Mistshore

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “You were frightened, and rightly so,” Icelin said. “Even if you’d killed Darthol, his men would have slain you.”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” Sull said. “Not for my life, anyway. All I could think was that they’d take my shop. Everythin’ I’d worked for—I didn’t want to lose it.” Finally, he looked at her, but his eyes were bleak, unfocused. “The years haven’t changed me any. You’d think they would have, but they haven’t. I’m still selfish. When you came into my shop, and those elves were after you, I wasn’t really aidin’ you. I’m not so noble. All I could see was Orlan’s bloody face, the whites of his eyes bulgin’ out when he died. Whenever I look at you, I see him. You have to let me stay with you, Icelin. I know it’s askin’ too much. My burden’s nothin’ to do with you. But if I leave you, I’m never going to see anythin’ but Orlan’s face.”

  He started to cry then in earnest. Icelin laid her head on his shoulder so he would not have to see her. They sat that way for a long time while the big man sobbed quietly. Above them, the voices rose and fell, but that world seemed a thousand miles away from the cramped ship’s hold.

  Icelin reached for Sull’s hand and found it waiting for her. “Sull?”

  “Yes, lass?” He sounded remote, drained.

  “Please stay with me.” Her voice shook. “I’m selfish too, and frightened. Will you stay with me, until it’s all over?”

  He sighed deeply. “I’ll stay. Thank you, Icelin.”

  Icelin felt his big body relax slowly, the knotted muscles loosening. The misery was still there, but she could feel him burying it.

  When she lifted her head, Ruen was coming down the ladder. Their eyes met for a breath, and Icelin knew, though she could not read his crimson gaze, that he’d heard every word of Sull’s confession. She nodded minutely. He mirrored the gesture.

  “Thank you for the bread,” Icelin said. “I assume you left it for us?”

  Ruen nodded. “I couldn’t arrange a bath for you. Perhaps if I win the tournament. Something to hope for, eh?” He wrinkled his nose.

  Icelin glowered at him, but Sull said, “Tournament? You mean you have to fight more than once?”

  “I’m a new entrant,” Ruen said. “I’ll have at least three matches before I get to fight Bellaril—Bells.” He picked up Icelin’s cloak and pack. “Keep these close,” he said, handing them to her. “They’re ready for us.”

  No matter how intense her apprehension about the Cradle, Icelin was grateful to climb the ladder out of the oppressive ship’s hold.

  On the main deck, night had fallen. Stars canopied the harbor, and the remnants of the day’s rain glimmered on the wet wood. Torches lined the deck, lending smoky illumination to a sight Icelin could not have imagined in her wildest fancies.

  The Cradle perched on the water, bounded by a loose circle of four half-sunk ships. The vessels listed at various angles, half supporting each other, their masts crisscrossing in a vast web work of rigging and wood. Rope bridges hung suspended from the main masts, allowing foot traffic to flow between the four ships. Figures swarmed the bridges or climbed, monkeylike, on the rigging to find a better vantage point for the activity.

  On each of the four ships, wooden benches were bolted in rows to the deck, creating a sort of graduated seating on the listing surfaces. These rough seats were already packed with people, and the unlucky few who couldn’t find a bench were perched on the rails, their feet dangling above the water. All told, there must have been hundreds of people crowded on the ships.

  In the center of the Cradle, water was allowed to flow freely in a sealed off pool. Wooden platforms, not unlike Ruen’s raft, had been arranged at various points, so it was possible to cross from ship to ship without touching the water. Four guards arranged themselves on the outer fringes and took charge of distributing weapons.

  Icelin watched a pair of men walk out onto the platforms. Both carried the same weapon: a spiked ball and chain. To her shock, they bore no shields and wore no armor. The crowd screamed and pounded their feet when the fighters faced each other and swung the chains like deadly pendulums in front of their bodies.

  “Gods above,” Sull said, shaking his head. “I’d never have believed such a sight if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “The platforms are stained red,” Icelin said, half to herself. “What happens if they fall in the water?”

  “Nothing, if they can get out fast enough,” Ruen said. “They stock the pool with blindfin, shark, eel, and whatever else they can find that’s vicious enough.”

