by Dave Duncan
"Keep the rounds short," Gavin muttered at his side. "Go down every chance you get. Helps to keep one leg half-bent."
"That's not very sporting!"
"Never mind sporting! You're doing this for money now, lad. And look out for teeth. He's still got some teeth, and a fist full of broken teeth isn't any good for hitting with. Stay away from his mouth."
Toby caught Meg's eye and waved cheerfully. She returned the wave, but she looked worried. She had seen him fight in the past, so why should she be worried? Nice that she was, though. He wouldn't let her down, either.
He flexed his arms. Even Stringer had called them impressive!
One good thing about this battle was that he wouldn't be fighting someone he knew. He wouldn't care so much about hurting a stranger. His right cross was his weapon. He'd won seven fights in the last three games, and every one of them with his right cross. He would keep his left fist in Randal's face until he got an opening and then bring in his timber-splitting right. Just one to the chin might do it. Even at half-power it had floored Rory.
"Remember," Gavin said, "keep your head covered! You've got five fingers on him in height, easy. Body blows just hurt; it's the head that does the job and he's got to come up to you."
Rory excused himself, vaulted the fence nimbly, and strode toward Toby, smiling confidently. Behind him, Sir Malcolm clambered in over the rails. The stable boy trotted off with his paint bucket.
"All set?" Rory said breezily.
Toby flexed his shoulders. "Ready."
"Good man! You know the wagers—if you can come up to Scratch for the thirtieth round, we can't lose!"
"I plan to finish him off a lot sooner than that."
The silver eyes smiled cynically. "Please yourself! Master Stringer and I have put up a purse of fifty marks."
"That's generous! Thank you." Toby had hoped for a share of the winnings, but fifty marks was still money. Real money!
"Plus a tenth of my winnings for you. So the longer you make it last, the more you earn," Rory added pointedly. "Give us a good show. Don't let Scotland down."
A tremor of warning ran over the skin on Toby's back. He glanced quickly at Hamish and saw a reflection of his own sudden unease. Rory had arranged the wagers so that Toby had every incentive to spin out the butchery as long as possible. Why? He had told Stringer that this match was for sport and a wager. He had told Toby that he was fighting to earn an escape from the law. Could he have other motives as well?
And what other parties might take an interest in the match? There was no denying that prizefighting was dangerous. Men died in the ring every year.
"One question," Toby said. "Suppose my opponent gets struck by lightning? What do the Fancy Rules have to say about that?"
Rory glanced covertly at Gavin, doubtless wondering how he would take that unusual query. Then he chuckled.
"Well, it'll be an interesting match, won't it? Thunder to startle him you might get away with, but I suspect lightning would class as cheating." His silver eyes gleamed joyfully as he thumped Toby's shoulder. "This is your big chance, Longdirk. Murder the bast—I do beg your pardon! Murder the beast, I mean. Miss Campbell and I will be cheering every punch."
He turned and sauntered back to the fence as Sir Malcolm shouted for the fighters.
The combatants advanced to Scratch. Their handlers followed, continuing their baiting until the referee barked at them for silence. He looked the two contestants over with no discernible feelings. "Under what names do you fight, gentlemen?" he said quietly.
"Randal the Ripper."
Toby opened his mouth—and wavered. To use his own name in front of this crowd would be rank insanity, when it was posted all over Scotland. He had not foreseen the problem, and yet this was his first professional fight, so the name he used now would be his permanent name.
"He's the Baby Bastard," Randal said, and his two seconds laughed.
"Longdirk of the Hills!" Hamish shrilled.
Sir Malcolm opened his mouth above a flaming beard and let forth a bellow. "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! For a purse of fifty silver marks, an unlimited match under the Fancy Rules, between Randal the Ripper in the brown trews, and Longdirk of the Hills in the green and black."
The crowd roared for the Campbell colors.
"This fight will continue until one man concedes."
An even louder cheer.
"And may the best man win!"
The referee spoke in lower tones. "Fancy Rules means no hitting when you're down, and no kicking. You'll get one warning only. Going down without a blow disqualifies and I'll give no warning on that. Each round ends when one of you touches the ground with anything except feet. After each round, you will have one half minute to come up to Scratch or forfeit the fight. Is that clear?"
