Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  “Oh, no,” Brandy informed him, wriggling the fingers of her left hand, where bruises were beginning to become evident. “Agent Connell of the FBI seems to have gone missing, and two of the railroad guards in my car were either in on it, or got funny ideas of their own while we were in the second tunnel. We’ll find out which when they wake up. They tried to kill Powers, but . . .”

  “But?” The Old Hand asked her.

  “I got in the way,” Brandy told him, sounding just as happy as he had. “For a few minutes there, it was just like being back in the ring—but against two at once.”

  Northrop stared up at her. “You’ve been in the ring?”

  “Of course,” she said sweetly.

  “But—but there’s not a mark on you,” he said, gesturing in the direction of her face.

  “Of course not. To flatten my nose or break my jaw, someone would have to land a punch, wouldn’t they?”

  The Old Hand blinked at her, then smiled slowly and said, “If you wouldn’t mind an old guy buying you a drink, I’d like to talk to you a bit about . . . the sweet science.”

  “Which sweet science?” Brandy asked, with mock innocence.

  Behind them, Dasinger groaned.

  Agent Mason Dunhill groaned, too, but he was a shade slower.

  ED GREENWOOD

  Ed Greenwood is the creator of the Forgotten Realms fantasy world, which became the setting for his home D&D game in 1975. Play still continues in this long-running campaign, and Ed also keeps busy producing Realmslore for various TSR publications.

  Ed has published over two hundred articles in Dragon magazine and Polyhedron newszine. He is a lifetime charter member of the Role Playing Game Association (RPGA) network, and has written over thirty books and modules for TSR. He has also been the Gen Con Game Fair guest of honor several times.

  In addition to all these activities, Ed works as a library clerk and has edited over a dozen small press magazines. He currently resides in an old farmhouse in the countryside of Ontario, Canada.

  www.theedverse.com

  ROUND 6: A SERGEANT’S DUTY

  JACK BADELAIRE

  “Ye spilled me drink.”

  Dougal McTeague raised his sodden forearm up off the bar top. Nearly a whole dram of whiskey had spilled across his arm, and he watched it soak through his uniform sleeve with a drunkard’s fascination. After a few seconds, his gaze slowly lifted from his arm, and settled on the man standing next to him who was signaling for the barkeep, oblivious to the calamity he’d caused with a careless elbow. The man wore the same Royal Scots insignia on his uniform as McTeague, as well as the same sergeant’s stripes. He was also near to McTeague’s size, a rare feat given the Scot’s broad shoulders and six-foot-six frame.

  “Oi, I’m talking to you, wanker,” McTeague growled.

  The man standing next to him realized he was being addressed. He turned and looked first to McTeague’s face, then to his soaked uniform sleeve.

  “What’re you on about?” the man asked.

  “Ye spilled me drink. Ye hit it with yer elbow,” McTeague replied, raising his sleeve as evidence of the crime.

  “Sorry about that, didn’t notice.” The man turned away from McTeague and smiled at the barkeep. “A pint of Old Peculiar, please.”

  The barkeep, a stout, grey-haired fellow with a ruby nose and a bulldog’s jowls, cast a worried glance over the man’s shoulder toward McTeague. “Lad, I think you’d better buy the gentleman a fresh dram.”

  The man turned and looked at McTeague again. He’d lowered his sodden arm back onto the edge of the bar, and held his empty whiskey glass, lifting it up and peering into it to see if there was anything left to salvage from the accident. A few drops remained, and he tipped the glass upside down over his open mouth, catching the remnants on his tongue. With a frown, he set the glass down with the deliberate motions of a drunk, and stared at the cause of his misfortune with hooded eyes.

  “Tha’ was bloody good whiskey ye ruined,” he said.

  The man shrugged. “Then you should have taken better care of it. Busy night, mate. Accidents are bound to happen.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder toward the rest of the barroom behind them.

  The Fighting Cock was, indeed, in rare form. It had been pay day for the regiment, as well as for a number of civilians. Near to every seat in the house, as well as plenty of standing room, was taken up by men drinking, talking, laughing, and in a few cases, even singing. The Cock wasn’t a particularly large pub, and packed as it was, no doubt more than a couple of pints or drams had met an ignominious end, tipped over and spilled out before they were put to their best use.

