[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell - (ebook by Undead)

  A rumble from atop a boulder-strewn cliff made her think there was a road above the shoreline. Barefoot, she climbed the rocks.

  She was right: a road. Kit saw an open wagon approaching from one direction and flagged it down. The driver, obviously a farmer, pulled over in neighborly fashion, but he eyed her warily. She was a sight in her piecemeal garb, with the sword-shaped bundle that she carried on her back.

  Kit gave him her best crooked smile. "Shipwrecked," she said. "I'm going wherever you're going."

  He hesitated before smiling. "Hop in," he said, motioning her up on the bench seat alongside him. "You look shipwrecked all right, although I reckon it's a more interesting tale than that."

  She climbed in eagerly, saying nothing else to satisfy his curiosity. He seemed to take no offense, and the wagon started moving again.

  Kit noticed a water canteen on the seat next to the driver. Thirsty as she was, she could not keep her eyes off it. Without a word, the driver handed it to her.

  As she was drinking, Kit appraised her savior. A black hood pulled up over his head to protect him from the sun contributed to a sinister first impression. On closer inspection, however, Kitiara saw kindly eyes in a weather-beaten face.

  He caught her looking at him and smiled again. "Name's Rand," he said. "I just came from the market at Vocalion. If that's where you're headed, I won't be going back for a couple days, but you're welcome to come home with me for the time being. I'll feed you, maybe even find some decent clothes for you. Won't be the first almost-drowned sailor I ever rescued."

  Rand gave her a friendly wink. "All I'll ask is a little help around my place."

  Kit found it hard to put on a convincing expression of joy. Working on a farm, even for one or two days, held no attraction for her. On the other hand, food and fresh clothing sure sounded good.

  "Vocalion's only a half day's ride," Rand continued, unimpeded. "It's smaller than Eastport, but it has good shops and facilities, and you should be able to find a job to tide you over. You could probably walk there in a day, if you don't want to wait for me. On the other hand, I'm not such bad company for a few days.

  Rand kept up such a steady stream of talk that Kit didn't have to say much in response. His virtual monologue gave the young woman a chance to think about what she would do next. Eastport was out of the question; she knew that the Silver Gar had been planning to put in there. That meant she may as well give this place—Vocalion, did he call it?—a try.

  * * * * *

  It turned out that Rand lived by himself—a widower—on an isolated farm. "My castle," he had proclaimed as they pulled up in front of a low-slung farmhouse built into the side of a hill. After three days there, Kit would have said it was anything but.

  Sod covered the roof, which meant that dust sifted inside constantly, especially when Rand's goats climbed up there to do some grazing. The interior was dark, but Kit came to regard that as a half-blessing, for Rand wasn't too tidy a housekeeper.

  Still, Rand kept a well-stocked larder. He was also generous with its contents, which included not only goat's milk and cheese, but all variety of meat and fruit in season. In addition to raising goats, Rand brewed a tasty mead in a shed near the barn. Its local popularity meant he could always barter for something he didn't care to raise on his own.

  "I tell you what," he had said that first day, after watching her wolf down bread, cheese, an apple, and two helpings of cold mutton. "If you'll stay to help me get this latest batch of mead barreled, I'll send you on your way with a few coins. It'll only take three days. You don't want to go to Vocalion as a beggar."

  Kit suspected what Rand really wanted was a listener for his chatter, but she had already made up her mind to stay there for a couple of days before heading on to Vocalion, so she agreed. She had learned to be a good listener, or at least how to appear to be a good listener, at Otik's.

  In truth, the three days passed swiftly. Not only did Kitiara feel rested when it was time to leave, but Rand was more than generous with the handful of coins he counted over to her.

  As soon as his newest batch of mead was barreled, the farmer prepared to take it—and Kitiara—to Vocalion.

  "You're lucky," Rand told her over supper the night before they were to leave. "Tomorrow's the last day of the famous Vocalion Wooden Weapons Annual. Famous in these parts anyway," he chuckled. "Folks come from miles around to watch it and make bets."

