Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  He circled his target cautiously. It would be difficult to get close enough for an effective attack. He was weaponless and the mongrel carried a bo staff. Del Darkdragón was filth, but he was clever filth, and a devilishly good fighter beside.

  “Wait, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said, grabbing him by the shoulder. “I have wasted too much time already. I must get to the arena. If I am late, Don Del Coltbreaker will dismiss me. I have already borrowed against my wages, and have no other way to repay the loan. Mi padre is stingier than a Shimabito fishmonger and will never take up my debt.”

  That was only half true. There was real anxiety in Urbano’s eyes and voice, though he tried to mask it with haughty nonchalance. Fox the Runt supposed he understood Urbano’s unease. Urbano was a sorry excuse for a fighter, and should the mongrel take on the three of them, Urbano would no doubt be the first to fall. And though Urbano’s father was a powerful don, the mongrel’s father was a Muumban witch, a mancer of no little renown. It was said that Rebelde the Darkdragón could sling lightning bolts as easily as other men threw stones. Still, understanding Urbano’s cowardice did not mean he accepted it. “You can get another job mucking stables! This híbrido filth has insulted us, Urbano! Have you no honor?”

  “It is coin I lack,” Urbano lisped, “and honor is costly.” Urbano nodded pointedly toward the arena. “Surely you can understand that, Señor Fox the Runt.”

  “Urbano …”

  Urbano shrugged dismissively. “Wallow in the muck with this híbrido if you must, but I will not waste a chance to earn a few coppers.”

  “Besides,” Jorge said, “he only insulted you, Zwergfuchs.”

  Urbano strode away, contempt glistening in his swampy green eyes. Jorge trotted obediently at his heels.

  Fox the Runt cursed in Nordzunge and followed. Urbano had the right of it, he supposed. None of them had time to waste on the mongrel. He had to find someplace to wash the filth from his clothes before signing up for the games.

  But the mongrel would not let it go. He called after him, taunting, “Do you flee, craven? I’m talking to you, you yellow dog! Face me, cabrón!”

  “Shut your mouth,” Fox the Runt snapped, “you filthy half-breed!”

  “I’m a quarter-breed, Runt,” the mongrel said smugly. “You are as stupid as you are ugly.”

  “Creador’s Burning Balls!” Urbano called. “Will you forget about that dirty little híbrido? Vámonos, Zwergfuchs!”

  He teetered on a knife’s edge. On one side were his friends and his business in the arena; on the other was the brawl he had spent a year aching for, praying for.

  The mongrel decided him. “You, cabrón, are a bane-kissing, goat-humping, dog-faced son of a floor-licking strumpet. I name you coward, Fox the Runt Von Hammerhead, and dare you prove me wrong. I challenge you, Turd Nanny! Let’s settle this for all time!”

  Urbano, Jorge, and at least thirty tourists in the Círculo del Triunfo stopped in their tracks and stared, chins on chests, at the two of them. In one breath the mongrel had disgorged some of the most repellent abuses ever spoken in the Thirteen. In some cities it was legally defensible to kill a person who dared speak of one’s mother thus, though in truth, that particular remark bothered Fox the Runt the least. Being called a bane-kisser, however, was a declaration of war.

  He covered the distance between them in half a heartbeat, wagering his fleet fist and feet against the mongrel’s staff. His face was an empurpled thunderstorm. It was a risky gamble, and he would pay with blood and bruises if he lost, but he was too angry to care. He targeted the mongrel’s knee for a sweeping low-tide kick, even as the mongrel crouched behind his staff. Then, as if it were a gift from the goddess, a notion came to him. There was a better way to humiliate the mongrel. He stopped, backed up three steps, and smiled. “As you will, híbrido. I accept your challenge. But as custom dictates, the challenged sets the terms. If you want a beating from me, meet me in the arena. We will settle this on the Melee field, where the whole of the Thirteen can witness your humiliation. Refuse and I will proclaim you the coward.”

  The look on the mongrel’s face—like he had just swallowed a sack of broken bricks—was worth every second Fox the Runt would spend emptying chamber pots.