"Let me at the brat," Randal growled.
"This is your last fight, old man!" Toby settled his left foot at Scratch and raised his fists. He must use his advantage in reach, keep Randal at a distance.
"Round one!" shouted the timekeeper.
The two men collided in a blizzard of blows. Randal came in under Toby's guard, left-jabbing his ribs mercilessly. Toby backed and fell to one knee, gasping.
"Time out!" the timekeeper called.
Zits! The man was a hundred times faster than he had expected. How many blinks had that taken? Red welts burned on his chest—good! It always took a few thumps to get him mad. He tried to rise and Gavin leaned on his shoulder.
"Take your break. Have a drink."
"I don't want a drink!" he snarled, pushing Hamish's bottle away. "He tripped me! Let me at the sonofabitch!"
He marched to Scratch and raised his fists again.
"Round Two!"
This time Toby blocked the assault, taking the blows on his arms. For a minute he did nothing else, then he began jabbing at Randal's right eye. Soon he saw his chance and swung his thunderbolt right cross at his opponent's chin. It slid harmlessly by. Demons, the man was quick! Again he saw an opening. Again he failed to connect. A fist smashed into his face, sending him reeling.
Randal followed, grinning. He had identified Toby's favorite blow and he could avoid it. The crowd booed: dodging was cowardice. Randal would not care. He did not signal his own punches at all—watching his eyes was useless. He seemed to have no favorite punch. He was good with both hands, and he was delivering real punishment. Toby saw a chance for an uppercut, but it was another trap and left him open. A cannonball left slammed him just above the belt. He hit the turf bodily, choking for air. No man could hit that hard! Impossible!
Oh, dungheaps! What had he let himself in for?
Hamish splashed water on his face and Gavin wiped it. "Take your time, lad. Use your height. Work on his face. Up you get."
Already? Toby hauled himself upright and felt Gavin's hand urge him forward. Two rounds gone and he had hardly landed a blow. Crap! He was going to get slaughtered! Randal had a faint red mark near his eye. The man was a human millstone.
They were at Scratch. "Round Three!"
Again Toby concentrated on blocking, backing steadily. Randal came after him, fists windmilling. The handlers leaped clear. He's older, needs a quick win . . . Make him work, wear him out...
That noise? The crowd booing! Boy wonder was running away, was being chased around the ring. Toby registered the hateful grin on the older man's face and threw caution to the winds. He slammed a left hook at his opponent's eye, then tried another right cross. The brute came in under his guard. He took the punishment while pounding both fists at eyes and nose. Then he switched and landed a one-two on the man's gut and it was tike punching an oak door. He tried a cross-buttock throw—Randal got him in the kidneys with a haymaker. They both went down together and their seconds rushed in.
Through the waves of pain, Toby could hear Hamish screaming that he had really hurt the swine that time. But he was hurting, too. There was no air in the world. And it was time for more.
Randal's face was bloody. T
he timekeeper barely had time to call the round before they both went at it. No running this time—they stood toe to toe and slugged. The crowd roared approval. This was what they wanted: butchery! Jab, hook, feint, block, pain, blood. Randal tried to close, but Toby drummed fists on his ribs until the referee pulled them apart. Randal went down.
So did Toby. He drank from the bottle Hamish thrust at him, spat blood, drank again. His face was a swelling furnace, his chest a huge agony. That noise was his own breathing. Up again.
He must end this soon. He couldn't take much more of this.
But he couldn't end it. It just went on and on and nothing he did seemed to make any difference. The rounds blurred. His arms were all ache; they were tiring and he wouldn't be able to keep them up much longer. He had almost closed Randal's left eye and damaged his right, but his own were no better. Both men's noses and ears were battered and bloody, their bodies smeared with mud and gore.
Once Randal caught him by the hair and held him for four brutal punches before Sir Malcolm broke it up.
Once Toby found himself backed against the fence and had just enough wit to go down before he could be nailed there and pounded to jelly. Once he landed a right cross to the jaw that spread the older man on his back. Oh, that felt good! But his strength was failing and even his best punch was not enough now.
