by Jack Tunney
“Bring no disgrace to our clan,” Abban said sharply to Cuan. Then he turned to the grinning Bran and fixed him with a cold stare. “And you, mortal, beware. While you are under the hospitality of our good Queen Morgana your safety is assured – outside the games. Know when you cross the veil to the mortal realm, look to the shadows for judgment.”
The dark haired Bran blanched, then drew himself upright and managed to toss back, “You don’t frighten me, little man. I’ll have me a Sidhe wife when this fair is done and you won’t have any power over me. Besides, I know your Queen doesn’t let your kind over to our side of things these days – except for that red haired git. And he has no magic in my world. He is a nothing.”
“The only magic I’ll need is these knuckles,” Howard said in a low tone that was almost a growl. He had set the elder Mac Tir down and faced the bullet-headed Bran directly.
“This is my fight, Bob,” Cuan said. “I’ll take him in the wrestling ring.” The boy seemed taller, and his normally genial nature had a razor edge to it.
“I think I’ll take me a share me some of him myself,” Howard said. “He’s done spit venom twice at me without I teach him a lesson in manners and we Texans don’t like things like that to be no habit.” He gave a mirthless grin to Cuan. “But not to worry, I’ll sign me up for the boxing if this gutless wonder has any spine at all. One of us has a chance to draw him in the game then.”
“I break him in half and then pound you to tripe, mongrel,” Bran bragged.
“You’re welcome to try, Hoss,” Howard said in a suddenly genial tone. “I’ll even give you the first swing.”
True to his word, the Texan signed up for the boxing competitions despite Conri’s attempts to discourage him.
“This is not your fight, my friend,” Mac Tir said. “Though I thank you for keeping me from losing me temper and bringing disgrace to my clan.”
“Don’t mean to poach, Conri, but that there hombre is a bur under my saddle. ‘Sides,” he patted Cuan on the shoulder, “your boy there may just do the job for me in the wrestling ring. Still, I do like a little fisticuffs now and then for sport.”
He had signed up for the Dornálaíocht matches that would occur after the wrestling was done. The bare-knuckle matches were the last competition of the afternoon.
The multiple wrestling matches progressed quickly through the first rounds with the chaff being sorted out in short order. Howard watched Cuan’s matches with great interest, concerned the boy’s long lean form might be a disadvantage, but the redheaded youth acquitted himself well.
“The lad’s got skill fer sure,” Abban said when Howard complimented him.
“Aye, he’s his father’s son,” Howard added.
“And his mother’s,” Conri said with pride. “His Fae muscle has your mortal drive behind it, Bob.”
“How so?” the Texan asked.
“There is something about the decay monkey mentality,” Abban interpolated. “You all seem to have a drive, I’m sad to say, some of our kind lack.”
“When each breath might be your last,” Howard said with understanding. “When you have to claw and scratch for every minute of time, it gives you a hardscrabble attitude toward things.” The Texan gave a wry smile. “It’s all futile, of course. We end up going into that long dark night, but we humans do it kicking and screaming anyway.”
Abban shook his head. “Just like monkeys, so noisy.” He then smiled back at the Texan. “But fun to watch.”
“We try,” Howard agreed. “We try.”
ROUND 7
FIST OF THE FAE
Not only did Cuan try with all his might, but he succeeded with skill and determination to win his weight class of the wrestling competition. There were four classes – light, middle, heavy, and four legged. He did not face Bran, however, as the brutish Bran’s size put him in the heavyweight class. Bran did not win his class, though he did make it to the final round.
“It’ll be up to you to give him the thrashing he deserves,” Cuan said after his match was over and he was washing his face from a water bucket. He appeared both elated and frightened by his win. Now, he faced the terrifying prospect of choosing a Fae wife.
“I never really thought ahead this far,” he said. He was walking with his relatives and Howard to the reviewing stand while the area was set-up for the boxing matches. “I don’t really know how to know who to pick.”
