by RW Krpoun
But Throk was a local champion, which didn’t make much sense: skill won serious matches, not brute force. I kept looking at his hand-wraps: they went high on his forearms, higher than usual. To cover something? Just before the horn sounded it struck me: to cover scars: Throk was a strangler, and the desperate nails of trapped men would have marked up his lower arms.
Then the horn bellowed and the half-wit charged, roaring, his gnarled hands reaching. Instead of meeting him as I usually would, I shifted to the side, looped two left jabs into his ribs, and then threw a front kick into his right thigh, causing him to stumble. Closing fast, I backhanded him across the temple, the studs on the back of my glove drawing blood and the heavy gold disk tucked into the back of the glove sending a jolt of pain to my elbow.
Throk was knocked off his feet, but instead of crashing into the dirt he tucked and rolled, coming back up onto his feet, staggering a little to catch his balance, grinning and chortling as blood ran down his face.
I hissed between my teeth and moved slowly to close; that was a professional tumble: Throk probably had been apprenticed to a clown or other performer, learning tumbling, balancing, and similar physical skills. Useful skills here, especially since I was nowhere near as light on my feet.
Throk came for me again, hands reaching, his arms too wide; it was tempting to step in and plant a fist into his vulnerable face, but again I side-stepped, this time to the right, and jabbed, two to the ribs, one to the shoulder, and circle. He growled like a beast, his eyes sharpening with frustration at my unwillingness to play his game, and I wondered just how many wits he actually had.
Whatever he had within the thick bone of that misshapen skull, I wasn’t going to pit muscle to muscle against him; I was trained to punch and kick, not wrestle. We circled each other, and Throk held his hands in closer, chuckling and chortling, spittle drooling down his chin.
But I wasn’t watching his chin, I was watching his belly, and it told me he was controlling his breathing, and again I wondered just how much of a half-wit he actually was.
Then he cross-stepped and swung high, hard, and gracelessly with a roundhouse that could have taken my head off, but was actually a blind for the short follow-up jab aimed for my belly. I ducked and stepped in, twisting, feeling the iron under his hand-wrap as the jab skidded across my ribs as I brought my right forearm in to connect with his left cheekbone once, twice, back a half-step and put a right jab into the side of his neck. He went down, but again rolled and was back on his feet before I could get a boot into his ribs.
He dropped the idiot act, and the blue eyes were narrowed as I closed; I blocked a jab with my left forearm and rapped him twice, one in the face and next in the ribs before skipping back. I was quicker than he was, but his reach was so close to mine as to leave no difference, and I wouldn’t want to guess who was stronger. I wasn’t going to let him get his hands on me, but you don’t become a champion, even local, with only one move.
We circled, exchanging jabs, no more tricks, no more games, just cold measurement. We were here in the pit now, the twisted man and the half-man, and only one would leave, that was the rule. And I hadn’t come here to die.
He swung and I blocked and we circled, both watching for the perfect point for a move, throwing a punch when it seemed right. I had the advantage: I was trained in a barracks of the old school, whereas he relied on his strength and reach, coupled with being underestimated. He hit and grabbed, but I blocked and moved, keeping him back, giving him a rap in the ribs or belly when the timing was right, moving and watching for the right time. Master Horne always said a proper fight was just one drawn-out action that ended in the death of the other fighter, and while I am dumb, I learned well.
Then the angle was right, and I threw a straight-shoulder cross-body right punch, pivoting my wrist and curling my fingers in order to drive the heel of my hand into his right upper chest. I felt his collarbone snap at the impact, and then I was sliding to my left as he got a solid left punch into my ribs.
His right arm had lost half or more its strength and mobility, and I circled to keep to his right, jabbing high as he struggled to get the arm up to block, splitting his lips, crushing his already flattened nose, splitting the thin skin over his heavy brow ridges. I had him off-balance, and I worked him hard, pushing in to keep him that way.
Then my right arm was across his throat and I was behind him, right hand gripping the inside of my left elbow, left hand clamped on the back of his skull, pushing forward with my left and drawing back with my right.
The strangler was strangling, but he did not panic, nor paw at my right arm, which was the instinctive thing to do; instead he attacked my left, trying to knock it up and break the hold at its most vulnerable point, while driving backwards with his legs. Here my added height gave me an advantage, albeit as not as decisive as I would have liked.
Strangling a fighting man is slow work; far better to snap his neck, but his hunched posture made me unwilling to try it. Master Horne always taught us that skill, strength, and will were what won the number of fights needed to make High Rate, not flashy moves. So I dragged my feet backway across the sand, a few inches at a time, to lessen the force of his efforts to drive backwards.
It was pure leverage, muscle and bone against muscle and bone, the determination to kill pitted against the desperate will to survive. All the practice, all the chin-ups and curled buckets of water, of beams hefted, and push-ups done were directed towards this exact point in time: if Throk did not break my hold, he would die. This was why Master Horne had pushed us, marched us, had us out in the rain hacking at posts with weighted wooden swords: you had to be able to turn your brain off and just give it all you had, to hang on as long as you needed, and a little bit more.
