by J P Nelson
In our first session of personal training, Edgarfield explained it to me, “In my opinion, the main reason championships rarely last beyond one or two months is lack of discipline. There is a special cell for champions. It is nice, as cells go, with two large chambers and a large barred window overlooking the city, and the sea is in the background.
“Food is the finest, lovers may be kept, and possessions may be acquired. Many citizens do not live as well, and one who has lived the life of a bandit could see themselves living as a king. Without already established self-discipline, they grow soft. Next thing you know, the soft life-style seeps into their fight … and they are dead.”
Standing in front of my cell, Edgarfield looked sharp and dignified. He added, “Make sure to shake your head a bit, it makes that hair of yours float about in a manner many women like. It gives you a wild look. I heard one comment the way your hair flows made her think of a wild stallion.”
He shrugged, “Whatever works.”
Edgarfield lingered a few moments then said, “You are ready, Gojai. It is up to you.”
I put both hands upon the bars and looked at him.
He concluded with, “You really need to control that look in your eyes.” Then he turned and walked away. He never again came within touch distance of my bars, or me, for that matter.
Within the next hour, Jindowur and I faced each other in the middle of the arena, thirty feet apart. We had been introduced to the crowd and the announcer was backing away. Nothing about him gave one to believe he was growing soft.
In my mind was floating lessons taught me by Edgarfield: play to the crowd by making exaggerated gestures, allow the opponent to hit you but know how much you can take, look to the stands for occasional approval so they believe you are fighting for them, if the match is moving too quickly slow it down, if the match is too slow speed it up, when you make your kill hold your hands up and make a victory yell.
And for this fight, he wanted me to let this man break one of my bones. On purpose, let him. Yeah, right.
Jindowur gave me an evil grin, held a finger to his right nostril and blew out his left, then flashed me both middle fingers and said, “I no have spike ass before now. You mine so all see.”
I shrugged and rolled my shoulders, then slapped first my right triceps, then my left. Giving my head a violent shake, I looked at him from under my eyebrows and said, “I dare you.”
Then the Dai Tauro Gladia~Kai Master yelled, “ENGAGE!”
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Quickly we circled each other in left-wise fashion. He was about my height, muscular but lean. I figured him for a speed fighter. For sure he would have fast hands. But as fast as he might be, I already knew I was faster, and unless there was something really special about him, I was much stronger.
We made a pair for visuals, as I wore new snug-fitting buckskin pants with fringe down the outside tucked into my fringed boots, a colorful loin cloth, leather wrist wraps with six-inch fringes, and a black headband tied in back. He was dark skinned, with dark hair, dark furry boots tied with cord up to his knees, and a dark loin wrap.
His eyes were steady and he advanced with an open hand style of guard. I took a boxers posture with a right foot lead, south-paw style, and shook my head.
As we closed the first time, I blew him a kiss. For an instant, he was taken by surprise, and I bashed him with two lightning jabs followed by a straight left cross. His nose shattered and he staggered back a step as the crowd erupted with cheers.
He shook his head and glared at me with surprise and I said with a sneer, “Rape me you son-of-a-bitch? I’ll tear it off and stick it in your mouth.” I was mad.
Edgarfield was right in not telling me things to get a reaction. As a rule I didn’t care. But I took the subject of rape very personally. Child abuse was not a favorite subject, either.
I did my shuffle and motioned my hands at him, “Come and get some, you pig-sticker.”
My adrenaline was on the move and I dearly wanted to close in fast, but for Edgarfield I held back, not as a favor, but … like him or not he knew his craft.
Jindowur was a professional, I’ll give him that. The man had underestimated me, but already he had accounted for his mistake and was changing tactics. I could read it in him, I had scored blood and he was going to make me pay.
The next few minutes were nip and tuck, get in and get out, blows to the head and body for both of us. I’m not going to say I man-handled him, or that I was in total control of the exchanges. He was good, really good. But he was not in my league, Jindowur just didn’t have my quality of training. Nor did he have the non-stop experience of regular pit-fighting, as I had had for the last few years.
