The Worldwound Gambit

by Robin D. Laws

  Jerisa's head swivels. She surveys the crowd. "Be careful," she tells Gad.

  "Of what?"

  "Not sure yet."

  In the ring, a blocky woman with traces of orc in her features stalks a wearied, sinewy warrior half again her size. A few strips of cloth preserve the fighters' modesty; otherwise they are naked. Each wears a pair of spiked gauntlets.

  The woman's metaled fists run red with her opponent's blood. Her face shines in feral anticipation.

  Gad shouts into Calliard's ear. "That's Sodevina?"

  Calliard nods.

  The opponent totters back on his heels. Sodevina rushes at him, hitting him with her shoulder, knocking him into the chains. Shrieking inarticulately, she grinds the spiked gauntlet into his ribs. The sinewy brawler tries to free himself. She steps aside, letting him go. As he stumbles away, she inserts a leg behind his, tripping him. The crowd yowls its appreciation. She dives on top of him, driving a flurry of punches into the back of his shorn skull.

  Calliard remains fixed in place as his comrades press through the crowd. A familiar sensation rises at the back of his throat, raw and acidic. He pales. A chill rises through his bones. Scanning the crowd, he hears the whisper—demonblood—and sees the transaction. A weighty purse switches owners. In return, a glass vial, filled to the cork stopper with a red-black liquid, passes from one man's hand to another's pocket.

  Images steal unbidden into Calliard's mind. He imagines himself bumping the purchaser in the crowd, slipping his hand into the pocket, grabbing the vial. Or waylaying him outside the keep, coshing him on the head, and relieving him of his prize as he sprawls unconscious in the mud.

  Calliard shakes himself alert. He reminds himself of his promise to Gad. Immerses himself in the shame he would feel, were he to give in. The bard wills away his desire, redirects his attention to the fight.

  Sodevina springs from her enemy's back to circuit the chains, clawed hands egging the crowd to greater heights of frenzy. They chant for his destruction. Sodevina tears at the laces fastening her gauntlets in place. She removes one, then the other. Crimson spatter dots her face. The spectators' yowled fury spirals to a crescendo.

  Blinking stupidly, the opponent reaches out his arms and pushes himself to his feet. Sodevina hops up and down on the other side of the ring. Her mocking dance dares him to charge. With an enraged grunt, he barrels at her. He slips on his own perspiration, slides across the canvas surface of the ring, and lands throat-first on the chains. Sodevina, who has neatly sidestepped his charge, slips behind him to grab his right arm. She twists the captured limb. The screams of the watchers abruptly cease. A wrenching snap reverberates through the silenced room. The ruined arm juts out at a terrible angle. The defeated man slides to the mat.

  She grabs his other arm, pulls that behind him, and breaks it, too.

  The crowd screams its hoarse approval. Even the losing bettors cheer their cruel delight. A shower of coins drops onto the mat. Rings, bracelets and semiprecious gems skitter across its surface. Sodevina struts across it, scooping up choice items. A trio of dirt-crusted adolescents ducks through the chains to gather the rest for her. An excited young warrior holds out a hand for Sodevina to shake. She bounds over, grabs it, and pulls him into the ring. He stiffens with fear, as if worried that she's drafted him as her next opponent. Instead she bends him over and plants a ferocious kiss on his callow mouth. He gamely tries to play the part, but freezes again when she bites into his lip. To the hoots of the crowd, she releases the blushing swordsman. Checking the damage she's done to his mouth, he melts back into them. Sodevina moves to the back of the courtyard, a gang of leather-clad handlers swarming in to protect her from the riff-raff.

  Gad works his way around the ring to Sodevina and her guardians. The crowd chants for another match. A fur-hatted man in Sodevina's entourage enters a colloquy with his underlings. Two spindle-legged juveniles are fitted with gauntlets and shoved into the ring, where they inconclusively circle one another.

  Gad holds up a hand, seeking Sodevina's attention. Slumped on a stool, panting, she takes notice instead of a jug of water handed to her by a follower. She gurgles from it, then upends the rest over her head.