  Icelin flinched as the combatants leaped at each other. The spiked balls whistled through the air, thudding sickly into flesh. The crowd cheered wildly. Both men fell back, clutching gaping wounds to the leg and flank.

  “The winner will bleed to death before he claims his prize,” Icelin said.

  Ruen shook his head. “He only has to stay on his feet. Once the victor is confirmed, Arowall authorizes the winner to receive healing.”

  “Where is Arowall now?” Icelin asked, leaning close so Ruen would hear her over the crowd.

  “You won’t see him until after the tournament,” Ruen said. “He watches the matches from there.” He pointed to the largest ship in the circle.

  In the Cradle, the combatants were already tiring. The heavy weapons were difficult to maneuver under the best of circumstances. On the water they were clumsy and shook both men’s balance. The taller of the two swung with both hands. His opponent dodged back but tripped on an uneven board. He went down on his knees at the edge of the platform.

  Sensing victory, the man still on his feet leaped across to his opponent’s platform. Frantically, the man on his knees tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere left to go but into the water. Hurling the heavy weapon at his opponent, the man dived into the water.

  The crowd went crazy, piling against the rails to see if the man would be devoured by sharks.

  His head popped up a few feet away, next to another platform. He hoisted himself up, and for a breath it looked like he would make it. But the taller opponent had been watching, biding his time.

  As soon as the man’s shoulders came out of the water, the taller opponent swung the ball, releasing it to fly across the water.

  The ball impacted between his opponent’s shoulder blades. Blood spurted, and the man lost his grip on the platform. Jerking, he sank into the water.

  Icelin thought the wound hadn’t been very deep, but then she saw the water churning, the flash of a gray fin.

  “Gods,” she said, “how could he leave him for the sharks?”

  “It was a clever move,” Ruen said. He watched the man intently. “He’d already taken a wound to the thigh. He couldn’t jump from platform to platform, which is what his opponent was counting on. Essentially, he had one shot, and it turned out to be a good one.”

  “Do they always fight to the death?” Icelin asked.

  “No,” Ruen said. “You have the opportunity to yield, but many don’t. The winner’s purse is too tempting, and the crowd doesn’t like a coward.”

  A guard approached their group. “I’m to escort you down,” he said to Ruen.

  Ruen turned to follow the guard down a ladder. “Stay at the rail where I can see you,” he told Icelin and Sull. “This will likely take all night.”

  “Good luck,” Sull said doubtfully. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Icelin at the rail. Both were too tense for conversation.

  There was no formal announcement when the fighters came into the Cradle—no names, no mention of how many victories each entrant had won. The crowd cheered their favorites and jeered others, according to no pattern Icelin could see.

  She waited for the crowd’s reaction when Ruen entered the Cradle. Would they favor him?

  After what seemed like an eternity, she saw his old leather hat bob into view as he came up a short flight of stairs to the platform on the far side of the Cradle. Hushed murmurs ran through the spectators when they caught sight of him. He remov
ed his hat and handed it to one of the guards standing at the bottom of the steps. When he returned to the platform, he raised both hands in the air, like a conductor readying his minstrels. He bowed low—Icelin could have sworn he winked at her as he straightened.

  The crowd erupted in wild applause.

  “Seems they like ’im,” Sull said. “We should take that as a good sign.”

  Icelin nodded absently. She was waiting to see Ruen’s opponent.

  “‘E’s a stick, this one,” wheezed a man standing at Icelin’s elbow. “Maltreth’s gonna break him, you watch now.”

  “Oh, really,” Icelin said, her temper prickling. “The crowd doesn’t share your opinion.”

  “Ha!” The man slapped the rail. “Don’t jingle your coins on this bunch. They’re only cheering the poor bastard ‘cause they know what’s coming. Crowd loves to see the little ones get squished. Borbus!” he shouted across the deck. A pudgy man with skin the color of prunes looked up. “What’re the odds on the skinny boy?”

  “Ten to one, Sheems,” the man shouted back. “There’s a side bet says the sharks get to cut their teeth on ’im.”