I was not a foot-fighting master as Lath, but my spinning-side-kick was already popular. And everyone loved my drop-kick. As my opponent and I came together there was much yelling between us, and whenever I landed a good combination I looked to the crowd. They loved it, especially as I was the challenger.
Twice I let down my guard, just a little, and shael’s could he slam in the blows. It was bad enough getting hit, but letting someone hit me … it went against the grain. It hurt! Sure, I could heal, but I’m allergic to pain. Self punishment and flagellation, yes, I did it, but not because I like it.
Jindowur did not use his fists, not outright. He used the blade of his hand, knife-like, and he used them in interesting ways I had not thought of. I would have to remember, if I survived. A fast moving hand caught me in the side of the face … I spun around and gave a little hop to embellish, to the roar of the crowd. Landing on my hands and knees I thought, ‘Damn, that hurt!’
Closing in on me he crossed an elbow to my skull that split the skin, and then another that opened into a full scale cut. I started to charge his legs for a takedown, but he grabbed me around the torso and flipped me high into the air. I landed hard on my back and felt a couple vertebrae move … that wasn’t good.
Mounting me, he then pounded me with methodical hammer-fists, opening a gash on my left cheek and around my eye. Too far, too much, I had had enough. Edgarfield could stick this up his ass.
My legs moved, but not as I wished and panic surged through me. Even as he struck my face, I focused on my spine and *Healed*. My back popped loudly and he hesitated … mistake … bracing my hands under his butt cheeks and kicking my knees up, I put all my strength into shoving him up and over my head.
The crowd screamed in pleasure, but right then I didn’t care. He turned and we faced each other once more. Although my face had partly healed, it was still slathered in blood, but my back was fine.
Like I said, Jindowur wasn’t in my league, but he was still really good. Simply walking in to take him out wouldn’t be a stroll in the park, and I was tired. I figured we had been at it for a good half hour.
I have been trained in many styles in approaches. He was versed in one. The whole fight I had worked from a kick-boxing approach. I came in and feinted a left-right combination, which he countered and tagged me in the head. But I then shot in with a single-leg-scoop and tossed him over my back. As he moved to get up I skittered behind him like a mosquito, staying in his back door until he was fully up and quickly looked around.
The crowd knew what was coming, because they had seen me do it many times. If he had been expecting it, he must have forgotten. I got the timing right and set myself up … then went airborne for my double-drop-kick. He went down hard as the crowd were chanting, “Go-jai … Go-jai … Go-jai …”
Immediately I grabbed his left wrist and hair, pulling him to his feet. Then I yanked him hard into my knee. Holding him up I wrapped his arm around my neck, wrapped my right hand around his waist, cupped his hip with my left hand, and lifted his butt high into the air, holding him a moment. It looked as if I would apply my already notorious back-suplex. Instead, I took a step back with my left foot and brought his tail-bone down onto my right knee with a Dundee-Drop.
Jindowur bounced up from my knee like a r
ubber ball and fell hard onto the sand. I looked to the crowd and held my hands up high as they yelled all manner of cheers.
Then I once more grabbed his left wrist and pulled him up. I said to him, “This is for the children … and the women …”
He looked at me with the strangest expression, and then I yanked him toward me, slid my left arm around his neck, crossed my right around behind, and clamped hand to the top of his head. Adding Edgarfield’s technique, I stepped my left foot around his right side in a T-fashion against his body. Jindowur was now hanging helplessly over my side.
I didn’t close the artery off all at once, I took my time; clinching for a moment, relaxing to allow partial recovery, then clinching again. I wanted him to feel it coming as I thought of my beloved momma.
When I let his dead body fall to the sand, I held my arms up to the crowd as they chanted my name. I was the new Coliseum Champion.