“Boy, the right one is something we Fae know in an instant,” Conri said with a chuckle. “I knew it with your mother, and you’ll know as well when your eyes meet the one the stars have picked for you to be with.”
“They say humans have love at first sight as well,” Howard said. “Though I’m not so sure for myself. I think it’s more a matter of rushing to not be alone before the great dark comes upon us.” He reflected a moment then added, “Though I have to say I have encountered a remarkable woman in Gwendolyn Harker I guess I still have my doubts.”
“Well, with the Fae we have the sight,” Abban pointed out. “So, we always know in the first instant.” He gave a dark laugh. “Sometimes, sadly, that first instant is not the same for both parties. Then the families must make arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” the Texan asked.
“If a lady imprints on a mate, her family may take steps to persuade the fella to come around to her point of view. If a fella imprints, then you go with bride stealing as a custom.”
“Oh,” Howard observed. “That’s the explanation for it. The Comanche had a version of bride stealing, but seems to me the Texas Rangers put a stop to it.”
“Our good Queen has also altered the custom,” Abban said. “Now, the grooms’ families have to plead.”
“Sounds more like present day Texas to me,” Howard laughed.
Before he could comment further, the ladies on the reviewing stand came to their feet and, with many shy blushes, began to wave to the recent event champions who were parading before them.
“I’d rather face me a dozen Brans than them women folk,” Howard protested to Conri. The elder Mac Tir smiled, but it was clear he was worried his son would not find his match.
“He’ll be fine,” Howard whispered to his friend. “He’s a fine young man. Any female would be lucky to have a fellow like him to look to her care.”
The young boy and the other winners stepped up directly beneath the stand and made eye contact with the various female Sidhe who loomed above them.
The three Dwarf women fixed their eyes on one muscular Dwarf who had won his division of the hammer toss competition. The bearded little Fae looked just a bit frightened by the focused attention.
Cuan fixed his eyes on a petite silver-haired woman the Texan took to be a female Leprechaun. The girl, with bright blue eyes and a soft giggle, returned the redheaded boy’s gaze with an intensity visible to all around.
“Good for you, Hoss,” Howard murmured as he saw the young Mac Tir take a step backward then, with a squaring of his shoulders, walked right up to the foot of the reviewing stand. He extended his hand upward and the silver haired woman placed a delicate hand in his. Both young people smiled and, for them, the rest of the world had disappeared.
“Good for you, Hoss,” Howard murmured again with a smile. “Good for you.”
The Texan looked away from the matching couples and caught sight of the bullet-headed Bran leering at him from the edge of the crowd. The Irishman’s face was a mask of hate, and Howard returned the look with a cool stare with its own promise.
The gong sounded across the field and it was time for the last event of the day – the Dornálaíocht.
The little party, including the now permanently smiling Cuan, reached the boxing rings where the first matches were underway. Unlike the wrestling rings, there were no weight classes in the boxing. If one had fists, one was allowed in the ring.
This created some lopsided matches with a spry, but short Leprechaun (not a Cluricaun, Conri Mac Tir was quick to point out) facing a blue skinned and tusked Orc, who t
owered over him by almost a meter.
The little Fae gave a good account of himself, dodging and striking with will-o-the-wisp speed, but could not strike a telling blow on the slower, but rock steady, beast. The Orc absorbed all the Fae had to give then clubbed the agile Fae into unconsciousness.
Still, it was a heroic loss and, when he woke, the Leprechaun was cheered as loudly as if he had won.
The Texan’s first match was against a tall Elf.
“Don’t let his thin frame mislead you, fella,” Abban counseled. “The muscle on Fae folk is more dense and lean than on mortals. He probably has more than twice your strength and speed.”
“Oh,” Howard said as he removed his shirt to reveal his broad chest and powerful shoulders. “Like chimpanzees are stronger, eh?”
The dark haired Fae made a face.
“Touché, Yank. Chalk one up for the decay monkeys!” Conri said with a laugh, “Now get in there and thrash ’em!”