  The fur-capped man puts himself in Gad's way. "You're new in Zharech," he says.

  "Just arrived," Gad replies. "They call me Gad."

  "No one talks to her. They talk to me instead." A trio of burly lackeys drifts to his side.

  "And how do I address you, my friend?"

  "I am Umir," the man eventually says. "Any permission you seek in this town, you must seek from me."

  "And a fine town you have going here, Umir. May you continue to run it for as long as it remains profitable. A moment of Sodevina's time, and we'll be off."

  "As I said, I conduct her business."

  Gad smiles. "Perfectly understandable. Were this a deal, naturally I'd cut you in."

  "Everything is a deal."

  "I need merely to ask her questions about a past exploit."

  Boos follow the inept, wary ring fighters as they fail to strike one another.

  "How much might a brief conversation cost?" Gad asks.

  "Her past deeds are not for sale."

  "In a higher sense, what you say is unmistakably correct. In a practical sense, what price do you ask?"

  Umir gives Tiberio an appraising up-and-down. "This one is with you?"

  "This one is," Gad says.

  "You want to talk to her? This one gets into the ring with her first."

  Gad looks to Tiberio. "He's not that kind of fighter."

  "He is if you want to talk to her."

  "How about coin instead?"

  "Coin I have. What I lack are combatants willing to engage my champion."

  "Surely there's some other—"

  "Evidently you hear poorly because I'm telling you there isn't," Umir says. "Talking about her old ways upsets her."

  "It's good that you care. I promise you—"

  "She's my investment. I protect my investments. The big one fights her, or she doesn't talk. The challenger wins by staying in for three rounds. Sodevina wins by ...well, by winning."

  Umir heads back to his warrior's side.

  Vitta moves to follow his progress past an ornate wooden door and then stops, held fast by sight of its ancient lock.

  Gad turns to Tiberio.

  "Find some other way," Tiberio says.

  "Do you have any suggestions?"

  "I won't do it. I won't hurt her."

  "I don't think it's you who has to worry about hurting her."

  "You see her. She is crazy. Wounded inside. I won't harm her."

  "You heard what Umir said. You don't have to put her down. You only have to last three rounds."

  Tiberio thinks. "I don't like it."

  "Nor do I," says Gad.

  A watery voice insinuates itself into Calliard's ear. "You're of the blood, aren't you?"

  Calliard turns. The seller of the blood vial has sidled up next to him. His teeth are skewed in their sockets. Gray stubble pokes from his protruding jaw.

  "No, I'm not."

  "Brother, I saw you looking. And I can smell the thirst, because I've felt it myself. Zharech is the best place. There're always demons infiltrating in. Some will let you bleed them, in exchange for favors."

  Calliard tries to move away. The man grabs him by the elbow. "I do the brewing myself. Right alchemy, every batch guaranteed." His pack bulges open. Calliard can smell the other vials inside. "How long has it been?"

  "Let me go or I'll kill you right here," Calliard says.

  The blood vendor releases him. "Betweening, are you? Don't think I don't respect that, brother."

  "There's nothing that makes us brothers."

  "You'll be able to find
me," he says. "Just let yourself feel the pull."

  Calliard pushes away from him, staggering into a red-bearded dwarf. The dwarf bares his teeth, then lets him pass.

  Jerisa watches a man watching Gad. She melts into the crowd.

  Tiberio steps over the chains to enter the ring. Umir's men scuttle up to supply him with his spiked gauntlets. The crowd murmurs restlessly as they try to tie him into them. They're too small; long minutes pass fruitlessly by. Beery spectators stomp their feet. Sodevina shrugs. She takes off her gauntlets, ready to fight bare-handed. Umir, face fussily crinkling, appears at ringside. He confers with his investment. Sodevina absently nods. The ring boys come back with new weapons: a pair of long boards, each with an array of rusty nails protruding from them. They offer Tiberio first choice. He takes the one with fewer nails. For the first time, Sodevina seems to take stock of her new opponent.

