Dasher shrugged. “I thought it must’ve been given to you by one of your parents. Why else would you wear it all the time?”
Another silence fell between them. Then Dasher blurted out, “Earnest and I have been writing your brother.”
“Why would you do that?”
Dasher rose slightly and reached into the back pocket of his pants. “To convince him to take care of this. We tried to get it done sooner, but he kept dragging his feet.”
Venture just stared at the folded paper Dasher held out to him, afraid to hope it could be the impossible. Dasher tossed it into his lap.
“Your exemption to the age requirement.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.” He gave Venture’s head an affectionate shove. “Effective immediately. Just in the nick of time.”
“In time for what?”
“The Championship.”
“What?”
“Earnest and I talked about it. And since we got that,” he pointed at the exemption, “we think you should skip the Youth Championship and enter some absolute tournaments so you can be ready to give the real thing a try.”
“What?”
“The All Richland Absolute Fighting Championship, that’s what.”
“But it’s in three months. And I’m only seventeen.”
“That’s right. You’re seventeen. But listen to me, Venture Delving.” Dasher looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t talk to God like you do. I don’t know if the god of Atran even exists. But I know that someone made you. And if anyone asked him if you’re ready for this, he’d laugh. He’d laugh because the answer is so obvious. You are the answer.”
Venture shook his head, opening his mouth to protest, but Dasher said, “He’s given you the size and strength of a man, and you’re still growing every day. But you’ll have the crazy energy of a seventeen-year-old. He’s also given you the instincts of a champion.”
“Those other guys are all strong and talented.”
“Not like you. Is there a god over champions, a god for some people here and a god for some people there, or a god over everything and everyone? I don’t know. But whoever made you, whoever keeps you, he’s left a mark on you.” He slapped Venture’s chest as though there really were something there. “The mark of a champion.”
“What makes you think he keeps me?”
“You’re an orphaned bonded servant, and you’re going to be Champion of All Richland one day. Someone intervenes for you.”
“Dasher,” he said tentatively, “have you told Earnest all this?”
“Not all of it. He’d think I was losing my mind.”
“Are you losing your mind?”
“You seem to have that effect on me,” he replied, and Venture couldn’t help a smile, though his head was swimming.
CHAPTER TEN
The Founders Rock City Green swarmed with people hoping to get a peek at their favorite fighters as they arrived to register for tomorrow’s Championship. Nearby, a team of fifty warriors were drilling. Their bare, muscular forearms glistened with sweat brought on more by their insulating sword-proof vests and mail than by the heat of the day. They charged against each other in a choreographed, mock battle, then demonstrated hand-to-hand routines, while a recruiter spoke to those who gathered to watch.
But when their commander heard the murmurs of Dasher’s name, he stopped, and his men turned to watch the Champion instead. Venture wondered if the commander longed for the prestige of the beautiful plate armor, additional protection over the shoulders, chest, and back, reserved only for Crested commanders, or whether he was glad not to be burdened by it. And, if he ever did see battle, how would he feel about it then?
Compared to the arena, the registration tent was stifling hot, packed with fighters greeting each other and finding their way into the appropriate lines. Dasher, as a returning fighter in the top five, reported to an official on the other side of the room, leaving Earnest to lead Venture through the process.
When it was his turn, the registration official took the certificate of exemption from Venture’s hand, the letter from Justice, and the letter from Grant. Venture tried to keep his match face on as he prayed that there wouldn’t be a scene. He couldn’t help recalling the long night he’d spent before the Youth Quarter Championship when he was fourteen, lying awake and praying—no, demanding—that he be given the chance to compete, a shot at a place in the top three, at winning admittance to Champions Center. Beamer had been gone half the night meeting with tournament officials about him, convincing them to let him in.
Venture waited and watched all the men who already had their competitors’ badges, small tin discs imprinted with the government seal and painted black, draped around their necks with matching black leather cords. He’d been here before, had seen these fighters before, but now he wasn’t a just spectator, and they weren’t just Dasher’s opponents, they were his. He’d been excited, invigorated when they arrived in the capital city the day before, eager to unleash all he had on his opponents in the All-Richland Absolute Fighting Championship. This, in spite of the fact that, since it was his first time fighting, it was guaranteed to be an ordeal.
He would be competing not only for the experience, but in hopes of increasing his chances of placing in the future. The first day of competition was only for those who hadn’t made the final cut the previous year. These men fought in a massive single elimination competition, match after match, until only five remained. To lose was to submit, to give up or pass out, to be so badly beaten that the official ended the match, or to withdraw due to injury or exhaustion. The time limit was an unbearable thirty minutes. It was rare for any pair to last even half that long without one surrendering. In the event of a stalemate, they moved on to their next matches, to face each other later if neither one had been eliminated by someone else.
Often a man made it into the final five, only to be too fatigued or injured to participate in the second day of competition. The second day of the tournament was for the top five from Day One and the top five from the previous year, minus those who hadn’t chosen to return. These men each fought the others, and the one with the most wins was declared Champion. In the event any men were tied for wins, they fought each other to break the tie. It was a long shot, but if Venture could make it into the top five, next year he’d only have to fight the other nine or fewer top contestants, without the wear and tear of Day One.