The Texan didn’t exactly thrash the Elf, but the Fae – who was three inches taller and had a longer reach than the Texan – was so convinced of his own superiority before the match even began that he relied on his long reach to be his whole strategy.
The blond Fae moved smoothly and with speed, but his punches lacked real hitting power. The Texan was able to block or slip most of the hits while returning fire with powerful strikes of his own. Howard ducked the blonde’s reach and delivered such a powerful combinations from the first that the elf never had a chance to recover his composure or his footing. The Texan ultimately won the match by superior technique.
“Well done, Bob,” Cuan said when the victorious Texan exited the ring. The red haired half-Fae handed him some of the golden brew, but Howard waved it off.
“Just water, Hoss,” the Texan said. “I want a clear head. I still got me a passel of whuppin’ to do on a special someone, I hope.”
“Bran made it through his first round as well,” Conri said. He pointed to another of the rings where the dark haired Irishman was celebrating his own victory. He looked, unscathed.
“Wish I could watch him fight,” Howard said. “Might help with my game plan.”
“Game plan?” Cuan asked. “Don’t you just fight?”
The Texan laughed. “Well, yes, once you get going I suppose that is the inner truth of it, but it helps to have a plan and a strategy.”
“That’s the spirit, mortal,” Abban said. “But you know you still may not end up in the same ring as that brute?”
“I can only do my best and hope,” the Texan said.
“Well said, boyo,” Conri said. “Let’s get going to your next match.”
The Texan and his personal ring team went to the next ring where his next opponent awaited. This time he faced a Centaur.
“I’ve wrangled a few horses in my life,” he said as he took a sip of water before the match began. “But I ain’t never punched a horse, only cows.”
He smiled at his own pun, even if none of the others did, then he handed his Stetson to Cuan to hold. He put up his dukes and stepped forward.
The Centaur he faced was a robust looking fellow with long blond hair hanging from his human looking head like a mane, and a mean expression on his otherwise handsome face.
The half man-half horse had already beaten two opponents – one elf and a hunchbacked goblin. He was massive, but not very fast. The mostly Fae crowd jeered when they saw the human enter the ring, but the Texan just smiled at them before focusing on his opponent.
The Centaur held up his fists and moved toward Howard with his hooves doing an equine version of a boxer’s shuffle. The Centaur was half a meter taller than his human opponent, but the reach of the two was almost equal, the half-horse’s arms being muscular, but somewhat stunted.
The Texan showed no intimidation at facing the taller and much heavier fighter. He studied the half-horse, assessing him in light of some of the fighters he had faced in the icehouse back in Cross Plains.
He’s used to overpowering anyone he goes against, like any stallion, Howard thought. Literally throws his weight around. Gotta not try to out-slug him.
With that plan, Howard used his two feet to out dance the Centaur, and moved in and out of the semi-equine’s range to deliver a series of stomach hits without taking any punches of consequence.
This frustrated the Centaur, who began to stamp his back hooves and whinny in annoyance. He started to throw wild punches, and Howard took advantage of the erratic flurry to slip in and throw a solid haymaking uppercut.
The blow staggered the four-legged fighter, and he stumbled back in an odd cross-legged gait.
Howard followed up with a second blow to the Centaur’s jaw, this time leaping up to launch a powerful right cross.
It was too much for the massive mythical creature. The Centaur reared up and then fell over sideways, out cold.
The crowd, ever fickle, roared approval when the Texas-bred mortal laid the half-horse out. He acknowledged the cheers with a nod of his head. Howard’s friends patted him on the back and offered another drink of water.
“Well done, fella,” Abban said, with a genuine grin on his face. “A right good monkey’s paw!”
“Looks like you’ll get your wish, Bob,” said Conri, pointing across to the next boxing ring. “Bran’s won his round as well.”
The crowd seemed to sense the coming bout, which was for the championship, was something more than a test of skill. The fact two mortals had made it to the final round was strange enough, but those nearby could see in the expressions of the men that this was personal, and the word quickly spread.
