by RW Krpoun
He cocked an eyebrow. “Buryan swordsmen, the finest in the world.”
“Armor?”
“None, just saber and shield. Or whatever you prefer,” he added, glancing at Fallsblade’s hilt. “Cold steel, to the death.”
“What’s the pit fee?”
“No fee, but you bring your own healer.”
“How’s the wagering work here?”
“You go through clan agents, with all parties paying a tenth part to the agent, who ensures that there are no…hard feelings.” He had to think before he chose the phrase.
“How much lead time is needed before a match?”
He shrugged. “At least an hour, to create time for wagers. The fights start at sundown.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks.”
“What was all that about?” Moina asked when we were out of earshot of the loungers.
“I wouldn’t mind a match,” I shrugged.
“They fight to the death here, even when they say it’s to first blood,” she warned.
“I quit first-blood matches a long time ago.”
“You need money?”
“No. It’s just been a long time since I had a match, a couple months, I think. I beat a pure-blood Ukar to death in an informal bout about that long ago. I wouldn’t mind knocking the rust off.”
She shook her head. “I left all that behind when I took off my collar. I’ll fight if I have to, but the pit’s never going to see me again.”
“I’m getting tired of these Buryans; little men should not be so arrogant. Especially little men who ride small horses.”
She glanced at me. “Some get a taste for blood.”
“Blood doesn’t bother me, but I don’t like mean bastards. These Buryan don’t have proper behavior.”
She smiled a little. “So killing a couple would teach them better?”
“I doubt it, but you have to do something.”
“Well, right now I think you should buy me a mug of ale.”
I bought her a mug of ale, and a basket of fried grasshoppers, and we talked for about an hour; well, to be honest, she did most of the talking, while I watched her and tried not to say or do anything stupid. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and that included the little blue light that had marked the log I had used to pull myself out of the river in the karst. Her hair smelled like vanilla, I discovered, and her original eye had tiny flecks of green that was charming in the extreme.
When I left her at her master’s camp I was in a daze, and found it hard to say goodbye. I felt light-headed and clumsy, like I had drunk a keg instead of a smallish mug of rather weak ale.
It was the longest conversation I had ever had with a girl, Hatcher not counting as such. What would life be like if that was a thing that could happen more often? Impossible to imagine.
The camp was in a quiet uproar when I got back; Hatcher was giving Rose a bath in a bucket and both were having a good time. Burk was determinedly polishing his boots to the exclusion of everything else, Pieter was brushing down the mule, and Igen and Kalos were hiding.
The reason everyone was deeply engrossed in their own business or hiding in the cart was that Provine Sael and Hunter were having a very bitter row, with Torl standing by with the air of a man ready to jump in and stop a physical fight.
Hunter, rumpled and in his shirtsleeves, was keeping his voice low, but Provine Sael was having trouble keeping her temper in check. “You have found time for women, wine, and gambling from one end of this continent to the other,” she snapped in a voice she was trying, and failing, to keep low. “But carrying out my instructions and generally applying those skills of yours that I hired you to use…stop shushing me!”
Hunter shook his head and rubbed his bare pate. “What is done, is done.”
“Don’t try that! Do you have any idea how badly things could have gone?”
“I do, better than you, in fact,” the ‘slinger snapped. “But it didn’t. Yes, I was careless, but in all fairness, who could possibly have anticipated what we found at the mounds?”
I considered just taking to my heels, but instead headed over to Pieter, who was deeply engrossed in the mule, and patted the animal on the nose. “You know, I don’t know this mule’s name.”
“Neither do I,” he admitted. “She’s never confided in me. But I call her Smokey, mhm to which she does not object.”
“Huh.” The mule was looking at me with somber eyes. Thinking on it, I didn’t know if she was one of the ones we had started out with, or if we had acquired her from the Sagrit.