  McTeague turned on his barstool and looked about the room for a moment, then returned his gaze to the man next to him as the fellow paid the barkeep for his pint. The man jerked in alarm, spilling some foam over his hand, as McTeague took hold of his jacket sleeve, fingering the sergeant’s insignia.

  “Now look what you’ve bloody gone and done!” the man snarled, taking the pint in his left hand and shaking the spilled beer and suds from his right.

  McTeague’s fist knotted itself around the sergeant’s insignia and pulled the man a few inches closer. He leaned in and looked the man in the eyes with suspicion.

  “I know every man in the battalion wearing these stripes, and ye ain’t one of ‘em,” McTeague said.

  The man looked down at McTeague’s hand with indignation. With a hard jerk, he pulled his arm free of McTeague’s grasp, the act tearing some of the insignia’s stitches. He fingered the damage for a moment, swearing under his breath. He turned back to look at McTeague.

  “You drunken lummox! I’ve only had these for a week!”

  McTeague sneered and leaned forward. “Busy night ‘ere. Y’should be more careful.”

  The man’s face flushed in anger. He lashed out and jabbed a thick finger into McTeague’s chest. “Defacing a uniform – I’m going to have you bloody well written up for that.”

  The barkeep, standing quietly nearby, leaned forward. “Sir, best if you just let it be. Sergeant McTeague doesn’t take kindly to...”

  The man glanced at the barkeep, then back to McTeague, who was looking down at the finger driving into his chest.

  “This is Sergeant McTeague?”

  “Y-yes, and he’s had quite a lot to drink this evening, so if you would kindly...”

  McTeague’s barstool scraped back across the floor several inches, and like some prehistoric cave bear awoken from hibernation, he rose to his full height, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck from side to side, and leaned in to within an inch of the other sergeant’s face.

  “Aye, I’m Dougal McTeague,” he said in a low rumble. “Now, who the bloody ‘ell are ye?”

  McTeague had two inches of height on the other man, although he was a touch less broad in the shoulders – a comparison one might liken to judging the massive frames of two prize-winning oxen. An inch here or there made little difference when the two sergeants facing off along the bar were easily the largest men in the pub, towering over all the other patrons.

  The other man looked up slightly to meet McTeague’s stare. “Stuart, Third Company.”

  “There is no Sergeant Stuart in Third Company.”

  “There is now. I transferred in last week.”

  “From where?”

  “Fifth Battalion, Gordon Highlanders.”

  “Bollocks!” McTeague snarled. “The Gordon’s First and Fifth were lost in France. In the bag, they say.”

  Stuart glanced away. “I was wounded in the second day of fighting. They had me on a transport back to Blighty when the rest of the lads were nabbed.”

  McTeague pulled back his upper lip in disdain. “Wha’ happened, stub yer toe, did ye?”

  “Piss off!” Stuart shot back. “I caught some frag, tore up a vein in me arm. Almost bled out before they got me behind the lines and clamped it off.”

  “Y’look fine to me now. Couldn’a been that bad off. If y’ask
me, ye didn’t have it in ye to stand an’ fight.”

  Stuart’s eyes bulged at the insult. “At least I was bloody well carried off the field. You no doubt stood on the beach at Dunkirk and ducked every time a Jerry Stuka passed over.”

  “Son, please,” the barkeep interjected. “A drink on the house for both of you, just let it be! You don’t want to...”

  Ignoring the barkeep’s pleading, McTeague leaned in to the point where his brow nearly touched Stuart’s.

  “Ye best be careful wha’ comes outta yer gob next, boyo.”

  “Why should I?” Stuart replied. “You’re a bloody coward.”

  The punch came out of nowhere and hit like a German 88.

  Stuart saw stars before his eyes and reeled back, stumbling with shock and instinctively trying to open up the distance between him and McTeague. Stuart managed to get his fists up in front of his face, and his forearms barely deflected the right-left-right combo of explosive punches McTeague hammered into his guard.