When Edgarfield came to my cell, he demanded, “Why did you not follow plan? You were to let him break a bone---”
“He did! He broke my damn back.” Then I pointed an angry finger at him and laid it out, “I will fight, I will play your crowd, I will break all the records, and you will make money.” I pointed my thumb to my chest, “But I’ll do it my way. Are … we … clear?”
He hesitated a moment, looked at me with cold eyes, then with a shallow nod said, “Yes, Gojai … we are clear.”
Chapter 31
SAILING THE COASTLINE of Ruben’s Gulf was a complete success. Yes, some men were lost and there were challenges along the way. But the ultimate goal of this foray into the world’s northernmost waterway, was to officially substantiate rumors and establish accurate cartography. To this end, Rufus was in a constant state of labor.
A ship’s sailing master was responsible for navigation, maintaining maps, and what-have-you. Rufus was among the best in Vedoa’s navy, and a talented chart maker.
I have seen many maps in my lifetime. Cartography is a skill which requires talent as well as tenaciousness. Rufus was thrilled to be a part of this endeavor and threw himself into his work.
What was not commonly known, Rufus had attended university in study of painting. It was said his hand was so steady, he could paint a straight line in a hurricane. On this voyage he had already produced many fine sketches, artistic records if you will, of various land and seascapes they had seen.
Under the guidance of Rufus, Telroy was revealed to have a knack for the art, as well. The young man had shown himself to excel in all aspects of his chosen profession, and unmatched for zeal and attitude.
A place Toagun called Igloo Island was the furthest north he had been. It was a windswept, hilly piece of ice about four miles at widest point, and eleven miles long. Toagun had hunted seal there, and believed it to be the top of an underwater mountain.
“The shore is shallow for quite a ways all the way around, but I know a spot these ships can get in within a couple hundred rods. You can’t see it, but just beyond the rise is an old igloo village. At center there’s a hill with a door opening into a shaft with a steady decline. It leads to a good sized cavern where there is a pool of fresh water. There’s a strong mineral taste, but it’s good.” He looked to Jha’Ley, “Last time I was there it had been deserted for, I’m guessing, hundreds of years at least. There’s not even a frozen body in the old village. We looked in every igloo still intact. No idea what made them leave.”
The island was depicted on the Kelshinua Map, but there were no notes, no special markings.
Jha’Ley replied, “According to my father, that happened in many places, almost all at the same time. It makes one wonder.” He thought about it and said, “Very well, let us get a team together. Once we sail the perimeter, we will make anchor and freshen the water supply.”
All barges were put to use transporting water, and the Waddles was set down for a bit of exploration. It was Jha’Ley, Carol, Dessi, and Toagun in the boat, with Telroy making his first excursion as an away-team member, and newly promoted Marine Corporal Rymon.
Seedle was involved with the water detail and dryly admonished Dessi, “Make sure not to let a penguin upset the trek.”
“If I find a penguin, I shall endeavor to bring her back for you. You need to start a family.”
Seedle raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue, “Uh-huh …”
Jha’Ley had suggested Carlson to Dessi, who replied, “With respect, sir, it would be my preference to bring Rymon. He is a likely lad and I would like to groom him for these types of duty.”
The commodore thought for a moment only, and with a short nod he said, “Then Rymon it is. But let us please include members of Captain S’Getti’s crew as we venture forward.”
“Of course, sir. I could come up with a special assignment for a second team … say, take a monomoy, or two, to search out some of those inlets for … for any signs of past use, future use …”
Jha’Ley gave him a partial wink, “A good idea.”
Blade Sergeant Corad of the Ubank had been a Marine for many years, and took his job seriously. Vedoan Marines were few and far between, and rising to the Sixth Enlisted Rank was no easy chore. He knew his primary function was ensuring safety of the crew, no matter how mundane the assignment.