  “You know I cannot,” the mongrel rasped. “Mi papá—”

  “Coward!” Fox the Runt bellowed. Jorge echoed the accusation, dancing circles around the mongrel, screaming at the top of his lungs and pointing. But Urbano stood silently amongst the gathered crowd, scowling with disapproval, his arms crossed before him.

  Fox the Runt did not care whether Urbano approved or not. He was confident he would be victorious in the arena. He could almost taste his coming vindication. He was so exhilarated he nearly sang, “You dirty mongrel coward! Cobarde! Craven half-breed dog—”

  “Enough!” the mongrel said. “Very well, Runt. We’ll settle this during Torneo.”

  “I doubt you will live long enough to compete, híbrido,” Urbano said. “Once the Darkdragón hears you have defied him, he will spit you on one of his Black Spears. I certainly hope he does.”

  Urbano and Jorge left without another word. Fox the Runt followed, leaving the muck-covered mongrel standing alone and pitiful in the middle of Círculo del Triunfo, but not before he had fixed the mongrel’s stricken expression in his memory. It was the single most satisfying thing he had ever seen.

  All praise to Seisakusha.

  Chapter Five

  Pious Beauty

  Though Fox the Runt had come to the Reinos del Oeste when he was only ten, and considered himself Oestean, the rules of Torneo stated that competitors must represent the lands in which they had been born. So, as much as he detested Nords, especially those from Eisesland, he was forced to stand with them in a long line of younglings waiting to sign up for Torneo. The big, blockheaded youth of the North were loud and uncouth, but he ignored them. He spent his time watching the western quadrant of the arena, hoping to catch a glimpse of a glum-faced mongrel. He was sure that Del Darkdragón was somewhere amongst the Oestelings signing up for the games. The híbrido would defy his father to save his honor, and if the goddess were good, he would be whipped raw for his disobedience.

  He grinned at the thought of the two beatings the mongrel would receive: the first from his father, the second—and more painful—from Fox the Runt during Melee. He continued to scan the faces of the younglings in the arena until his gaze fell upon a set of dark, amber eyes housed within one of the most comely faces he had ever seen. His heart stumbled over its next few beats. She flashed a smile so dazzling it stole his breath. She stared at him as if they were the only two people in the whole world.

  She wore white robes that hung to her knees, offering only a tantalizing suggestion of the delicate curves enshrouded beneath. She had features called prima del duende by the Oesteans. Her skin was darker, ruddier than the typical Oestean, and her hair as black as kohl. It was cut short, ending just below her ears in the fashion of the Far West, which he typically did not care for, but it more than suited the girl in the white robes, creating a dark, silky frame to exhibit her perfect oval face.

  But it was her sharp gaze that held him, even from across the arena, trapped, like a bug pressed beneath a child’s thumb.

  “Seisakusha’s Tail,” he gasped, for he had never seen a prettier girl. And no girl, pretty or otherwise, had ever smiled at him in such a way. For several excruciatingly wonderful seconds, the two held each other with their eyes before doubt intruded upon his thoughts. He broke the connection, fearing her gaze was meant for another. He looked to his sides and behind him, but saw no one else looking toward the girl in the white robes. He turned back to her, but it was too late. She was gone.

  The Nordlings around him laughed and mocked him as he hopped up and down, futilely trying to see above their brick-like heads. He was desperate to catch another glimpse of the beauty in white. But his search proved fruitless, and a familiar nausea gurgled in his guts. Disappointment.

&n
bsp; He suddenly felt foolish for daring to hope that such a girl would have any interest in him. Of course her smile had been meant for another. He had simply strayed into her line of sight. No female had ever smiled at him—not even his mother—unless it was in mockery. He was no fool. Every morning he saw his reflection in the murky waters of chamber pots. He was as far from handsome as the frozen Kopf der Welt wastelands were from the barren deserts of Kamedunia. He was a zwerg, a runt with the face of a dog, unlovable even to his own mother. The warm feelings of moments before were smothered beneath a blizzard of hate.

  He was only seventeen, but he had come to know hatred quite well. He hated the mongrel, Del Darkdragón, and all sloppily bred curs. He hated everything that came from the Nordländer: its goddess and its people, especially his parents. But at that moment there was nothing in the world he loathed more than himself. Why was he so little and ugly?