Since he’d just gotten his exemption, Venture had only fought in three absolute tournaments before the Championship. He’d managed to take second to Dasher in one, and third in the other two. But those were just small, local tournaments. Here he would face veteran fighters who knew their way not just around a mat, but around the arena.
Venture heard excited murmuring behind him. The men around him turn to stare. Will Fisher had arrived, as always, with his entourage. Unlike Dasher, he traveled to tournaments with four polished carriages filled with trainers, coaches, servants, even a handful of girls. Venture was inclined to turn right back around; he had no desire to stare at Fisher, but Fisher locked eyes with him and walked right up to him.
“You’re the kid Starson took with him when he left Champions,” he said, in a low, accusing tone. “The trouble-maker. The bondsman.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s it to you, Fisher?” Earnest said.
But Fisher ignored him. “Your name’s Delving?”
“Right again. So what?”
“Tell me again where you’re from.”
“Fisher.” Dasher’s figure appeared behind his rival’s bulky frame.
“Starson.” Fisher turned to Dasher.
Dasher put his hands on his hips and gave Fisher a ready nod. “You were just leaving, right?”
The other fighters waiting in line fell in around Dasher, cutting Fisher off from his entourage. Fisher swept the group with his own glare, but he said, “Right.” And they parted to let him through.
“Is he still th
at riled up over what happened?” Venture said.
Dasher shrugged. “He lost charge of the new boys, but they didn’t do anything else to penalize him. I don’t think that has much to do with it. He doesn’t have the nerve to hassle me anymore, not after losing three Championships to me. So he’s going after you. Just wait until I get hold of him on the mat.”
Venture wasn’t so sure. There’d been a strange gleam of malice in his eye, even for Fisher. And it was disturbing to ponder what might have happened if Dasher hadn’t shown up. Venture looked around him at all these grown men. What made him think he could handle them on the mat either?
He turned to Earnest and whispered, “Look at them. Most of them are bigger than me, and they’ve all got that man-strength.”
“You’re stronger than you think, but, yeah, you’ve got at least two more years of growing in you. So what? Was Dasher the biggest guy out there last year? Size matters, but it isn’t everything, and you’re big enough.”
“You’re going to be brilliant, Champ.” Dasher squeezed Venture’s shoulders. “You’ve spent the last two years training with the reigning champion, after all,” he said with a cocky smirk. “You just can’t beat that.”
“Excuse me,” the registration official said pointedly, “Mr. Delving.”
Venture turned his attention to the table, where the official had risen and was leaning over to him.
“Yes?” Venture steeled himself for the worst.
“Here are your papers. And here’s this.” He held out a competitor’s badge. “People are waiting.”
“Sorry. Thank you.” Venture slipped the badge over his head and tucked his papers back in his pocket. He was in.
Venture stretched out alongside a handful of other men in a corner of the arena, on a row of mats laid out there for the fighters to warm up. He watched Dasher, who was on the other side of the arena, feeling out the competition in his own way, talking to the other finalists from the year before, all clearly marked by their yellow badges.
The first matches were about to begin, one in each of the three rectangular competition areas. Two announcers climbed the ladder to a small, raised wooden platform, where they would view and comment on the matches. They took their seats and began calling out the first competitors’ names through their horns. The crowd, the whole colorful mass of them, rose to its feet, stomping and whistling and hollering for the fighting to start.
The fifth match in area three would be Venture’s first, against a man he’d never fought before, but whom he’d seen compete in the past. He was tough, Dasher had warned him, no novice. Venture bent one leg back behind him and leaned over the other to stretch. He thought he was doing fine until his stomach gave a sudden, sickening lurch.
“Earnest!”
Earnest knew that look. He grasped his elbow and dragged him over to a bucket, placed in the corner for just that purpose. God, help me, Venture pleaded silently as he retched. For a moment he feared his stomach would never stop. But just as suddenly as the nerves had overcome him, his heart was calmed, his stomach settled. He waited there, on his knees by the bucket, but the feeling didn’t return. A couple of other fighters looked at him and smirked as they passed. He forced himself to stand up, though he had to lean on the wall in order to do so.
“You’re going to get through this. You’ve got that over with, and now you’re going to be fine.” Earnest handed him a flask of water.
“I don’t want to just get through this.” He straightened up and pushed off the wall. “I want to win. I’m going to give every one of those guys who’s laughing at me so much stick that they’re going to lose sleep thinking about when they’ll run into me next.”
The corner of Earnest’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “You got it. By the end of the day, every one of these fighters is going to know that Venture Delving is going to demand everything they’ve got on the mat.”
But when the announcer shouted Venture Delving’s name, he felt not a thrill, but a surge of new panic. He scanned the tiers of spectators. Somewhere, Justice was watching. Would he be beaten so soundly that his brother would decide to put an end to this fighting business altogether?