“Mules are interesting creatures,” he paused to scratch his cheek, and flakes of scar tissue fluttered down. “As a general rule they are hard workers, but they possess a strong streak of independence mhm that is tempered by a generally even disposition. If treated well they are good companions who can be relied upon mhm through even the most difficult of circumstances. I find their company to be quietly simulating; I suspect that they are excellent students mhm of the vagaries of life. Who knows what deep thoughts they might share, mhm should they choose to make the effort?”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I picked up a spare brush and worked on the mule’s mane. “I don’t like the Buryan,” I observed after a moment.
“I find the warriors to be small-minded and mean; mhm the few interactions I have had with Buryan women leads me to believe they live lives of quiet desperation.”
I had finished combing out Smokey’s mane by the time the argument ended with both parties storming off, although neither went very far; Hunter went to his cot and flopped down, while Provine Sael stalked over to where Rose, dry and dressed in a clean shirt, was crawling on a blanket on the ground. The Dellian scooped up the baby and strode back and forth, muttering and trying to keep her earrings from fat little fingers.
Finally she returned Rose to the blanket. “Burk, Grog.”
We shuffled over without enthusiasm. “Mistress.”
“I have bad news,” Provine Sael’s knuckles were white where she gripped her staff. “In order to secure our passage and some information as to locations, I have had to pledge to enter the two of you in a martial challenge.”
It took me a minute to work out what she meant. “A match? In the pit?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Excellent,” Burk bobbed his head approvingly.
“I’m ready,” I agreed. “We’ll need someone to act as a crier, though. Maybe Torl?”
Hatcher collapsed, laughing, as Provine Sael’s face shifted from anger to surprise and back to plain fury. “This is not good news!” she snapped.
“Of course, mistress,” I said hastily. “But we’ll need to put on a proper show. These Buryan will expect it.”
“We have to make it look just so,” Burk said solemnly. “You can’t let these clan types think they’re putting one over on us. Master Horne was always very clear on presentation.”
“We don’t want to look weak.” I nodded. “This is our meat and bread, mistress. You can count on us to do it right.”
She looked suspicious and more than a little doubtful, but Hatcher’s hooting distracted her. “Hatcher, be quiet. I’m sorry to ask this of you two; it is barbaric.”
“No regrets,” I assured her. “We’ll make some wagers; after seeing how quick the Buryan are with a lash, I’d be glad to face one in the pit.”
“Better a fight in the pit than a skirmish in the hills,” Burk pointed out.
“You are free beings,” Provine Sael sighed. “You don’t actually have to do this.”
“Freedom takes money,” Burk shrugged. “This is just an unexpected opportunity; when you’re free, you have to watch for such things. I just read that in a book.”
“You two are smoother than I expected,” Hatcher observed as she re-tied her scarf, Provine Sael having left with Torl to confirm the specifics of the fight. “She was half-way ready to scoot out and try our luck in the hills without fighting.”
“That would just ha
ve caused trouble,” Burk rubbed his chin.
“She’s going to have to realize that having a pair of massive brutes in tow means that people are going to want a chance to see them perform,” Hunter observed, joining us.
“Them being free is easier for her,” Hatcher nodded, scooping up Rose, who was about to crawl off the blanket. “But she wasn’t ready for the enthusiasm.”
“Sometimes you just want a fight,” I shrugged. “These runts get on my nerves.”
“Enough about motivations,” Hunter leaned down and tickled Rose’s chin; the baby stopped trying to wriggle free and goggled up at him. “Let’s talk wagers; these sheep-lovers are mad for gambling, and I bet they have never really seen what boys of your class can do. Now, they’ll try to slip a fast one past Provine Sael on account of she’s as straight an arrow as they come, and while Torl’s sharp, the fact is he’s a country boy with no interest in blood sports.”
“I was told they use clan agents for betting,” I noted.
“They do, but that’s for the common riff-raff; what we need to do is to put up serious money with the well-heeled crowd.”
“Like your friend who had to ransom his sword?” Hatcher grinned evilly.