  “You want in on that?” Sheems said, turning back to Icelin.

  Icelin didn’t bother to reply. She was watching Ruen stride confidently out to his starting platform. He waved to the roaring crowd, a lopsided grin stretched across his normally expressionless face. Icelin had never seen him look that pleased with himself.

  “Gods give me strength,” she murmured. “Tell me he’s just playing the crowd, Sull. If he doesn’t keep his wits, he’ll get his head bit off out there.”

  “Among other parts of ’im,” Sull said, pointing to the other side of the Cradle.

  A man stepped away from the guards and climbed the stairs. He was not as big as Icelin had feared, but his musculature far outstripped Ruen’s wiry frame. He carried a long, barb-tailed whip in his right hand. On his left, he wore a pair of polished brass knuckles.

  The guard holding Ruen’s hat stepped forward, raising his sword to silence the crowd. He then turned to Ruen and said something that Icelin and the watching crowd couldn’t hear.

  Icelin saw Ruen shake his head. The guard’s face scrunched up in confusion, and he said something else, more emphatically this time. Ruen shook his head again. The same lopsided, complacent grin was still plastered to his face.

  The crowd was starting to get restless, stamping their feet and whistling. This seemed to galvanize the guard, who waved a hand at Ruen as if to say, “good luck,” and walked back down the stairs.

  Maltreth, the man with the whip, assumed a crouched stance on his platform. Ruen stood, weaponless, with his arms loose at his sides.

  “He was tryin’ to get Ruen to take a weapon,” Sull said, nodding to where the guard stood at the base of the stairs. A whip dangled from his right wrist. “Guess Ruen didn’t need it,” Sull said uncertainly.

  The guard raised his sword again, and an ear-piercing whistle sounded from somewhere above their heads. It must have been the starting whistle, for Ruen’s opponent immediately charged forward, leaping from his platform to the one floating adjacent. He swung his whip and snapped it above the water.

  Shouts and wild applause erupted from the crowd.

  “He’s a peacock,” Icelin said. “Strutting around like that’s a waste of energy.” She switched her attention to Ruen, but the man still hadn’t moved. He stood, his arms at his sides, watching Maltreth with a bored expression. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she murmured.

  “What?” Sull said. Icelin noticed he was gripping the rail as hard as she. “What’s he doing?”

  “Baiting him,” Icelin said, “drawing him in. But he can’t keep it up for long. The whip has reach. The barbs will tear him open.”

  Maltreth jumped again, and this time when the whip cracked, the edge of Ruen’s platform splintered.

  “That’s done it. He’ll have to move now,” Sull said. “What’s he waiting for?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, gods, he wouldn’t go that far, would he?”

  “What?”

  “Move. Move!” Icelin shouted, but the crowd drowned out her voice.

  Crack.

  “Maltreth takes the first bite!” Sheems yelled gleefully from next to her.

  Sull cursed. Icelin gripped his hand. A dark stain soaked through Ruen’s sleeve. The barbs tangled in cloth and flesh.

  Ruen staggered back, clutching his injured arm. He slid to his knees amid thunderous applause from the crowd. They might as well have been foaming at the mouth, Icelin thought.

  Maltreth grinned at Ruen. He let the whip sway in his hands, swinging it back and forth like a skipping rope. The force was not enough to dislodge the barbs, but the whip pulled and tore new gashes in Ruen’s skin.

  He’s waiting for Ruen to make a move so he can pull the whip out, Icelin thought. No matter what Ruen did, the wound would tear open when the barbs came out. Why had he let himself be hit? Icelin had seen Ruen fight. He could have dodged the blow easily.

  She saw Maltreth take a step forward, then another, and suddenly Icelin wasn’t paying attention to Ruen anymore. She was focused on Maltreth’s shuffling steps, and remembering the way Ruen had dodged Cerest’s attacks in the warehouse. Maltreth was far less graceful than the elf. His body was painfully readable.

  “It can’t be that easy,” Icelin said.

  “What?” Sull repeated, with a look of anxious annoyance. “If you’re going to map out the battle, lass, at least let me in on the outcome.”