Two enter the pit, but only one leaves, that is the rule.
Throk was good and dead when I released the hold, his body thumping onto the sand like a sack of rocks. I stepped back, twisting my arms to get the blood flow working properly, the roar of the crowd finally starting to penetrate my awareness. I took in the gaping faces bellowing as I flexed my sore fingers, grateful when the horn sounded and a nod from the master of ceremonies let me duck through the little portal.
“Well, that was horrific,” Hatcher yelled over the crowds.
“Are you injured?” Provine Sael was pale and looked a little stunned around the eyes.
“No mistress.”
“Let us depart, then. I have had quite enough.”
Torl tossed me my shirt and I trailed along with Moina at the rear of the group.
“Well, that was ten easy Marks,” Moina noted when we were far enough away from the crowd noise. “They gave me two-to-one odds.”
“It wasn’t all that easy.” I buttoned up my shirt.
“It…looked unpleasant.”
“I prefer steel, but I didn’t choose the match. Provine Sael had to accept the challenge in order to get something she needs.”
“I would ask for more pay.”
“I bet nearly everything I have on me,” I shrugged, wincing at a stab of pain from my ribs. “I think that will get me at least two month’s pay.”
She shook her head. “I hated the pit, but nothing else beats it for making silver flow like water. I think the gambling has ruined more lives than the actual matches.”
“It can get to be like a sickness.”
“Your archer had to restrain your mistress when she first saw Throk; she thought they were sending a man-child up against you.”
“He wasn’t as much a half-wit as he pretended to be.”
“That became apparent quickly enough. Disgusting-looking, no matter what he was or wasn’t. Anyway, the first thing a big winner should do is spend some money on a girl; in fact it’s bad luck not to. Lucky for you there’s an ale-seller right there.”
We packed up camp at first light; Laun was staying behind, as the merchant he was going to travel with wasn’t done selling, and while he was making his goodbyes I ducked ove
r to the next camp, where Moina was standing by the fire toweling her wet hair.
“We’re heading out.” I tried to sound calm.
“Now?” she was startled.
“The fight got us what my mistress needed. Ah, listen, if I…I mean, would it be all right if I wrote you?”
“Wrote me what?”
“A letter, you know, keep in touch.”
“A letter?” She twisted the towel. “I can’t…I mean, I’ve never gotten a letter before. That would be nice.” She frowned. “How would I get it?”
I had thought it out. “Does your employer have a place he operates from?”
She snapped her fingers. “A woodyard, yes. His accounts-master stays there.”
“I can send the letter there. If you send me one, address it to Grog, Ebon Blades barracks in Fellhome, care of Master Horne.” I had carved that into a small piece of shingle while I was on guard, and now I passed it to her.
“Come with me, the chief clerk will know the address of the wood yard.”
Hatcher dozed on the cart, curled around Rose’s cradle, when we set off, so I was able to walk in peace and quiet behind the cart. Igen and Kalos were riding on the tailgate, which was chained in place horizontally; in fact, they were just two irregular shapes under a blanket.
Tucked in my pouch was the address to the wood yard where Moina could get a letter from me, stored for safety in the same stoppered horn case that held my letter of manumission. That was something good to think about.
We headed into the foothills, and soon we were in a fairly thick sprinkling of scrubby little trees that were growing just any old way. Torl vanished into the greenery, and Provine Sael led the group, Hunter strolling beside her. They weren’t talking, but I guessed that they had gotten past their row. Pieter walked by Smokey’s shoulder, occasionally speaking softly to the mule.
Burk started out on the right flank, but as the sun cleared the horizon he dropped back to walk with me behind the cart. “I bought a book on puppet mastery,” he observed after a while.
I nodded. “That’s a solid start. I got Pieter to teach me the calendar.”
“How is it?”
“A little confusing. I’ll show you when I get it sorted out in my mind.”
“Can’t hurt.”
We walked in silence for a while. “I’m thinking that it might be good to help former slaves learn useful things about being free,” I observed. “Like Pieter is doing with Igen and Kalos,”
Burk considered that. “That would be a good thing. What would you teach them?”
“I’m not sure yet, but we have a lot of walking ahead of us, so I thought I could suss it out along the way. Maybe you could give it some thought, too.”
“I will. Being free isn’t easy, or as good as I thought it would be. People could certainly use some help to be free properly.”
“There’s more disorganization than anything else,” I nodded. “People need to learn how to behave.”
“Slackness,” Burk nodded. “Look at the pit yesterday: no dignity, poor organization. People just don’t apply themselves.”
“I didn’t like the Buryan.”
“Mean little runts,” Burk nodded. “I’m beginning to think you can’t trust people who use curved swords.”
“You’re not wrong.”
About an hour into the morning Hatcher woke up and reclaimed her usual place on my shoulders. “I’m glad to be shed of that place,” she observed, jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the Gathering. “The Buryan are awful.”
“I didn’t like them.”
“That was a pretty awful fight last night.”
“I feel sorry for the bear.”
“Provine Sael was so furious when she thought they were sending a half-wit against you that Torl had to grab her to keep her from doing something dumb.”
