face.
‘…might be travelling in secret?’
Mumbles and whispers spread throughout the crowd, but Collett continued regardless. ‘Is that not what we offer our guests? Travel without question? Travel without judgement; judgement such as we suffer ourselves at the hands of many!’
A nod and shout of agreement from some.
‘But a priest?’ A woman stepped forward. She was similar in age to Collett, but far less haggard in appearance. ‘He hasn’t the right! He could be open about himself and we wouldn’t question, as you well know, Collett. So why pretend to be a priest? Of the Temple of Tears, no less.’
The pipe returned to Collett’s mouth as she turned and looked upon the robes of Cheung.
‘Because I am a priest,’ Cheung said, surprising himself.
Collett drew on her pipe and frowned as many called Cheung a liar.
‘How so, me man?’ Jevratt appeared by Cheung’s side and placed one of his hands on Cheung’s shoulder. Cheung glanced sidelong at that hand, body tense. There was blood on the hand, both Jevratt’s own and his opponent’s. The off-white of Jevratt’s knuckles poked through the damaged skin, like the snow tipped peaks of before, but from a sea of gore.
‘Well?’ Jevratt asked. ‘Priests of the Temple of Tears cannot speak, we all of us know that. There’s no need to continue with this line, Prie—’ Jevratt grunted a laugh at that, and again someone called Cheung a liar.
‘Offer up the truth,’ Collett added. ‘We’ll not judge why ye travel or who ye be. But… leave the priest title alone now, for yer own sake.’
There were whispers and murmurs again and people shuffled closer.
‘Because…’ Cheung said, more to Jevratt and Collett than any other present, ‘it’s not a lie. I am a priest… but I ran.’
Collett released a plume of smoke from her lips, took a deep breath and nodded. ‘He ran before they took his tongue,’ she said, loud enough for all to hear.
‘Take him back!’ Someone shouted from higher up, followed by agreements by others.
‘For what purpose?’ Jevratt shouted towards the general direction of whoever had spoken. ‘Eh?’ he pressed. ‘For what purpose? Do we take escaped prisoners back? Do we take travelling thieves and murderers and outlawed knights back?’ Jevratt pointed one of his tattooed arms to Sir Xand, the hedge knight who’d been watching from across the fighting pits. Cheung hadn’t even noticed him standing there.
I cannot remember a time I failed myself in so many ways, Cheung thought, jaw muscles bunching. I’m not sure my body will cope with the punishments I shall lay upon it.
Several people shook their heads and some remained angry. Cheung didn’t miss that.
‘It’s different,’ the woman close to Collett said. ‘A priest, Jevratt. A bleedin’ priest of tears of all things. He took a vow—’
‘And he paid his bloody dues to me!’ Collett shouted. Her face reddened more than normal and she shook with rage. ‘I’ll not be preached to about preachers by you, Serny!’
Cheung felt Jevratt’s hand tighten on his shoulder. ‘Me ma’s got the right of it.’ His eyes bored into those around him. ‘He’s paid his dues like that knight over there, like that merchant over there…’ His finger pointed out these people, previously hidden in the crowd of Caravaneers. ‘That child rapist over there; if there were any bastard we took back, or worse, it’d be that fecker.’ The man shrunk back into the crowd. ‘But no,’ said Jevratt, pointing his swollen hand to those around him, ‘we don’t do we? We take their coin and we travel them across Brisance. We feed their bellies and we offer them a dance. We pour them mead and we sing them songs, because that’s the life…’
‘On the road and run!’ The chorus echoed from the flat walls of the subterranean amphitheatre and was followed by cheers and chanting and fists in the air.
‘Now leave this be!’ Collett shouted over the racket. ‘Leave it be and throw in yer coin, for me son’s to fight again!’
A bigger cheer rose to that and the Caravaneers and travellers alike filtered down to Jevratt’s pit. A handful remained, glaring at the robed priest of tears; it was clear to them that Cheung was not what he seemed, but the crowd was content and for that Cheung owed his hosts his mission, possibly his life. If one or two came at him during the journey, or in Grounding, Cheung knew he could handle it. What he couldn’t have done was fight off an army. Especially one made up of folk born and raised to fight. Turning to the man whose bare-knuckled hand remained on his shoulder, Cheung said but one thing: ‘Thank you, friend.’
Jevratt grinned.
A while later and Cheung was eyeing a tubular earn.
‘I’m not sure how this works?’ he asked Jevratt. It felt strange to be talking around the Caravaneers, but he was content enough in the knowledge that they seemed to care about little past their own lives.
‘I told ye, Priest,’ Jevratt said, hopping about and flexing his scarred fingers, seemingly still fresh after yet another bout fought and won. ‘I put me hand in there, like it is, see?’ He held his hands palm out, palm in. Palm out. Palm in. ‘And the rat’s thrown in; hungry.’ The man’s hands showed signs of damage from the amphitheatre.
Cheung looked to the onlookers, most of which were talking too quickly for him to understand. He did understand enough to know they were betting on the outcome of the other two men stood about the large urn, and enough to know none of them bet against Jevratt.
‘Why bother, Jevratt, if no one bets against you?’
Jevratt grinned and slapped his forearms. ‘Pride, me friend. Pride it is. These pricks here…’
Both men made to protest, until Jevratt looked at them. Their silence was followed by sniggers and jibes from the gathering crowd.
‘As I say to ye, these pricks here are hit’n’miss. Hit’n’miss they are. So they’re worth the bet. Me?’ He turned slowly, hands held high to the sudden chanting of his name. ‘I do it…’ A well timed pause. ‘…because I can!’
The crowd cheered, a sound felt in the chest of everyone in the subterranean amphitheatre.
Cheung filled pale che
eks and nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said, after releasing the breath. His place at the front was of Jevratt’s making. To his left stood Belcher, to his right Collett. Jevratt’s mother took bets in an impressive run of speech that blended into one long stream of gibberish. As far as Cheung was concerned.
Without warning, Collett’s hands shot high and the bets stopped. As did the voices.
The amphitheatre was eerie in the near silence. Two women came forward with a wooden box stretching between them. They hefted it atop the urn, opened hatches along its length and stood aside as a man with maille mitts reached in.
A squeal announced the apprehension of an inhabitant and before Cheung knew what was happening, a large brown rat was yanked from the hatch and shoved into one of the urn’s holes. This happened two more times before the box was removed.
The crowd yelled and three hands plunged into holes, two more hesitantly than the other.
Names were shouted and people laughed as grim faces were pulled. Two of the three contestants sucked in air and spat out curses, grimaced through pain, twisting their bodies. They gripped the sides of their holes with free hands as they reached further inside.
Jevratt seemed calm as his tattooed arm jerked about in the blackness of the urn. A rat squealed and there was a loud thump from within the thick ceramic container.
‘Feck off!’ one of the three shouted, pulling away from the urn, his bloody hand following. He was dragged away just as quick and followed by boos and hisses.
The next man lasted but heartbeats longer before he cried out and was pulled back by two women, his thumb nothing but a mangled mess of bright bone and red flesh.
Jevratt laughed aloud and practically lay on the urn, his shoulder working so furiously the rat tails resting on his neck danced. His other hand went up, index finger pointing to the ceiling.
The crowd whooped and called his name.
A second finger went up as a muffled screech came from the urn; more cheering.