Randal must have done much the same to him, because he found Hamish and Gavin running him forward between them to get him up to Scratch in time for the next round. His ears rang and he couldn't focus well. His fists were falling apart. The world shrank to that hateful, battered face, and he pounded and pounded at it, ignoring what was happening to him. He went down. Randal went down. It was Round Thirteen or Fourteen, so he had won the first side bet. He was sitting on Hamish's knee while Gavin wiped blood from his eyes. He was being helped up from the grass. He was at Scratch and his knees were wavering. Now Randal was backing. Toby followed blindly, pounding, blocking, pounding. He got Randal on the fence and landed a half-dozen killers before the referee hauled him away.
The crowd screamed in fury. Gavin began to appeal to the umpires, then stopped when he realized that Toby needed extra time as much as Randal did.
One round lasted only one punch, but it was Toby who fell. An earthquake of pain in his chest ... He doubled over, clutching himself.
"Think you've broken some ribs," Hamish wailed. Gavin snarled at him to shut his mouth, but it was too late—the opposition had heard. Seconds later they were at Scratch again, and Randal went straight for those ribs. Toby tried to shield them. A farm-boy uppercut to the chin floored him.
Water in his face ...
"You've done good, kid," Gavin said. "It's time to throw in the towel."
"No!" Fail in his first real fight? Never! His mouth was so swollen and his chest so sore that he could barely speak. He had lost a tooth or two, and he suspected his jaw was at least cracked, if not broken. "Get me up there. I'm going to murder the scum."
The ribs were bad. Again and again he got hit there and the world blossomed in red glares of pain. Fortunately, Randal had not noticed the jaw, while he himself had a broken cheekbone that gave him his own defense problems. Toby worked hard on that, because every time he got in a good hit, Randal went down. Neither man was punching as he had before. Their fists were pulp. There was less footwork now, more slugging. Neither could see very well, neither had much breath, so they both just stood and hammered, trading blows like madmen. The crowd screamed in delight.
Once Randal went down and Sir Malcolm shouted that there had been no punch. Randal's second appealed to the umpires. They had an argument, yelling at one another over the howls of fury from the crowd. In the end, the castellan was overruled and the fight went on.
"This is Round Twenty," Gavin said as he and Hamish helped Toby to his feet again. "One punch, go down, and we throw in the sponge."
Toby gasped, "No!" Let Meg see him beaten? Worse, let Rory see him beaten? "Never!"
"You're taking serious damage, lad."
With a supreme effort Toby forced out the words, "Never! Promise me! Keep me up there whatever it takes!"
He thought Hamish was sobbing, but it might have been him. There was straight whisky in the bottle now.
"Promise!" he insisted as they dragged him up to Scratch.
"We promise," Gavin said grimly. "He can't last much longer either."
Oh, yes, he could! Hours. Days. Life was only pain and struggle and hate, bone on bone. The grass was red mud. How much blood could a man lose? How long until his eyes closed altogether? Kill the sonofabitch! But the worst was over; now the rounds were ending with him on his feet, which was good, yet they kept bringing Randal back for more. Toby gave him more, ignoring the man's feeble efforts to respond, whirling a blizzard of fists, getting in as much damage as he could before his victim fell again. Pound, pound, pound ... Give up, damn you! Why wouldn't he give up?
He was at Scratch and there was no one else there, just a bloody towel on the mud. His arms sank lower. Sir Malcolm grabbed one and raised it overhead. The crowd screamed hysterically. Randal's supporters weren't even working on him. He was flat on his back—the bugger couldn't even sit up, let alone stand.
He had won!
He sobbed for breath as the joy registered. He wasn't going to be hit anymore. Won! No demon lightnings, just knuckles, just pain—and finally just butchery. Hamish spread a plaid over his shoulders. Winning should have more triumph, should be one big haymaker punch—not this dismal nothing-left-to-hit. There was terrible noise, not all in his head ... the crowd? He had won. He wasn't going to be hit any more! They were shouting, Longdirk! Longdirk! They were paying off bets. He forced his arms up again to acknowledge the cheers and his plaid fell. Someone put it back. Gavin was trying to tend to his battered hands. Hamish was passing the hat.