  "Wooden Weapons Annual?" Kit asked, amused.

  "Only wooden weapons," said Rand, slurping some mead. "That way nobody dies. Well, hardly ever. Best man wins."

  Kit was only half listening. What fun was a tournament without weapons? Sounded just like something dullards would think of.

  "The tournament goes on for seven days. If you win the first day, you fight two matches the second, and so on for the other six days. One defeat and you're eliminated." He shook his head. "By the seventh day only the best fighter is left—usually this chap by the name of Camium. On the seventh day he has to fight six more fresh challengers, one at a time, before winning the prize. But he always does. Camium's been champion for eleven years straight."

  "What's his secret?" Kit asked.

  "No secret," said Rand. "Just a ruthless cuss. Best man going on twelve years."

  "Why do you keep saying 'best man'?" Kit asked with an edge of irritation.

  "Just a figure of speech," answered Rand, oblivious to her annoyance. "Although females are barred from the competition, of course. Fortunate for them too," he slurped some mead, "because Camium is no gentleman."

  Kit's interest was piqued. "What's the prize?"

  "Oh, didn't I mention," added Rand, "a bag of gold, guaranteed, plus one coin out of ten from the bets."

  "And tomorrow's the seventh day, you say?" she asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

  "Yep. You should go. Women ain't barred from betting."

  * * * * *

  It had taken them a lot longer to load the wagon than Kit had expected, for Rand was painstaking in his preparations. It was midmorning before they had departed the farm, and late afternoon before they caught sight of the town. Rand's massive chestnut farm horse strained against the harness, pulling the wagon to the top of a crest overlooking a turquoise bay. Kit caught her breath. She knew little of this part of Krynn, but she was surprised to discover such a scenic outpost.

  Most of Vocalion's buildings appeared to be made out a uniform white stone that reflected light. On the landward side, a wall interrupted by guard towers and gates protected the town. Several ships bobbed in the pretty harbor.

  As they drew closer, their wagon entered a line of carts and foot traffic headed toward Vocalion. Kit's fingers drummed impatiently against the wagon seat. "Here, I'll just jump out," Kitiara said suddenly, gathering up a sack that held her sword, a few extra clothes Rand had given her, and some food she had packed.

  "Thanks for everything, Rand," Kit added.

  Rand barely had time to register his surprise before she had fled down the road ahead of him. "Luck, Kitiara," the farmer called out.

  After walking for several minutes, Kitiara entered the town proper and fell in behind two broad-shouldered fellows whom she judged to be members of the local guard because of the common insignia on their helmets and breastplates. The crowd parted somewhat for these two, and Kit was able to move swiftly in their wake.

  Snippets of their conversation floated back to her.

  "Have you heard? How's Camium doing today?" the stockier one asked. "The tournament must be nearly over."

  "What's the suspense?" replied his companion. "Camium hasn't lost a match in years."

  "What a fighter! Did you see the contest against the minotaur? Camium had the brute on his knees after thirty minutes, but the minotaur still wouldn't concede—you know what a proud race they are—so Camium had to club him senseless. After the beast was unconscious, there was no question as to the winner!"

  The guards turned onto a side street, leaving Kit on her own. Sh
e was all the more determined to get to the tournament before it was over, if for nothing else than to have a glimpse of this Camium, whose reputation intrigued her. Posters for the Wooden Weapons Annual dotted the streets, pointing to the north end of town. Dodging around people, she raced in that direction.

  The Vocalion coliseum was small but impressive, a circular, arcaded building that stood above the low-slung houses and drinking establishments that surrounded it. The outside was thronged with scores of people, all talking and laughing. But from inside, Kitiara could hear the roar of hundreds, shouting and cheering and swearing.

  Kit pushed her way up to a betting stall.

  "What're the best odds on one of Camium's opponents?" she asked an unsavory character with a red, bulbous nose.

  "Where have you been, girlie?" the bet-taker replied with a sigh. "It's the last fight, and nobody's betting against Camium. Camium's not even winded. It'll be over in a matter of minutes. Save your money."