  Determination straightened his back and defiance stiffened his chin. He had done nothing to earn what Schöpfer, the goddess of justice, had inflicted upon him. How was it just that he, a pureblood Nord, was so damned ugly, while half-breed mongrels like Del Darkdragón walked around tall and handsome and loved? That was where his hatred truly belonged, directed at the alleged goddess of justice and those who had been given everything in their lives through no effort of their own.

  “Hola,” a melodic voice called from behind him. He knew without turning that it was the girl in white. Her voice was as lovely as her face.

  He spun on his heels to meet her, and one look into her dark golden eyes dissolved the profound loathing he had felt for himself and the world just seconds before. He thanked the goddess he had been able to clean most of the shit from his clothes before joining the other Nordlings in line.

  She circled her heart with her right hand, the sign of the Ira de Dios, and said, “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi. Give your soul to the Prophet.”

  “What?” he said, not sure he had understood her, for his head had begun to pain him. “I mean, perdóname? What did you say?”

  A Nordling boy behind him barked at her, “Get out of here, you filthy Vile!”

  “Watch your mouth,” Fox the Runt growled, and though every Nord in earshot was bigger and stronger than him, something in his face or voice was enough to make them back away.

  “Do what you will, little zwerg,” the Nord boy said. “What do I care of Ungläubigen runts and filthy Viles?”

  “She is no Vile,” Fox the Runt said. He took her hand and led her aside, losing his place in line that they might share a confidential moment.

  “Gracias,” she said, grinning at him. “You speak true. There is nothing vile about serving The One God through the Prophet or following the holy truths put forth by Vicente Santos.”

  His heart dropped into his stomach and the ache in his head intensified. She was a Vile after all. Only Viles referred to Vicente the Vile as Vicente Santos. But by Seisakusha’s Tail, she did not seem like a wicked or evil person. She extended her hand to him and he shook it. She was probably the only Vile in the whole of the Thirteen he would have touched, but between her beauty and the pounding in his skull, he could not think clearly. He nearly swooned from the touch of her warm, slender hand in his own.

  “I am Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena, and I would speak to you of your undying soul.”

  He nodded dumbly. She could speak to him of whatever she wished.

  “I am here to attest that there is no god but The One God,” Pía said. “The other gods are but sham constructions of the Nameless Three to lure the foolish into false worship, the penalty for which is eternal damnation.”

  “I am sorry, señorita.” Fox the Runt shook his head. “But I am a Seisakushan. I am—”

  “Damned,” she said, staring into his eyes. “If you continue to worship that false goddess, your soul is doomed.” Her face and tone softened. “And I think it would pain me greatly to know that you were suffering.”

  For a moment, he forgot how to form words and it had nothing to do with the thunderstorm of agony in his skull. Pía Del Whitewraith spoke sincerely, if he were any judge. She genuinely seemed concerned for his welfare.

  She made the sign of the Ira de Dios again, and said, “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi. Have you never wondered why Seisakusha and the other false gods set such impossibly high standards for their followers? And when those followers inevitably fail to measure up, she dooms them to eternal damnation!”

  Fox the Runt said nothing, but he had often wondered about that. It was next to impossible for any normal human to satisfy the moral demands of the gods.

  Señorita Del Whitewraith continued. “When the standard of righteousness is impossible to achieve, there is no motive to even try, thus all are doomed to hell and may be as wicked as they choose while walking the physical world. Does it not make sense that the Nameless Three would want a world of people committed to wickedness, Señor—?”

  “I am called Fox the—I am Zwergfuchs. Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line.”

  Something like recognition flashed in her eyes at the mention of his name. “I am pleased to meet you, Señor Zwergfuchs. Please, come to Templo Santos and read the holy text with me. The One God gives so much, and in return, he asks only exclusive devotion. Does this not seem more righteous than the high demands of Seisakusha?”

  He shrugged. “I am not sure, Señorita Del Whitewraith. Perhaps. I—”

  “Take The One God into your heart and you will be sure, señor. He will give you infinite love and everlasting forgiveness. You have but to ask for it. Tell me, Señor Zwergfuchs, what has Seisakusha ever done for you? What has she given you to merit your loyalty?”