  Umir rings a gong.

  Tiberio remains in place. Sodevina remains in place.

  From her stance, Tiberio guesses that this is her customary tactic. She lets the enemy come to her. Sizes him up. Waits for an error. When it is made, she strikes.

  Tiberio waits her out. The crowd jeers.

  Without signaling her intent, she runs abruptly at him. He sidesteps. She compensates. Her makeshift club bangs against his. He pushes her back. Waits again for her to come at him. He keeps up the pattern—her lunging at him, him parrying, then pushing her off—all the while determining their movement through the ring, keeping himself from being herded into the chains.

  The restive crowd grumbles. It demands a fight. The remains of an apple sail from the back of the throng. It smacks Tiberio in the back of the head. Fragments of fruit spray over the ring and onto Sodevina's face. She rushes for the chains, as if to leap into the crowd and tear into the offender. An instant later, she realizes her mistake, and turns to raise her club against the blow Tiberio ought to be making. She sways in confusion. "What's your game, you bastard?" she spits.

  She takes a swing; he deflects it too late, taking a glancing hit to the shoulder. She follows up but flails wide.

  He grabs her club from her and tosses it across the ring. She raises her arms, expecting him to strike. He tosses his club after hers.

  "What's your game?" she asks.

  He says nothing.

  "Why won't you fight?"

  Epithets in five languages echo through the keep.

  Her foot comes up in a perfect arc to kick him in the throat. He doubles over, winded. Her elbow comes down on his neck. He falls to one knee. Another raking kick cuts him above the ribs. He rolls. She leaps onto him. He seizes her arms before she can start to throttle him. He rolls over, trying to pin her. Her legs windmill, sliding her out of position. She knees him in the groin.

  Sodevina is up; Tiberio, down. She fumbles for his arm, to pull it behind him and snap it. With a flex of his muscles, he shakes her off. Though a casual ripple of effort, its force sends her sprawling. She lands on her backside. Her lip purses. Traces of a previous self displace her feral look. She jumps up and sprints over to retrieve her club. Tiberio is only halfway to his feet when she arrives to clout him. With a rocky forearm he alters the trajectory of the strike, preventing the nails from entering his skull.

  She surrenders herself to frenzy. A whirl of blows thud across his arms, his shoulder, his torso. Red droplets gather on the links of chain. Tiberio falls, rises, falls. Sodevina smashes him on the back of the head. The crowd deafens itself on its own roared approval.

  Tiberio's arm shoots out. He clutches the club, twisting it from her grip. She slips and goes down to one knee. He shudders to a standing position. Tiberio raises the club above his head. The house goes silent, waiting for him to deliver the coup de grace.

  He takes the club in both hands and holds it above his head. She scoots back, scrambling free of her vulnerable position. Tiberio brings the club into collision with the back of his head. It bends and splinters. He breaks the already-weakened board over his knee and throws the two halves into the audience.

  Tiberio checks to make certain that the pieces haven't hit anyone. In his moment of distraction, Sodevina leaps on him. He falls, the chains lashing his face as he topples. Stunned, he lies helpless as she kicks him. After several hard punts to his side, she halts. Spectators moan their disappointment. She returns to kicking him. A scarlet rivulet runs from the side of his mouth.

  Chapter Seven

  The Story

  Gad clenches each time a new kick lands. Rapt, he fails to see the man edging through the crowd toward him. His stalker is tall and rangy, slightly cross-eyed, his hair a sandy tousle. The man reaches striking distance, hesitates for a second, and scrapes a short sword from the scabbard at his hip.

  Tiberio endures another hit. Gad's body judders as if he too has been struck.

  The swordsman aims his blow, the point of his blade seeking Gad's liver.

  A throwing dagger appears in the man's back.

  The would-be killer slumps over onto Gad. Gad turns, catches the falling man—a corpse already—and sees Jerisa approaching him. She plucks the dagger from the attacker's spinal column. In a single fluid motion she wipes it off on her victim's woolly tunic.