  McTeague paused for a moment, wobbling on his feet. Stuart took the opportunity to steady his own footing to keep from falling onto his backside. The drunken Scot hit with incredible force, his fists like armor-piercing shells. Stuart felt the numbing ache in his forearms after deflecting just three punches.

  Not waiting for another pummeling, Stuart came in hard and focused, delivering his own volley of jabs and crosses. McTeague was practically staggering drunk, but his reflexes were still more than adequate to defend himself. He caught most of Stuart’s assault on his arms, only letting one blow glance off and graze the side of his head.

  Not giving Stuart time to recover his guard, McTeague snapped a vicious hook into Stuart’s side, blasting the air from his lungs. McTeague followed the hook with a jab to the belly that folded Stuart over, and another to the chin that snapped him upright again.

  Stuart backpedaled one, two, three steps, then glanced off the corner of a table and went down hard. McTeague didn’t let up; two strides brought him within kicking range, and his long right leg drew back. Stuart realized he didn’t have time to protect himself from the kick, so thinking fast, he hooked the leg of a nearby chair and dropped it across the path of McTeague’s incoming boot.

  There was no stopping the momentum of that kick, but instead of burying the toe of his boot in Stuart’s gut, McTeague slammed his shin into the side of the chair. The chair thumped into Stuart without consequence, while McTeague let out a roar of pain and staggered back, shaking his bruised leg as if putting out a pant leg on fire.

  It was the break Stuart needed. He rolled away from his attacker and found his feet, putting a table between him and McTeague.

  “Kick a man while he’s down, will you?” Stuart said. “A coward you are, no doubt about it!”

  With an inarticulate snarl, McTeague snatched at the edge of the table, grabbing ahold of the heavy wood with one hand and flipping it aside with ease. Stuart brought up his guard, only to backpedal again as McTeague dropped his shoulder and charged, bellowing like an animal.

  Stuart managed to catch his assailant in the head with an elbow shot an instant before McTeague slammed into him, wrapping his immense arms around Stuart’s waist. With a heave, McTeague picked Stuart up off his feet, and continuing forward, brought him down on top of another table, this one covered in pint glasses and plates of chips and curry.

  Stuart felt glass break under him, and he let out a hiss of pain as shards of glass lacerated his back. McTeague let go and stood up, several glass slivers sticking out of his forearms. McTeague brought his clubbed fists up into the air, preparing to smash them down into Stuart’s belly. Ignoring the searing pain in his back, Stuart drew his knees up to his chest and lashed out with both feet, catching McTeague in the gut and sending him staggering backward and tripping on an overturned chair. The force of the kick drove Stuart across the table and over the opposite edge, falling and landing in a patron’s lap.

  “Sorry about that,” Stuart gasped, struggling to get to his feet.

  “Lad, quite the bloody mess you are,” the man under him replied while offering a steadying hand.

  “I wish I could say the same for him,” Stuart muttered, getting to his feet.

  By now, The Fighting Cock was in an uproar. Most of the patrons backed themselves toward the walls, leaving the barroom an open battlefield. More than a few appeared to be making impromptu bets on which of the sergeants would come out on top, while others mopped at beer or whiskey soaking into their clothes, spilled in the tumult. Stuart noticed the Cock’s double doors were also ajar; someone must have taken to the street, either to simply get out of the way or to track down a bobby.

  With a wobble, McTeague staggered to his feet, extricating himself from the overturned chair. Somewhere along the way he’d taken a shot to the brow, and blood dripped into his eye and across his face.

  “C’mon, you tosser!” He growled at Stuart. “No M.O. here to send you off the field now!”

  That did the trick. Stuart shouted a curse and charged, fists flying. With time to gather his wits, and being more sober than McTeague, Stuart quickly put the taller Scotsman on his back heel with a series of lightning-fast punches. Alternating between head and body, Stuart launched quick salvos that gave his opponent no time to strike back, keeping him on the defensive, hiding behind his guard.