Grant wasn’t here, though he’d sent a message of encouragement the day before. Grant wanted to watch him, and to meet the Champion, Dasher Starson, but ever since Venture had gone out on his own, into the world of fighters, he chose to stay out of that world, to let Venture be his own man there. He settled for letters and long talks with Venture about his training and competition whenever he came home. His message had assured Venture that he would’ve been proud to be here and claim Venture as part of his house, but he was even prouder to know that Venture was competing under his own name.
Venture said a quick prayer that he’d be able to pull this off, that he would have the strength and the presence of mind to make a real impact on this tournament, to be worthy of that pride.
At the official’s signal, he stepped onto the mat and waited at his starting line. Earnest, at the edge of the mat, signed for him to shut out the crowd, to focus on his opponent’s eyes. He nodded, and stared into them—laughing eyes, amused eyes, looking him scornfully up and down. To him, Venture was some inexperienced kid—a bonded kid—who decided to enter the Championship at the last minute, on a whim.
Venture recalled Colt, his old teammate who’d underestimated him that day when he was fourteen and fighting with the elites at Beamer’s for the first time. Colt had learned never to make that mistake again. Here it is. Here’s his weakness, Venture noted.
The whistle blew. Venture dodged the first attempts of his opponent to swing at him and to grab hold of his legs and take him to the ground. Venture’s own fist flew, and, to his surprise, met its target, once, twice, three times. Right, left, right. His confidence soared and his fears faded away. He was himself again. He was blocking a flying kick to his head, grasping an arm and hooking his opponent’s supporting leg with his own leg and tearing it out from underneath him, toppling him backwards. He was on top of the other fighter, in the superior position. Struggling to gain control of his opponent’s arms, taking a few weak punches as he pulled back far enough to strike a powerful blow to the head.
He kept punching, rhythmically, over and over again. The slap-thud and the warm spray of blood announced the success of each blow.
It wasn’t the way he’d planned to win, spattering blood all over himself, making a mess of his opponent’s face, but he was fighting, he was winning, and he was loving it. The official rushed between him and his opponent, now lying limp beneath him. He’d been on top for just a few seconds, not nearly as long as it should have taken to inflict such damage.
Venture went back to his line and waited patiently as the healer hovered over his opponent. His cheek, swollen to the bursting point, looked like it would need stitching. So did his lip. But he pushed the healer aside and struggled to his feet, wanting to stand for the official ending of the match.
Venture stood across from his bloodied opponent, virtually unscathed, and there was his moment, the official extending his arm in his direction, and then, the announcer calling into his horn, “The victor, Venture Delving, of Twin Rivers.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Venture sat on a wooden bench against the wall at the edge of the arena, while Earnest strapped a cloth-wrapped bundle of ice to his elbow. Venture held another ice pack to his face with his free hand. His knuckles were raw and swollen. His jaw, cheek, and one eye were badly bruised, his elbow felt strained, and the muscles in his legs were shaking. Whenever he tried to stand, they threatened to give way. But none of the battering was serious. A healer had just looked him over and pronounced him healthy enough to continue.
Dasher approached with Justice, who sat down beside Venture. He should’ve known Justice would show up to stick his nose in once he saw Earnest getting the healer.
“Well, Vent,” Justice said, “I guess we have a decision to make.”
“There’s no decision to make
. I came here to fight.”
“You’re exhausted. You’ve been pushed to the limit. You’re just inviting an injury if you go back out there.”
“I have more in me. I know it.” He lowered the ice from his face to look at his brother.
Justice shook his head. “You’re so young. You think you can last forever.”
“I won five matches. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I came here to see how far I could go, and this isn’t it. It’s farther than I thought it would be, but this isn’t it.”
“Dasher?” Justice said.
“I thought he’d be eliminated after a few matches. That he’d make a beginner’s mistake. But somehow, that didn’t happen, and he’s still in. We’re selling him short if we take him out now.”
“Earnest?” Justice said wearily.
“He fought his heart out, but he’s still got more. He has more heart than almost any fighter I’ve ever met.”
“Everybody has his limits. He’s a seventeen-year-old boy, not a man with supernatural powers.”
“You’re right. He’s just seventeen. He doesn’t know when to stop yet.”
Venture opened his mouth to protest Earnest’s words, but Earnest shot him a sidelong glance and pushed on.
“But I promise you, I know this boy as a fighter better than anyone. I know his limits better than he knows them himself. When he’s reached his limit, I’ll pull him out. You have my word.”
“No matter what?”
“Even if he’s fighting to be in the top three, with a fortune on the line. When he’s done, he’s done. I’ll take him out.”
Justice nodded. “All right,” he said. But then he regarded each of them in turn. “That first match—if that ever happens to Vent . . .” He shook his head and walked away.
Venture looked down at his hands. He’d wiped up the best he could after each match, but there was dried blood in the creases of his fingers, dried blood under his nails. His shirt and shorts, once gray, were stained various shades of red and brown, and pink where his sweat had diluted the blood, all in spots flowing into one another.
Venture Unleashed (The Venture Books) Page 8