  “Watch,” Icelin commanded.

  Maltreth shuffled another step and jerked the whip. Ruen howled in pain. Icelin couldn’t hear the sound, but she saw his face twist in agony. The whip hadn’t come out of his wound. He pivoted toward her, and Icelin saw what she’d been hoping to see. She grabbed Sull and pointed.

  Ruen wasn’t holding his wound, which continued to bleed freely. He was clutching the slack end of the whip. Maltreth couldn’t see it. He gave in to the cheering crowd and turned his face up, smiling in smug satisfaction. As soon as his attention left Ruen, the monk yanked the slack end of the whip with all his strength.

  Maltreth’s body teetered, his eyes bulging as the whip left his hands. He stumbled to the edge of the platform, but instead of pitching into the water, he jumped, using his forward motion to get him across the water.

  He landed on Ruen’s platform. The monk had already steadied himself in anticipation of the extra weight. Ruen tore the barbs out of his arm and threw the whip across the Cradle. Blood dripped copiously from his wound, but he ignored it and turned his attention completely to Maltreth.

  Now he’s within striking distance, Icelin thought. No more reach weapons to deal with. For Ruen, the match had not truly begun until now.

  Maltreth, for his part, looked furious. Ruen had humiliated him in front of the mob, and now he was down to one weapon.

  Raising his fists so Ruen could not help but see the brass knuckles, Maltreth came in low, aiming for a quick jab to Ruen’s ribs.

  Ruen dodged, grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it away from his body. The crowd collectively winced and sat back in their seats. Their reaction might have been comical had Maltreth’s arm not been dangling at an odd angle to his side. He staggered back but kept his other fist raised to defend himself.

  The crowd waited, tense, for Ruen to finish him off. Maltreth was outclassed in a fistfight with the monk and everyone, including Maltreth, knew it.

  Ruen kept his distance and spoke to Maltreth. They couldn’t hear the words, but Icelin could see the guard at the base of the stairs preparing to draw his sword.

  “He’s offering him the chance to give it up,” Sheems said. He’d been subdued ever since Ruen turned the fight around. “Crowd won’t like that.”

  He was right. Jeers and booing came down from the crowd. People on the rope bridges stamped their feet, spitting at Ruen and sending dust and debris raining over the crowd.

  Egged on by the
violence of the outburst, Maltreth shook his head and spat at Ruen’s feet. He charged, swinging his functioning fist for Ruen’s head.

  Twisting, Ruen caught Maltreth around the mid-section in a series of quick punches Icelin had trouble following with her eyes. When he ceased, Maltreth folded, collapsing to the platform. He was unconscious before his head hit the wood.

  And just like that, it was over. The guard drew his blade and pointed at Ruen. The crowd cheered the newcomer’s victory.

  So it went throughout the night. Icelin and Sull stood at the rail, watching combatant after combatant enter the ring. Ruen fought three more times, and each time he took no weapon, but managed to disarm his opponent and end the fight with his fists. Sometimes it took longer, and he collected wounds over various parts of his body. He never showed it in his face, but Icelin could tell the injuries were taking their toll. Ruen wasn’t moving as fast, and his punches were easier to track.

  “He’s going to be worn out for the final match,” Icelin said. “How many damn fighters are left? It must be almost dawn.”

  “They’re down to it now,” Sull said. “Ruen’s got where he needs to be. I heard Sheems say the winner’s purse is a big one, on account of how long Bellaril’s been champion.” He leaned heavily against the rail, looking as anxious as she felt. “She won’t give it up easy. Still, he’s got this far. If he can hold out, he’ll get healin’ at the end of the match.”

  Icelin wondered what this Bellaril would look like. As reigning champion, she was only required to defend her title against the winner of the tournament, which meant she would be rested and, more importantly, she’d probably been watching the entire tournament to get a measure of her opponent.

  Icelin saw Ruen climb back to the platform. He was still moving slowly, but his muscles were loose. He looked as relaxed as he had during the first match.

  At the other end of the Cradle, the guards parted to admit a stout figure with a wild mane of strawberry blonde hair.