  But drunk or not, McTeague had been fighting all his life. He knew what Stuart was trying, and he bided his time, letting his iron-hard forearms deflect and soak up the punishment. Finally he saw a moment when Stuart was too late in firing his next salvo. and McTeague put every bit of speed and strength behind a rising uppercut that smashed through Stuart’s hasty defense and caught him on the chin. Stuart’s teeth clacked together so hard the sound was heard around the room, and he tottered on his back heels for a fatal second.

  That was all the time McTeague needed. Driving himself into his foe, the Scot delivered a brutal trio of body blows to Stuart’s gut, each impact slamming home with crushing force. Weakened and his defenses down, Stuart didn’t even see the fist that crashed in over his ear and knocked him to the floor.

  Dazed, head swimming, Stuart’s last sight before losing consciousness was a half-dozen pairs of shining black constable’s boots stampeding through the double doors.

  ***

  “You’ve got a visitor.”

  McTeague looked up. Standing outside the jail cell, the jailor removed a set of keys from his belt and fitted one into the lock. With a soft squeal of metal, the lock clicked, and the door swung open. A tall, slim major wearing the insignia of the Royal Scots stepped around the jailor and into McTeague’s cell.

  “Well, Sergeant? Looks like you got yourself into a wee bit of mischief.”

  It was Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Kincaid, commander of Fifth Battalion, Royal Scots Regiment. The two men had served together in the Royal Scots since McTeague enlisted. At the time, Kincaid had been a Captain, second-in-command of McTeague’s rifle company. Years later, and with the losses they’d sustained during the battle for France, Kincaid had taken command of the battalion.

  McTeague stood with a wince of pain and saluted Kincaid, who returned the salute with a smile. He pointed at McTeague’s scalp.

  “I see the bobbies were none too gentle bringing you to heel last night.”

  McTeague reached up and lightly touched the goose-egg along the side of his head, feeling the scab where the truncheon blow had split the skin. Blood still crusted in the stubble of his short hair.

  “Aye, sir. I took quite a drubbing. Don’t remember much of it, though.”

  “That’s because, according to the proprietor of The Fighting Cock, you were staggering drunk. I learned this when I met with him this morning, at which time I paid him handsomely for the damage done to his establishment. I also gave him a...fiscal show of appreciation for his understanding, to guarantee that the Royal Scots would continue to be welcome there.”

  McTeague winced again, this time in embarrassment, a
nd looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry to have caused ye the trouble, sir. Thank ye for taking care of the damage I done.”

  “Don’t thank me too quickly, Sergeant,” Kincaid replied. “The entirety will be taken from your wages.”

  McTeague nodded. “Understood, sir.”

  Kincaid sighed. “Dougal, this is the fourth such incident in the five months since Dunkirk. Luckily, no one’s been killed or seriously injured, but you can’t keep getting pissed and knocking chaps about in pubs. Everyone has sympathy for those who’ve lost mates over in France, but sooner or later you’re going to do something unforgivable, and I’ll have to bring you up on serious charges. I’ve already had people demanding your stripes more than once since we made it back to Blighty.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry doesn’t bloody well solve anything, Sergeant. You’ve said sorry to me every time this happens, and every time, you’re back to giving some poor bloke a drubbing after making a mountain of empty glasses. Something has to change.”

  “Yes, sir. Agreed, sir.”

  Kincaid paused for a moment, a pensive look on his face, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been in a boxing ring once or twice haven’t you, Sergeant?”

  McTeague nodded. “Aye, fought in a few of the regimental matches, sir. Shortly after we returned from France. Had a bit of a problem keeping meself restrained, was asked to not return, sir.”

  “I’m guessing you and the Marquis of Queensbury don’t see eye to eye, Sergeant?”

  “Put a lad in the hospital for a month with a broken jaw, sir.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “You’re a good soldier, Dougal. A fine warrior, and the lads respect you and follow you in battle. But you’re destroying yourself with this behavior. It just won’t do. One of these days we’ll be going back across that channel, or be fighting Jerry here in Blighty, perish the thought, and we’ll need men like you more than you can imagine.”