by Will Molinar
“It’s your responsibility. You made the mistake, thus you must pay for it. The city will continue to receive its share of both the arena and the betting tents. Is that understood?”
“But the city gets its cut from Derek and Desmond. They pay taxes on the arena, and so does the arena.”
“Fine. I will continue to receive my share. But no one must know that Tanner McDowell is dead. If Jerrod and Zandor are paid and continue to believe you are working for them, all the better. They will keep the secret for us.”
Ignacio kicked his feet. Cassius knew he wanted to say something further but needed coaxing.
“Please, I am tired.”
“How come we don’t get rid of the both of them? It’s dangerous keeping them around. It’s expensive, too.”
Cassius smiled. “Perhaps I am teaching you a lesson about listening. Besides, this Zandor fellow intrigues me. And Jerrod would not be so easy to ‘get rid of’ as you say. I suggest you try it first.”
“No thanks. But I still think it’s dangerous to keep them around and pay them out of our pocket.”
“That’s your pocket, Ignacio. You will continue as you have been. Report back in a week. Understood?”
Ignacio’s nod was reluctant. “Whatever. I’ll tell the boys. Nothing good will come of this, I know it.”
Cassius shooed him away with a wave of his hand. “Your pessimism is noted but not appreciated. Off with you!”
Ignacio kept the sour look on his face as he exited the same way entered. Cassius sat back, wondering what he might do to assure compliance, but it was not necessary. Ignacio was not a happy person, but he would do as instructed. Money was still money even if the flow were lessened. By all accounts, Zandor’s new policies at the arena and tents had increased profit, so the take on their end should have been higher.
He made a mental note to go over accounts and find out how much in fact they were being taken from Zandor’s cut. It was known there had been some sort of schism between him and Jerrod. The rumor was they were not partners any longer. Perhaps Cassius could use that to his advantage.
Minutes later he received his second visitor of the night, and this time, the person used the front door to his room. As always, Cassius smelled her before sight lead to reality; jasmine leaves, so fresh and feminine.
“How are you, my lovely?” she said and kept walking towards him. Madam Dreary had a sultry, beautiful voice that sent a trill through him. Trailing a finger along the couch, he grabbed for her, but she kept walking.
The lord snatched at her, but the sultry vixen remained elusive, as always. Her laugh was like the tinkling of bells. Dreary went into the next room, his bedroom, calling to him.
“Come to me, my dear.”
He smiled and stood. “Anything you ask is yours, Madam.”
* * * * *
One down, five to go. The match was going better than Zandor expected. He was still shocked by how easy it was to manipulate the toughs into being in this position. They were strong and capable, sure. But smart and savvy to the way the world worked? Not so much.
It was understandable why Jerrod chose to utilize them so often. They did what they were told. They a good blunt instrument you could crack someone over the head with. They followed orders without thought on the consequences.
The roar of the crowd informed him another one of them had fallen, but it was hard to see from where he stood. He should have taken Derek’s offer to sit with them upstairs. But the less time he spent with them, the less they would know about him, and the less able to use that knowledge against him.
So now it was six to four.
An annoying little problem was solved and without a total war between the two factions. Besides, they didn’t know where Zandor’s people were. They were too non-descript; they looked like everyone else and could filter away into the background and he would replace them with others.
Jerrod didn’t understand such subtleties and never would. Zandor wondered how he would handle the disgrace of losing his precious toughs or if he would even care. From what his spies had told him, Jerrod was busy drinking himself into a stupor which put him out of the way, but that also made him more dangerous. The man was always so stupid.
Someone came close enough to Zandor for him to smell his breath. A drunken lout stumbled up to him, muttering something about the fights. And money of course. The man wanted money.
“…gotta get some coin for the next… got some, pal?”
Zandor shifted his dark soled shoes out of the man’s way as he reached for him. Just a tiny turn of his hips made the man almost trip and fall to the ground. The drunk stopped and looked confused, wondering what happened to the dark garbed man that had been in front of him a moment ago.
“Hey, buddy… hey… I need some… hey!”
The man’s body odor was worse than his breath. Zandor moved away from him again, and the man followed like a blood hound that has caught a scent. There were a lot of people bustling around, there always were, and he soon found himself surrounded by larger men and some grungy women.
The bleachers were behind him. The feeling of claustrophobia inherent in such places crept in on him. He wasn’t accustomed to being hounded or even looked at; there was great effort used at being hidden.
“You got some coppers for a sick man, hey?”
The man was relentless and stuck a dirty hand out towards Zandor’s face. Zandor side-stepped again, determined to avoid physical contact. The bleachers were closing him in, and the press of people cornered him. Unless he wanted to push back, there was little choice but to respond.
“Gimme some coin, man! I gotta get some!”
Zandor popped him in the chin with an open palm thrust. The man was large and the blow only stunned him, so Zandor struck again and followed that up with a sharp kick to his left knee. The man sputtered and stumbled backwards, reeling.
A few spectators nearby looked at them, but since it wasn’t too uncommon for fights to break out, they did not think much about it. A couple of his men noticed the minor fracas and came over to see what the commotion was.