Rory, using both hands to clasp one of Toby's fists; Rory smirking ... sort of smirking.
Toby took a swallow from the bottle. He had shown him! He had shown all of them. "How many rounds?" Hard to speak with lips like muffins.
"This was twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine? Needed one more. Scum cheated us!"
"Not really," Rory said.
He peered around the circle. Meg, chalky pale . . . Lady Lora... Others... smiling, but not happy.
Here was Stringer, with a face long as a carrot, and Randal's second and bottleholder, come to congratulate the victor. Tears? They had tears in their eyes! Where was the loser? Toby rose on his toes and looked over the crowd. Randal still lay on the grass. They had given him a plaid, too. They had covered him with a plaid.
Stringer babbling: "Well fought, Master Longdirk! Jolly great fight! Best fight I've seen in years."
Ignoring him, Toby tried to grab Rory with bloody fists, almost fell as Rory shied away from them.
"Where's the loser?"
Rory shrugged sadly.
Toby choked. Nobody covered an injured man's face!
He turned to look for Meg, but Meg was walking away with Lady Lora.
2
They cleaned him, washed his cuts with whisky, dressed him. They fed him copious amounts of broth. Above all, they congratulated him and wished him well in his career. They said they'd never seen anything like it, and wasn't it amazing how long that Sassenach stood up to him at the end there, meaning why did it take you so long to kill him? He hurt.
They left him sitting at a table in the mess hall with Hamish. He was blurry and sleepy, dazed by all the whisky he'd drunk, all the blows to the head, sheer exhaustion, but he hurt too much to sleep. In any case, the sun shone and the tide was full. Master Stringer would be sending for him soon. The pain did not bother him; he deserved it for not winning faster.
Hamish was counting the collection, dividing out a share for Gavin and himself, as tradition demanded. He was also inspecting every coin carefully before placing it on its correct pile. Whatever he was looking for, he hadn't found it yet. Whatever he thought he was doing was beyond the
understanding of a stupid punch-drunk pug like Longdirk of the Hills. Hamish wasn't talking about it. Either he wasn't sure, or he felt it wasn't a safe matter to discuss in Inverary Castle.
"How long does it take to sail to Dumbarton?"
Hamish glanced up from the groat he was examining. "Depends on the wind." He laid the coin on one of the heaps. "Day, at least, I'd think."
Toby was too restless to stay silent, although every word hurt. He seemed to have exchanged roles with Hamish, who was not saying much at all.
"When's the ebb?"
"Soon. Ah!" He had found it. No, he hadn't—he peered closely at the coin, then added it to a pile.
Toby mumbled, "Be going then, I expect. You coming with me? Coming to find Eric?" Even through the fog in his eyes, he saw the kid's face twist in indecision.
"The master says I can stay here for over the winter and catalogue the library. Says his father's been wanting it done—all the old written books, and all the new printed ones, too."
"Take it! You'll end up as the earl's private secretary."
Hamish nodded glumly. "Pa'll approve." He sighed and went back to his coin inspection. "Ma'll dance on Beinn Odhar." He said, "Ah!" again, louder than before, then again decided it wasn't what he wanted. "Toby?"
"Mmph?"
"Er ... " The kid hesitated, as if his verbal horse had balked at a fence. "Does Master Stringer remind you of anyone?"
"A grass snake, lives near the hob's grotto. Has the same chin."
Hamish did not smile. "You're waiting for him to send for you?"
"He wants a prizefighter, I'm his man." Toby spoke with much satisfaction. Being Master Stringer's man would not be the same as being, say, the earl's man. He wouldn't be one of a warband, or a vassal sharecropper. He would just be a servant, earning his living by winning fights as he had today—and free to leave anytime.
"But does he?"
"Huh?"
"Toby, doesn't it seem odd to you that the master's houseguest should suddenly turn out to be exactly what you wanted, one of the Fancy, a sponsor of pugilists? Funny coincidence?"
A small person had come into the mess and was running their way.