“Exactly. There’s nothing better than a man with a grudge and assurances that he’s onto a sure thing. When he loses, his ire will be directed towards the fellow who told him the fix was in. But to make it really sing, we need to put down our marker before they get too good of a look at our lads. Promises of a sure thing fade when you have to look up to see all of the opposition’s player.”
“You can bet all my money,” I decided. “I don’t care what they tell Provine Sael, this is going to be a death match.”
Burk nodded. “These heathens have no honor. You can have mine, too.”
“Wagering is easy,” Hatcher put Rose down in the middle of the blanket. “Collecting is another thing.”
“Not really,” Hunter grinned. “Piking a public wager gains no greater respect here than anywhere else. But to play it safe, I’ll spread the money across three or four fools; you don’t want to gouge anyone too deep.”
“I’m in,” Hatcher stood. “Watch Rose while I get my spare cash.”
I sat on the cart tongue and thought about Moina; she was so beautiful, and funny, and smart. Just thinking about her gave me butterflies in my gut. I tried not to think about the fact that in a day or two I would never see her again, but that was the truth. Provine Sael was only bringing in known people, with good reason, and Moina would never abandon a client in mid-escort.
I was just being stupid. But it was nice to think about her.
As the shadows lengthened Burk and me went through our warm-up exercises. Hunter came back to the camp looking like a cat with cream on his whiskers. “We not only have wagers, boys, but odds.”
“Who are we up against?” Burk asked.
“A bear and an unarmed fighter, both highly regarded by their agents. The word is out: you two are marked for a swift and ugly demise.”
“The bear’s mine, then,” Burk sighed. “I was hoping for a good match.”
“Don’t be disappointed: this bear hasn’t lost a match.”
“Buryans,” Burk snorted. “I’ve fought bears before.”
Provine Sael returned at that moment, Torl in tow, and Hunter made himself scarce. “It is all arranged, much to my displeasure,” she announced, shooting a dark lot at the retreating ‘slinger. “You will be the opening…well, acts.”
“Good, better footing,” Burk nodded, curling a bucket of water.
“I’m sorry about this,” the Dellian scowled.
“Our choice, mistress,” I pointed out as I did the last of my stretches. “Everyone is a volunteer.”
“I made it clear that these are not to be death matches, but I suspect they are not in the habit of being truthful,” Provine Sael sighed.
“Death matches are actually easier,” I assured her. Glancing at the horizon, I mopped away the sweat. “I need to do something; Burk, make sure you bring drink.”
“Water and ale, plenty of both.” He snapped his fingers. “Pieter, where’s the cooking stuff?”
I found Moina sitting at a small fire with a couple Men and brutes at the back edge of their camp. “Hello,” I said awkwardly.
She stood and came over. “Boys, this is Grog; Grog, the boys. To what do we owe the honor?”
“I’m going to be fighting in the pit, first or second bout, if you want to watch.”
“What sort of bout?” One of the man, a weaselly-looking archer with red hair asked.
“Unarmed, to the death.”
“That means Throk,” the archer scratched his unshaven chin. “You know about him?”
“I know he’s going to die tonight.”
The archer grinned and stood. “That’s worth a wager. They giving odds?”
“Against me.”
“Are you serious?” Moina hissed as the archer and a couple others headed out to bet. “I’ve seen Throk.”
I shrugged. “I’m of the Ebon Blades, a proper barracks of the old school.”
She tossed her hair. “Men.” She grabbed my head and pulled me into a kiss. “For luck.”
She was gone before I could collect my thoughts and speak.
The pit at the Gathering was just a sunken area surrounded by a crude wattle wall and plank seats, a bit primitive but serviceable. We ran into a problem when Torl declined to be our herald; Hatcher was willing, but it was quickly apparent that the unruly Buryan were too noisy for the little Nisker’s voice. Fighters were assigned a little platform on which to wait and prepare so the crowd could get a look at us.
“Barbarians,” Burk shook his head as he swabbed his torso and arms with a rag soaked in vinegar.
Provine Sael joined our group (less Laun, Rose, Pieter, and the girls) and wrinkled her nose at the smell. “Burk, what are you doing?”