The drunk thrashed about on the floor like a fish on the beach, spewing blood from his mouth. He cursed at Zandor and called him names that would make a sailor blush. Zandor kicked him in the jaw and knocked him back. His head hit the floor, and his body went still.
“Everything okay, boss?” one of his men said as they came closer.
Zandor stared at the slug on the floor. That’s what Jerrod would call the man, a slug. It was a good point because the man and most of the people there were nothing more than meat sacks. They scratched and clawed for whatever scraps they could have gleaned off of others.
“Zee? Everything okay?”
Some of the man’s blood had spurted on Zandor’s face, and he wiped it off with a grimace. He pointed to the drunk, now motionless.
“Get this scum outta here. I don’t wanna see him here ever again. If I do, I’ll cut his throat and whoever else is responsible for letting him in.” His stared at him for a second, blinking. “Now!”
They went to it, dragging the unconscious lout away.
The crowd noise increased, but it sounded different, surprised yet excited. Zandor turned to look back towards the floor. The match had taken an unexpected turn.
* * * * *
Marko did a quick head count. Two of his boys were down for good. Greaves and Sanders had sputtered out their death rattles moments ago, and not one of the arena fighters was injured much beyond superficial flesh wounds. They were in serious peril.
The best fighters the toughs had, he and Renner faced two opponents each. The arena fighters were savvy and recognized the biggest threats. They responded by double teaming them. It was a sound strategy on their part, but Marko thought he had an idea that could exploit the ploy.
His mace felt heavy in his hands, awkward and tiring. He stood straight and threw it to the ground. The crowd gasped. Perhaps they thought he was surrendering, but it w
as far from it.
The lead tough made eye contact with Renner as their opponents looked on in confusion for a moment. The brief interlude in the battle gave them some space to move and get organized. He waved his arms around to get his men’s attention.
“Toughs! No more of this. Let’s show them how we fight!”
Renner’s smile was grim. He nodded and tossed away his short sword, throwing it at the fighters closest to them. They jumped back and glanced at each other, uncertain on how to proceed. The move was unprecedented. Renner waved to Donald and Tuy. All of them closed in to stand shoulder to shoulder with Marko.
“Together, boys!” Marko said, and they linked elbows. He felt a rush of energy. They were a true team. They worked together every night and knew each other’s moves and tendencies. They could use that against these men that fought for themselves, one against the other.
“Move! On the edge, all around the gap, now!”
They rushed forward around the edge of the arena floor.
Their opponents were a bit winded, not much, but enough to give Marko further hope at their chances of victory. Here was an opportunity to not only prove their worth at fighting but their superior conditioning and guts. The arena fighters didn’t stand still long. They got back into their instinctual fighting crouches but were somewhat slow at moving forward, which is what Marko counted on.
He focused on the two that had faced Renner on the outside right. He swung his men towards that edge to hit the angle. His position was center right of the group, with Renner to his right, Tuy to his left and big Donald to the outside.
“Step to it!” Marko said and ran forward, cutting the angle hard to the two arena fighters. His men responded with him in kind, faster than their opponents expected and caught the two foes flat footed. They didn’t know how to respond. They stood their ground and raised their weapons but did not step forward to attack.
Marko grinned as they sprinted forward. “Up, Renner! Rest of you down!”
They knew what he meant. He followed Renner up higher on each respective opponent while the others went low on the same, launching themselves through the air. The arena men had no idea what to do, but their instinct slashed out with their weapons, a sword on one side and trident on the other.
They were too close for the trident to make contact, but the short sword hit Renner a glancing blow on the shoulder. He grunted in pain but steamrolled into his foe hard. Marko hit the trident wielder’s torso with his forearms while Tuy struck his legs. They fell to the ground in a jumble, and the toughs battled within their forte.
The man was no beginner, though. He kicked his legs at Tuy and swatted Marko about his head and shoulders with his elbows, the trident forgotten and dropped. Marko took the blows and grabbed one of the man’s wrists with both his hands, flipped over to his back and threw his legs over the captured limb.
It happened so fast the man could not resist well enough to stop it. Considering Tuy was tying up his lower body, he had other concerns. Marko lay flat on his back and yanked hard, snapping the shoulder out of the socket with a sickening pop. The man screamed in agony. He screamed again when Tuy snapped his knee.
One down. Four on five.
Marko saw Renner strangling his opponent while Donald worked on his leg. He twisting his body weight to get a good lock. Renner snapped the man’s neck to the side with a sharp bend. It was all over in a matter of scant seconds.
Four on four.
The arena fighters were seasoned killers. They were far from finished, and the quick deaths of their two brethren shocked them into action. They came on fast and Marko and his men were unarmed. One, a massive fighter with a hand axe, charged Marko, and while he was able to get to his feet, he was off balance.
Marko dove to the side to avoid the first blow from the axe. Tuy tackled the man from the side, but he was too big to go down so easy. Tuy wrestled with the axe arm, trying to disarm him, but he failed to see a poniard wielding fighter who came up from behind. He stabbed Tuy in the back. His eyes bulged as he died, sliding off the blade to crumple to the ground.