  "Friend of yours?" she asks.

  Gad adjusts the body slightly, to identify its face. "Property dispute," he explains.

  "He had property, and you disputed that?"

  "Essentially," he says.

  She follows his gaze to a crew of roughnecks pushing their way toward them, weapons drawn. They count six certain foes, and as many more who might or might not be with them.

  "He had friends," says Jerisa.

  "Without friends, what are we?" says Gad.

  Spectators scatter as the armed men converge on them.

  Gad draws his sword. Hendregan takes advantage of the parting crowd to dash to join Gad and Jerisa. Farther away, Calliard is hemmed in between spectators still transfixed by Tiberio's endurance and the beating he is taking.

  Jerisa's arm blurs. Her dagger lodges in an enemy eye socket.

  The crowd becomes a mob. With one consciousness, it agrees that Gad and Jerisa are the interlopers.

  A rat-faced gnome rushes at Gad with a short sword. Gad parries it out of his hand. Jerisa stabs a sallow blond woman; her hand-axe drops at her feet as she clutches the wound.

  The crowd tightens around them. Individual blows and opponents give way to a crushing scuffle. Gad takes a blow to the head. Jerisa is struck in the ribs.

  His head on the mat, Tiberio sees his friends engulfed. Palms flat against its surface, he surges to his feet. Sodevina scuttles back to take a run at him. He leaps from the mat into the crowd.

  Tiberio lands on a jowly thug equipped with a rapier, knocking him away from Gad.

  Sodevina climbs onto the chains and uses them to propel her body after him.

  Aware that Sodevina is among them, the press of combatants fearfully recedes.

  A toothless, puffy-cheeked woman swings a hammer at Gad's head. He ducks and pushes her back with the flat of his blade.

  Tiberio turns to Sodevina, protecting the others from her.

  She dekes around him, springing at the toothless warrior. She snatches the hammer from the woman's grasp, kicking her in the solar plexus for good measure.

  Tiberio braces for her assault.

  Instead she caroms the hammer off the helmeted head of a bald, stocky mercenary.

  She's taken their side.

  A piercing whistle comes from the back wall. Vitta is there, still at the door that caught her attention earlier, working its antique lock. With her free hand she beckons them.

  Tiberio lurches her way. Appalled by his swelling, ruined face, the crowd takes an involuntary step back. The others follow, Sodevina and Jerisa turning to shield their ba
cks. Calliard changes course, heading by his separate route to Vitta's door.

  Jerisa expends a dagger. An attacker crumples, the blade stuck in his upper arm.

  Sodevina's commandeered hammer fells a waddling dwarf. His broad frame keels back into the pack of onrushers. Limbs tangle and twist; the knot of attackers resolves into a heap on the floor.

  A fur-clad woman, her face an occult swirl of tattoo ink, pokes at a retreating Sodevina with her spear. Sodevina steps her way; the woman pales and fades. The crowd loses its impetus. As many now try to distance themselves from the group—from Sodevina most of all—as attempt to surge their way.

  The bard parries blows from a nail-headed club. Its wielder sports a wiry mustache and a dozen studs in his large ears. Calliard reaches the door first. The mustached attacker reasons that Vitta must be with him and directs his next blow at her. This gives Calliard the opening he requires to rake the blade of his sword across the man's weapon hand. He withdraws, furiously cursing.

  The others arrive to the sound of Sodevina's hammer impacting with an iron breastplate.

  Hendregan ducks as a chair hurtles at them from the back of the crowd. It splinters against the wall behind him. His nostrils quiver.

  "That lock doesn't open," Sodevina breathes.

  Vitta opens the lock.

  For the first time since the scuffle began, Hendregan has the elbow room to gesticulate properly. He utters an incantation. Fire appears around his hands.

  Gad, knowing what comes next, jostles the fire wizard during the last of his arcane motions. A diffuse ball of flame appears far from the throng, weakly spreading across the stone ceiling.

  "What did you do that for?" Hendregan demands.