The murmur of the crowd became a babble of myriad voices placing bets and exhorting one or the other of the decay monkeys to do their best.
The mustachioed Bran was stepping from his match where he had brutally beaten down a Leprechaun to the jeers of the audience. When he saw Howard had also won his round, his thuggish features lit in an ugly grin. He held up his left hand, palm open, and then ground his right fist into it in promise.
“He’s sure looking forward to this, Bob,” Conri said.
“Well that’s just about the only thing this son of Texas and that son of the devil will ever agree on.”
ROUND 8
KNUCKLE JUSTICE
The final match of the Dornálaíocht competition was moved to a chalk-created ring in the center of the tournament field, directly in front of the reviewing stand. It was the last competition of the day, with the Bardic competition finalists to perform at the feast that evening.
“There’s a rest for you and Bran, Bob,” Cuan said when the Texan sat on a stool to rinse his head with some cool water and gather himself. “They’ll wait to start the match until her Majesty arrives. She likes to see the finals, though I doubt she’s ever seen two mortals vie for the championship.”
The redheaded lad was as excited as if he were in the final match, his anxiety about having to choose a wife deflected to concern for his friend.
“It is indeed a moment that has never been before,” Conri said. He was still basking in the joy of his son’s victory and the celebrity and vindication for his marriage it was bringing. Now he was sponsor/friend of a mortal who could upset the status quo even more. “You know you’re gonna make a lot of the Fae folk reconsider their attitude toward mortals.”
“That’s truth, lad,” Abban said with a sober tone. “The talk among the folk is the shave-headed fella is everything about mortals The Folk have always said is true – savage, crude and inferior.”
He spoke quietly and it was clear to the Texan he was not challenging him, but simply stating what he had heard.
“The Dorn in Dornálaíocht does mean fist, Abban,” the Texan said. “There are those that think it’s not a pretty sport.”
“Even so, this must be done with honor,” Cuan said. “And Bran is one who makes me ashamed of my mortal half.”
“So you see, Bob,” Conri said. “It is not just about teaching him a lesson anymore.” I
t was clear the three had some fears about how the human race was going to be represented in the ring.
The Texan regarded the three Fae for a long moment then let the ghost of a smile flash across his features.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am a Howard, a writer, and a Gael.” Howard stood and shrugged off the shirt that had been draped over his shoulders. “I fight with honor, imagination, and rage – in that order. Lead me to this ugly lookin’ fella that’s giving my race a bad name. I got a whuppin’ to hand out!”
Almost at the moment he spoke, a ripple of conversation moved through the crowd and the sound of trumpets filled the air. All eyes turned toward the reviewing stand and the ladies dropped to their knees as Morgana, Queen of the Fae, entered public view with every bit of the majesty her position demanded.
Many people across the tourney field began to kneel, or at least to incline their heads, but the figure on the stand held up her hands in a gesture that told them to continue what they had been doing. She paused to pet the head of a miniature dragon the size of a small pony, which had accompanied her out onto the stand.
The Queen was tall and lean, but with a perfect womanly figure. Her dark red hair was pulled up and laced with pearls, she was dressed in a golden gown, sewn throughout with jewels that shimmered in the daylight like the full glory of the nighttime sky full of stars. Off her shoulders hung a cloak made of raven feathers.
Even from a distance, Howard could see her pale cheeks were rubbed with rouge and her eyes were like cut emeralds, lambent with an inner light. They seemed to focus on each one of her subjects individually. The Texan felt as if she were looking not just at him, but through him.
The moment passed and a cheer went up from the crowd for their monarch, which the Queen acknowledged with a smile before she sat.
“Stunning,” the Texan whispered.
Conri nodded his head. “Aye, lad, she affects us all the same way. That much we have in common with mortals.”
A bell called the two bareknuckle gladiators to their match and the mortal men stepped to the center of the ring before the Queen of the Fae.