Three to four.
The crowd was in a veritable frenzy. It was a good match, with lolls and peaks and unexpected turns. Sometimes during the week, the matches could get predictable and stale, so they appreciated something new and fresh.
Renner and Donald moved forward, but Marko held them back.
“Wait! Don’t play it their way. Link up! Far side left!”
They latched on to each other’s elbows and ploughed across the arena floor. Their opponents backed away, still confused and attempting to assess the total threat. They spread out across the floor, and Marko had been afraid of this tactic. Their opponents thought if the toughs hit them one at a time, the others could have rushed in and hacked them up, and they were right.
Or maybe not if Marko and his men were fast enough. They ran around, linked together like children playing. Some of the crowd laughed and pointed. But Marko didn’t give a damn.
Let them come out and fight for their lives if they thought it was so comical.
Marko headed them towards the huge man with the hand axe, the best fighter left on their side. The big man was ready for them. He planted his feet and squared his muscular shoulders to face them. Perhaps he thought to take the brunt of their charge and then hack them with his axe.
As they closed the distance, he would have Renner go at his torso and Donald down low, similar to what worked before. At the center of the trio, Marko hissed the orders to them and had his own plan of attack.
They collided, and the arena fighter hacked at Renner’s outstretched arms. He hit his left hand, cutting off two fingers before Renner could grapple with him, shoulder to shoulder. Blood spewed. Donald tackled his legs, and the massive man stumbled but hit him in the nose with a big knee. Marko heard the bone crunch, but Donald held on.
Marko jumped up, running up the side of Renner’s body until he was high enough to throw his left arm over their foe’s head. He swung around to his back, latching the underside of his right elbow on his own left wrist, and let the momentum of his body carry him around in a complete circle.
It was too much, even for a large man, and they fell in a jumble together. Marko felt the satisfying snap of the man’s neck. He rolled off to the side, thinking the other three were about to pounce, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Form up! Link again!”
The other toughs were slower than he. Donald blinked away tears and shook his head to clear the dripping blood from his face. Renner clasped his mangled hand, but Marko screamed at them to move! They barreled towards the two fighters who had started forward to stab them with trident and short sword.
As the toughs neared, they scattered. They had seen the effectiveness of their tactics, and they were now wary, even afraid.
Marko felt exhausted and could only imagine how Donald and Renner felt. They had sacrificed much of their bodies, and the head tough wondered how much they had left. He grunted and took big breaths as they jogged around.
“So are we the toughest men in Murder Haven or not, boys?!”
Blood gushed down Donald’s face, but it was only a broken nose. He’d had many of them before. When he grinned, his normal dopey look was replaced by viciousness and gore.
Renner was worse off and had to be in tremendous pain. The stubs of his fingers bled and so did a shoulder wound from before. But he nodded, smiling along with Donald. “We can take ‘em.”
Marko didn’t understand how or when it happened, but he had a cut on his left leg, and it made him limp. He had scant time to consider its origin. But he was buoyed by the crowd, as many of them were rooting for his side, a first for the night.
A chant began from the crowd. “Toughs! Toughs! Toughs!”
It went on and on, louder and louder, incensed by alcohol and the sight of blood and death. There might have been spectators that bet on the toughs as well, and they perhaps sensed victory for their money belts. The three arena figh
ters glanced at the crowd as if betrayed, cursing and swinging their weapons at them. The foolish spectators who got close enough to the edge of the floor risked severe injury if they strayed too far.
It gave Marko and his men a chance to catch their breath, and he was glad for it. They kept moving, albeit slower, stalking around the edge. They couldn’t let the arena fighters get organized. They needed to get going fast.
“Let’s move!”
They rushed forward at the man armed with the poniard, a long dagger-like weapon almost the length of a short sword but possessing a blade thicker at the bottom where it met the cross-bar and pointed like a needle at the tip. They held each other’s wrists, though Marko found it tricky clasping Renner’s because it was slick with blood. He should have switched up sides, but there had been no time to rearrange their positions.
It mattered little. The poniard wielder was too smart for the move and wasn’t having any of it. He dodged off to the side and stayed out of their way, refusing to engage in their style of battle. It was simple for him to skirt around the edge of the platform, and the stalling tactic was wearing them out fast.
Donald could not breathe well. His nose dripped, and it was slowing him down. Renner’s face was grim but resolute. He was suffering from blood loss and no doubt serious shock from his maimed fingers, but he wasn’t quitting. Marko’s leg ached with fire, and he limped as they tried to take at least one of the other fighters down.
But the arena men had seen how the toughs were willing to take some harsh injury in order to make contact, they knew better. None of them stood still long enough to immobilize.
They needed to change tactics. “Work it until it stops working,” Jerrod always said. Sound advice. They ran forward for another charge, and the crowd sounded different, impatient by the lack of action. Two arena fighters, the ones left armed with short swords, had banded together to fight as one team rushed up to stab them as they chased the poniard.
Marko knew they were coming.