  That took her by surprise. She stepped away from the booth and looked around disappointedly, spotting the coliseum entrance.

  The noise from inside swelled. Well, she had come this far, she might as well catch the last few minutes of the event. Kitiara was about to head toward the entrance when she spotted a side door ajar.

  Slipping through it, Kit found herself in a narrow, darkened hallway leading to the waiting room where the contestants prepared for their matches. Entering the room, she could see a young boy with a broom, a brush, and a huge, wooden bucket. He was scrubbing at what looked like darkened patches of blood.

  At the far end of the room another shorter and narrower corridor led to a small doorway that was filled with bright sunlight. Through the doorway Kit could just see two indistinct figures, somewhat eclipsed by the glare, circling each other outside in the arena. The crowd was cheering and jeering.

  "Who's that?" The boy had looked up and was squinting at her. He was a thin, scrawny boy of about eight, probably an orphan jobbed out for the tournament.

  "I was sent, er, to help," said Kitiara quickly.

  "Oh," said the boy cheerlessly. "Here." He tossed her a hard-bristle brush. "Pitch in anywhere. There's blood and dirt to go around."

  Kit caught the brush handily as she angled near the door for a closer look. A small, squat shape was doing his best to ward off the windmill blows of a big, well-proportioned figure. Both wielded thick, heavy clubs. Huh, thought Kitiara, looks like a real mismatch for Camium.

  She noticed, as she glanced around, that all manner of wooden weaponry hung in the room. Clubs, wooden maces, stout poles, wood hammers, even hoopaks—the favored weapon of kender throughout Krynn—lined the walls for contestants to choose. Kit stashed her bag behind a bench and pretended to scrub at one of the walls.

  The bristles of the brush were like tiny wooden spears and, thought Kit, could probably make their mark on steel. She peered down the hallway toward the match. Kitiara didn't see how the little fellow could last much longer against the blows of Camium.

  The thundering noise overhead told her that she was probably directly under the crowded bleachers.

  "That's Camium's last victim, is it?" asked Kit.

  The boy looked up again and shrugged. "Unless somebody else wants a beating," he said tonelessly. "That's the fifth today. Camium's getting such a bad reputation they could only talk five into it. Well, last year it was only four, so I guess there should be no grumbling." He went back to his work.

  Some in the arena crowd had started to boo, and looking down the corridor out through the door Kit could see the two figures rolling around in one tangle. Obviously the fight was winding down.

  Kit was thinking fast. This was a chance—even if it was a chance to get her skull cracked—that she couldn't pass up.

  She spied a small leather helmet and strapped it snugly around her head, tucking in the few curls it didn't cover. She went to the wall and selected a long, rounded stick called a besom, slapping it on the ground a couple of times to be sure it was sturdy.

  Kit had passed for a man once before. With the leather vest she had picked up beachcombing, the rough tunic and pants and heavy boots that she had got from Rand, she could do so again. Kit rubbed some dirt on her face and hands.

  The boy had put down his scrub brush and was looking at her with new curiosity. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked. "You wouldn't stand a chance. You're a—"

  In a flash she was next to him, fumbling in her pocket. "Here," she said, handing him a few of her coins. "Go make a bet on the last contestant. Me. And forget what you saw."

  "But—"

  Kit raised her stick and ominously cracked it against the floor. "Go!" she yelled, "and thank your gods I don't do worse!"

  As the boy vanished, running, Kit heard a brief silence outside, followed by a unanimous roar. The match was decided. Kitiara turned and sprinted toward the square of light.

  The crowd gave a sharp collective intake of breath, then let out a welcoming cheer for the newcomer.

  From the darkness into late afternoon glare it took a couple of seconds for Kitiara's eyes to adjust. She stood in the sand arena, with fifty rows of benches climbing up its sides, all filled with common people whose eyes were now trained on her. They were shouting and gesticulating, but clearly pleased about the prospect of one more match.

  In the center of the ring, Kit was taken aback to observe, lay the battered body of a tall, powerful-chested fellow. A comparatively pint-sized guy perched atop the body's motionless chest.