There was no ego in Corad’s mind. Nor did he have any problem with authority, let alone his immediate superior for this mission, Guttery Sergeant Dessi. The man was a few years younger than Corad’s forty plus, but he had bloody well earned the Seventh Stripe. He had been in the front in many a combat encounter, and twice had taken command when his officer had been killed … taken command and completed his mission.
At time of commission for this expedition, there was but one Command Sergeant Major of the Vedoan Marines, who was over all Marines. As yet, there were no commissioned officers, as the Marines were a division of the naval ship command; although there had been talk for years that might change.
There were three Sergeant Majors who answered directly to the Command Sergeant Major, nine Master Sergeants, twenty-seven Guttery Sergeants and eighty-one Blade Sergeants these titles always being written with respect.
Blade Sergeants were masters at arms, involved in direct combat of close quarter nature. They may or may not live among the regular troops, usually based upon their preference, and were often in charge of one or more buck sergeants and troops.
The Guttery were enlisted leaders who had proven themselves time and again in the gutters of battle, sometimes called the trenches. They had been dirty, dirty not necessarily in the way of mud, and demonstrated valor, courage, and integrity beyond reproach. These men were revered and respected by everyone. Often referred to as Gutty, Dessi had always preferred sergeant, or sarge, in conversation.
Guttery and Blade Sergeants had more than once been referred to as the heartbeat and backbone of the Vedoan Marines.
A buck sergeant was the Fifth Enlisted Rank, and first grade above corporal. Typically, they lived among the regular troops, but in a supervisory position. Once promoted to buck sergeant, a person had their foot in the door for a solid career. Anyone could technically reach this level, but moving beyond was much more than just obeying orders and keeping your nose clean.
Corad knew many a Marine who made the buck, but never got any further. He even knew several who made it clear they did not want to go further. Getting the Blade and beyond was often said to come with a lot of headaches and politics. Corad did not think so, not if you performed the job with proper attitude and efficiency.
The word was, Dessi was next in line for the eighth stripe. With completion of this mission he most probably would be promoted. If so, Corad would undoubtedly be up for promotion to Guttery. While this was all nice, it was not Corad’s concern.
He was a Vedoan Marine, a member of the most elite combat force to bear arms on the sea. It had been argued they were the ocean counterpart to the legendary cavalry of General Val’Ihrus in Dahruban.
His concern was to carry out whatever mi
ssion given him to the best of his ability, even unto death. If ordered to dig a ditch, Corad would have done so with head held high, for there was likely to be a damned good reason to order him to do so.
Guarding the crew who were to attend the fresh water detail was part of the job. When Dessi approached him and put Buck Sergeant Nei of the Clarise in charge of the detail, he batted not an eye.
“Corad, you are to command two monomoys, a fire-team each, and move north on this western coast and probe inlets. The commodore wants all details pertinent to past or potential future use of any kind. Choose what supplies you need, and be liberal about it.
“If you have not returned within two days of departure, a reserve team will come looking for you. Should we not return in four days time, it will be to you to come looking for us. Captain S’Getti will have orders as specified by the commodore.”
“Aye Gutty!” Proper salutes were given and the Guttery Sergeant turned about for the port rail of the Ubank. As Corad alerted and briefed his men, Dessi overheard one private mutter, “This is a shit assignment.” Corad heard and jumped in the lad’s face and began a bit of education for all to see and hear.
Dessi had made the same mistake once, years ago. He grinned in memory as he prepared to descend ladder, board boat and return to his own vessel. As he began decent, he noticed Corporal Carlson passing him an unvoiced glare, a glare from which he quickly absconded when Dessi looked his way. There was something about the corporal Dessi did not like, but he could not put a finger on it. Was he just being paranoid? Quickly he dismissed the idea; it was his job to be paranoid.
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The igloo village was at the southeastern end of the island. The island lay at a diagonal for most of its length, until making a bend to the north at the two thirds point. Toagun had never walked the entirety of the land, simply because he had been here only to hunt seal.