“Throk wasn’t right in the head, but he wasn’t just a half-wit.”
“I figured he wouldn’t be a local winner if he was, but Provine Sael doesn’t think along those lines. It’s only the second time she saw a pit match, after all, and the first was back at the Fist.”
“She was calmer about us doing it this time.”
“Well, she thought yours would be just a bare knuckles match. I didn’t let on otherwise.”
“It worked out.”
“It paid well. The sheep herds are going to have a bloody time when it comes to the fall butchering, given the amount of money we took off the local owners. Hunter did good.”
“Are he and Provine Sael going to be all right?” I was worried Hunter might leave.
“Yeah, she’s just under a lot of pressure; this has been a rough trip so far. What they learned in the vines,” she dropped her voice when she said that. “Affected her and Hunter a lot.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, something to do with the Arts. Hunter’s a lot less outspoken, and is drinking less, if you’ve noticed. There’s something going on that the rest of us don’t understand, something arcane.”
“Are they going to be all right?”
“Yeah, not that sort of affected, I meant worried. And scared. I think that’s why Provine Sael is more outspoken, and less upset about violence: she’s got other worries in front of her.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, how did you leave it with your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“So how did you leave it with Moina?”
“I’m going to write her.”
“Whooo!” she drummed her heels against my new breastplate. “Progress. Here I didn’t think there was a romantic bone in your body.”
My neck was burning. “Any word on how the war is progressing?”
“You know, you and Burk can buy a round in an ale shop like anyone else.”
“I was busy.”
“You were not, you had just as much free time as I did, and I get bored fast. The damned Buryan keep their women wearing tents, so the traders don’t bother with clothes, shoes, or jewelry. Any society that discourages women’s fashion is evil.”
“So, any news?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, well, pretty much as expected: the Empire is giving ground while the Legions from the southern areas move up, but the Dusmen are paying in blood for every mile. The Legions are in fine spirits, outfighting the Ukar and Tulg in almost every engagement, but the Imperial generals are refusing to be drawn into a full-on battle to the death, because the Dusmen have the numbers, at least so far. They’re going to draw the Dusmen in, bleed ‘em, and then pile on when the time is right. Oh, and a guy name of Leofric, investigating like Provine Sael is, found out why Merrywine got hit by an incursion.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, they used the incursion to infiltrate turncoats into the confusion. The turncoats were pretending to be healers, but their job was to spread disease.”
“So it didn’t have anything to do with the Place of Mounds?”
“Nope. Provine Sael was wrong about that, but you don’t know until you check. And it led us here. The Empire’s lucky there’s still a few people willing to step up. The history books won’t remember Provine Sael, or Leofric, or the others who formed little groups and are poking into odd corners looking for the reasons behind the reasons, but they’re important.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but it was nice to hear: if Provine Sael was important, then as her bodyguard I was doing good, and reflecting great credit upon the Ebon Blades. Master Horne would be pleased.
“Do you think the Buryan will try to get their money back?” As a bodyguard, I should take an interest in subjects such as this.
“I would think so; in fact, I’m surprised that they paid their debts, but Hunter says no, and he is no babe in the woods. See that wreath tied to the stick in the cart’s whip-holder? That’s a safe-passage marker. That was what you and Burk were really fighting for, in the pit. If you won your matches, we get the marker, and that means that we have the clan chiefs’
protection.”
I thought about that. “So, the clan chiefs bet on us?”
“I’m sure. Torl told them who you two were, and I’m sure they discretely checked with certain outside traders.”
“That meant they were secretly betting against their own people.” I wasn’t all that surprised; back home promoters occasionally gave a good but not great fighter a lot of attention, and then had a proxy bet against them. Master Horne never did anything like that because the Ebon Blades were a barracks of the old school, in it for the long haul.
“Yeah. And it makes for a good spectacle, and spectacles are important when you are in charge of a bunch of mean bastards who treat women like dirt. Especially since the younger warriors are grousing because the clans are staying out of the war. They want captives, loot, and glory, after all.”
“But the clan chiefs want to wait.”
“Yeah, they’re more interested in being on the winning side, which I have to admit is an important consideration, especially when you’re in charge. If they back the wrong side they can count on retaliation; both the Emperor and the Dusmen are keeping names.”
“Who runs the Dusmen? Do they have an Emperor?”
“I don’t know. Nobody trades with them, and they never travel outside their lands for anything but war. And I mean never. If you see a Dusman, there’s violence afoot.”
“Strange people.”
“Yup. I need a new pair of boots, but I couldn’t get any because the Buryan like to keep their women barefoot and pregnant.”
“Didn’t you bring a bunch of new shoes back from Fellhome?” I wondered how she had managed to wear out a set of soles, since I carried her more often than she walked.
“Not for cross-country walking, I didn’t.”
She was travelling cross-country on my shoulders, but I didn’t mention that, either. And it was possible that there was footgear designed solely for Niskers riding brutes; one thing I had learned from Hatcher’s endless monologues was that it was difficult for certain females to get through life without the right footgear and accessories in the correct styles and colors.