  The little guy was wizened and ancient, with a balding pate and long, curly salt-and-pepper beard. She could see that he was no taller than her chest and that he was bowlegged. His nose had been smashed so many times it flattened out in several directions.

  The fighter was a dwarf. He was beaming victoriously and finishing off a tankard of ale. Seeing Kitiara, he flung the tankard aside and hopped off his fifth victim's chest. Then Camium Ironbender, the champion of the Wooden Weapons Annual going on twelve years, stood professionally and gave Kit a rather formal bow from the waist.

  * * * * *

  After about five minutes of fighting Camium Ironbender, Kitiara understood why he had ruled the Wooden Weapons Annual for eleven years. After about ten minutes, she'd had enough of the match, but the trouble was, Kit had to surrender in order to lose and it was against her code to surrender. The fight could end one of two ways, it seemed, with Kitiara either unconscious or dead.

  From the tenacious way he fought, it was clear Camium Ironbender would be happy to oblige either alternative.

  After about thirty minutes, Kitiara could barely stand on two wobbly legs, could barely see out of two purpled eyes, could barely lift her besom stick in order to make a swing at the grizzled dwarf.

  The dwarf didn't move much. He was more than willing to stand and take Kitiara's blows, as many or as fast as she could land them. It was almost a matter of pride for Camium Ironbender, it seemed, to get a whack on the chin or a conk on the head without so much as wincing. Kitiara tried thrashing his knees for a while, but his legs proved just as obdurate as his skull.

  Throughout it all, he let her circle him, barely moving from his planted stance, watching her cannily. Kit had a good reach on Camium and could strike almost at will. She wielded her thick besom stick—half again as long as she was tall—almost like a sword, but he took all her best shots with a grin, which fueled the crowd's approval.

  As for Camium, he carried an ugly, knobby club, pitted with holes and blemishes. He lugged it on his shoulder, almost nonchalantly, although it was as long as he was tall and probably half as heavy. He swung about once to Kitiara's every five or ten strikes, and seemed to do so with great reluctance, as if he didn't want to hurry things up.

  But his scoring average was high, and his blows landed with powerful force on her legs, chest, shoulders, and face. He was probably more than ten times her age and no taller than Caramon, but the little dickens sure could fight. Right before she passed out, Kit
was thinking that there had to be some way to stop him.

  The crowd booed fiercely as she crumpled into the sand, face first. Camium went to a large tap that had been set aside for him along the arena wall, and drew a tankard of ale. He drank long and hard, watching the three judges absently.

  Three citizens in official robes sat on a high tier, observing Kit's sprawled and motionless form. They were not anxious to end the spectacle prematurely. The crowd continued its booing.

  Good-naturedly, Camium went over to Kit and tossed a tankard of ale over her head. She jumped up, looked around confusedly, and beat a retreat from the arena down the narrow corridor to the weapons room.

  The crowd was evenly divided between booing and screaming merriment. Camium, shaking his head with amusement, turned back toward the ale tap.

  Thus he did not even see Kitiara as she ran back into the arena in a straight, furious path toward him. The crowd's surprised reaction alerted the dwarf, but Camium did not know what to make of an opponent who was waving a huge, banded bucket and bristle brush. His jaw was down, and so was his knobby club.

  Before Camium could make a move, Kitiara had leaped on his shoulders and brought the bucket down on his head, smashing the bottom out of it and driving it down so that it girdled his chest, pinning his arms. The momentum of her attack knocked the dwarf down momentarily, and Kit took the bristle brush and raked it over his face, pulling most of the right side of his beard off before getting stuck in its tangles.

  Such a yowl the crowd had never heard. And never such a noise out of the mouth of Camium Ironbender. Silence gripped the arena as Camium struggled to his feet, still girded by the bucket. His face was red with mortification.

  He struggled to break the bucket, but its iron bands held.

  Kitiara had yanked his club away and now she clunked him on the head as hard as she could, again and again, a half-dozen times. The dwarf tottered, spun, tottered some more, but would not fall.