“Getting an edge,” I noted. “Vinegar and dill seasoning, which can put an animal off for a second.”
She shook her head. “This is insane.”
“Every little bit helps.” I had held back two broad five Mark pieces from my money, and had slipped one into each of the backs of my fighting gloves, carefully stitching up the seam afterwards. “They’ll be playing tricks, too. This is not a well-regulated pit.”
“Uh-oh,” Hatcher jerked at my trouser leg. “That’s not a bear, that is a bull with fur.”
Burk’s foe was being led into the pit; it was a big bear, four feet at the shoulder and probably over nine on its hind legs, with a pronounced hump across its shoulders and its rear hips slightly lower than the front.
It swung its long snout from side to side, taking in the sights and smells as its handler unleashed it and gave the huge head a quick hug; the bear’s skull looked bigger across than Torl’s chest.
“That’s not a usual bear,” I said quietly.
“No, it is not,” Burk agreed. “Looks like it is built to stand.”
“Hooked claws, filed sharp,” I noted. “Bears dig, so you can’t let it get them into you.”
“Harry it until it stands, then get inside the claws and open up its belly,” Burk spun his short sword with an easy flick of his wrist. “It needs room to work.”
“Hit off-center so it can’t get a wrap-around grip,” I agreed. “You want my dirk?”
He thought about it. “No, I’ll stick with a shield.”
“For the Ebon Blades,” I clapped him on the shoulder.
Moina joined us just before the horn sounded, a tankard in hand, and to be honest, having her standing next to me distracted me so badly I hardly watched the match.
It wasn’t much of a match, truth be told: the bear was fearsome, death wrapped in fur, but Burk had fought all kinds of beasts, and as planned he got inside its reach and killed it without much more than a few scratches. It was like Hunter said, these clanners had never seen a properly trained pit fighter at work.
The crowd roared wi
th anguish as the bear died; and to be truthful, I didn’t like seeing it die. I never liked fighting animals, except hyenas; I hate hyenas. But most animals in the pits bother me: they don’t know why they’re there, they’re scared and alone, and their deaths seem tragic in a way. Master Horne always dismissed animal bouts as cheap sensations, and kept us out of as many as was possible.
Provine Sael was impatiently waiting to patch Burk up, but he took the time to walk a stiff-legged circuit around the pit before ducking through the low entranceway and rejoining us on the platform reserved for the challengers.
The crowd noise was too loud for me to say anything to Moina, but it was really nice to just stand next to her. But when Burk rejoined us I pulled off my shirt, did a few stretches and warm-up jabs, and slid down the ladder to the five-foot opening; standing to the side, I concentrated on gaining focus, on driving everything out of my head except the coming fight.
Only one leaves the pit, that is the rule.
Chapter Sixteen
The crowd started roaring “Throk! Throk!” and I ducked through the opening and strode to the center of the sand-covered fighting area, looking neither left nor right: Master Horne always said that the crowd wins no fights, but it can kill a fighter.
At the center I got my first look at Throk: he was a Man, hunched a bit from a twisted spine, his misshapen body a thick knot of muscle, standing taller than Burk, though still shorter than me. His head hung forward a little because of his back, and a halo of wild dark hair obscured his features as he shuffled towards me, his hands held up in a fighting stance. His hands were professionally wrapped and laced in place, all the way to mid-forearm, and as he approached I saw the stiffness of metal beneath the cloth.
As he drew close I caught a look at his face: weak chin, drooling mouth held in an uncertain grin that exposed yellow snags of teeth, and large, watery blue eyes that were empty of comprehension: Throk was a half-wit.
I tensed: he was not the first I had seen in the pit; such men had a terrible strength because of their condition, and were often put into low-rated fights where their minimal skills were less of a disadvantage. I had seen them kill more than one beginning pit fighter who was thrown off by the idea of fighting a man with the wits of a child. Master Horne had frequently expressed a poor opinion of promoters who fielded such fighters.