  His lips parted, but he could think of no answer to Señorita Del Whitewraith’s question, at least no suitable one.

  She flashed a knowing smile at him and once more signed the Ira de Dios before taking his hand into hers, igniting a bonfire inside him.

  “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi. Give your soul to the Prophet, Señor Zwergfuchs.” She dipped her head politely. “And gracias, señor. I thank you for your time.”

  “But señorita—”

  “You have my name. If you would know more of the truth, seek me at Templo Santos. I hope to see you there, Señor Von Hammerhead, for true.”

  His headache dwindled as he watched her walk away. She had a slight limp but it did nothing to impede her grace. She melted into the crowds of youngling competitors. He had to admit her arguments were compelling. What did he truly know of the Viles—or Santosians—beyond what he had been told? All he knew of them he had learned through rumor, gossip, and speculation. He had never actually studied any of their doctrines. Perhaps he should visit the temple and research the teachings of Vicente Santos. Though in truth, he was more interested in studying Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena than any holy text, Santosian or otherwise.

  Chapter Six

  Feliz Cumpleaños

  Paladin marched quickly down Calle de Comerciante, a long narrow street cramped with rows of tall tenement houses called viviendas. He hopped up the single step onto his porch and reached for the doorknob, pausing to take in the festive sounds inside. “Blood and Thunder. I forgot about my birthday.”

  Even without the news of temple and Torneo, his parents would be furious with him. He was late for his own fiesta de cumpleaños! He gazed skyward. It was a clear night and he could see every constellation and its relation to Grandmother Moon. There were Schöpfer’s Scales balanced brightly in the northern sky, Muumba’s Web hanging over the south, Seisakusha’s Tail flashing in the east, and directly above, putting the time between the eighth and ninth hour, burned the seven stars of Creador’s Sword. He should have been home hours ago. His catalog of crimes grew longer by the second. He cringed, opened the door, and went inside, exhaling a deep sigh of relief at the scene that met him.

  The fiesta had begun without him, thank the gods. The last t
hing he wanted was to find a house full of bored folk sitting around waiting. They would have demanded an immediate explanation for his lateness, and that explanation would likely have ended the revelry before it began.

  He almost didn’t recognize the house for all the colorful decorations. A donkey piñata hung from the ceiling. The walls were decked with paper ribbons in his House colors: blue for truth and loyalty, silver for peace and sincerity, and black for grief and constancy. A feast had been spread across the table, and the guests had already indulged, though there was still plenty to eat. The smell of beef, ham, rice, and cakes made him drool. He had eaten nothing since breakfast and his stomach cramped up and rumbled like an angry bear.

  The young guests and their parents were so busy laughing and talking they didn’t notice him standing there, slavering like some starving dog. The children from down the lane, Svenja, Kreszentia, and Götz—none of them older than seven years—crowded round the table, stuffing cake into their mouths, their pink, cherubic cheeks smeared with chocolate and berries.

  Drud sat cross-legged by the fire, moving game pieces around a Castillos y Conquistadores board with Lalo von Stalwart. At ten years old, Lalo was the best Castillos y Conquistadores player in Ciudad Vieja, perhaps even all of Westgate, while Drud—well, his talents lay elsewhere. Even from where he stood, Paladin could see Drud would lose his king in two more moves. Lalo moved one of the miniature knights and Drud cursed in frustration, looked up from the game board, and noticed Paladin standing in the doorway.

  “He’s here!” Drud called. “Feliz cumpleaños, Paladin!”

  The other party guests turned to him and called, “Feliz cumpleaños!”

  “Niño!” Paladin’s mother, Walküre, said, wearing a wide grin. “You’re late to your own fiesta.”

  Drud began the traditional Oestean birthday song and Paladin grinned despite all his worries. Drud von Wildboar couldn’t carry a tune in a sack. His loud ululations hammered into the other raised voices like a bludgeon, but he sang with honest goodwill and it filled Paladin with gladness. Everyone joined in. Almost.