Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  “Papá, please!” Paladin said, grabbing after the sword. Had it been a conscious act, he wouldn’t have done it. His mind understood the futility of asking Rebelde for anything, especially a weapon, at a moment when Rebelde held such little faith in him. But his heart understood only want. This was not just a sword, not even just a famed Darkdragón sword. This was a thing created by his papá’s own hands, a singular expression of paternal affection. Gods be good, he just wanted to look at it.

  Rebelde slapped his hands away.

  “Enough!” Walküre said, taking Rebelde’s massive hand into her slender one. “Can you not see his remorse? Can you not see how deeply your words wound him?”

  Walküre took Rebelde’s hand and led him to the one window in the room. She opened it and allowed the night breeze to waft in, but it did little to cool the heated emotions.

  “You know him well, Rebel,” Walküre said. “He is a good boy. He is simply trying to find his way. I have heard your father speak on your youngling foolishness. Shall we compare your youthful escapades to Paladin’s? I think you would suffer in the comparison.”

  Thank the gods for Mamá, Paladin thought. If there was one person in the whole of the Thirteen who could make Rebelde hear reason, it was Walküre the Cruelarrow of Mayumi’s Line. Paladin wanted to throw his arms around her and shower her with kisses.

  “He would risk his life,” Rebelde said, stowing the sword in a trunk under the window and locking it, “and the lives of his friends for a mere game. This goes beyond youthful folly.”

  Rebelde grew distant, lost in thought, his face weary and sad. Perhaps he thought of his friend, Mwenye za Graybeast of House Kifaru, the man he had killed during Melee, years ago. Paladin put himself in Rebelde’s place for a moment. It sickened him to think that he might accidentally kill Drud in the arena, or Isooba, or even Fox the Runt. And if he did, would he not feel the same way as Rebelde? Could he live with Drud’s blood on his hands? Isooba’s? He didn’t think so. Fox the Runt, however …

  “Rebelde,” Walküre said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Rebel …”

  Rebelde removed her hand gently but firmly and closed his eyes. And for a handful of seconds, the three of them stood in stillness. There was only the sound of Rebelde’s loud, angry breathing. Paladin and Walküre watched him quake with emotion. Gods only knew what he was seeing behind his closed eyes.

  Though he was but a smith here in Prosperidad, Rebelde had been a mashujaa, the Kusini Watu equivalent of a knight, in the South. He was patriarch of a Great House and had served the Royal Order of Radimkukile, the Lightning Lance. But Rebelde had given all that up to rally the commoners into bloody revolution against the cruel tyranny of King Akhom the Scarab and House Anonzi. Mwenye za Graybeast had also turned his back on the greedy aristocracy to stand with the common folk, and the revolt had been succesful. But while Rebelde and Mwenye were heroes among the lowborns, the Patriarchies and Matriarchies of the South had rallied every assassin and backstabber in their Houses and sent them after Rebelde and Mwenye. Even though most had agreed the House of Anonzi was corrupt and terrible at rule, they believed the greater crime to be highborns standing with lowborns in defiance of the crown. Rebelde and Mwenye became pariahs and were unofficially exiled from Kavunchi. Mwenye had given up his own fortunes to come to the Reinos del Oeste with Rebelde. Prosperidad was a kingdom famed for economic opportunity, especially in the city of Santuario del Guerrero. The two young men had thought to find adventure, romance, and fortunes. Instead they had found destitution. It would be years before Rebelde would meet and win the heart of Walküre. Until then he and Mwenye had earned coin any way they could.

  It was in Torneo that they had earned their real money. That first year they had discovered they were an unstoppable team in the Melee competition. The two would fight side by side, defeating everyone who came against them, until they had to fight each other for the championship of Kavunchi. Even though Rebelde had always bested Mwenye, they always split the winnings evenly. For five years running, Rebelde won the Black Spear and the gold coronas that came with it.

  It was on the sixth year that he broke Mwenye’s neck.

  Rebelde’s breathing slowed as his ki came back into balance. He opened his eyes and looked at Walküre with a tentative calm. “You would take the boy’s part over mine? You would defend him in that which is indefensible?”

  “He is a boy, Rebel,” Walküre said. “He is our boy. I do not think him capable of the indefensible.”

  Rebelde arched an eyebrow. “Good. I am glad you feel that way, Walli. Your precious ‘niño’ was expelled from Temple Seisakusha today.

  “Defend that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Anything Goes

  It was dark by the time Fox the Runt made it to the front of the line of young Nords signing up for Torneo. Some of the others bitched about the long wait, but he’d found it relaxing. Pleasant even. It had given him time to think, an endeavor he usually despised and avoided with all enthusiasm, as he rarely had anything pleasant to think on. But now he had the priestess Pía Del Whitewraith to ponder. And as he stepped up to the black spirit-wood table to add his name to the long sheaf of parchment, he grinned, imagining what it might be like to have a sweetheart, especially one as comely as the Santosian priestess. She would sit in the stands and watch him compete, cheer his victories and castigate his opponents. She might even give him a sweetheart’s token to wear as he won honors and smashed in Del Darkdragón’s mongrelly face.

  “Hallo,” Fox the Runt muttered as respectfully as he could to the Nord Red Cloak seated at the enrollment table. The big blond man handed him a brush and inkwell, and Fox the Runt carefully scrawled his name at the bottom of the archery list, making sure it could be easily read.

  “Viel glück,” the Red Cloak said, offering a warm smile. Fox the Runt was startled by the sincerity in the man’s voice when he wished him good luck. Nords, as a rule, were fanatical in their bigotry against their undersized countrymen, and rarely did one have a cordial word to spare for him.

  He nodded back, showing the Healer his teeth and hoping the expression might pass for a friendly smile. “Danke, Herr Red Cloak.”

  He moved down the table, adding his name to the sheets for the rings and Melee trials, and then made his way down to the stables, where he found Urbano. The highborn heir of House Próspero was busy cleaning a paddock and looked as humbled, humiliated, and unhappy as Fox the Runt had ever see him. Urbano hated the very idea of mucking out stables; he thought it far, far beneath his station. And when he saw Fox the Runt, it only reminded him of why he had taken the odious job in the first place.

  “I have no time to visit,” Urbano said. “I will speak with you on the morrow.”

  Fox the Runt gave his amigo a farewell nod, climbed up through the tunnels, and left swiftly, eager to see the priestess Pía again.

  He stepped out into the Circle of Triumph, even more crowded now than it had been during the day, and squeezed into the slow-moving throng, his senses feasting on the swirling stew of sensory input ever present in Santuario del Guerrero, but multiplied times ten during Torneo season. The folk about him chattered in languages and dialects both familiar and exotic. They wore the amber, brown, white, and black faces of all the world’s citizens. They wore garments of garish color and intricate design, simple gray or tan homespun, and every other conceivable type of fashion in between. Those from the colder lands wore thick leathers and furs, while those from warmer climes were draped in soft and flimsy fabrics that would provide little warmth against the cool night.

  Most street corners in Santuario del Guerrero were lit by mance-light, glass lanterns burning with manced torches at the top of wooden poles, thirteen feet high. Though the flames within were small, they were powerful, and the lamps were plentiful enough that they cast a hazy, flickering orange-blue glow across the whole city. The crowds thinned as he put the Circle of Triumph behind him, moving briskly beneath tall towers of stacked tiers
and past low houses with pitched roofs.

  He saw the domed rooftops of the Oeste Verdadero neighborhood in the Westgate quadrant a few blocks away, and his heart raced with anticipation. Templo Santos was close. He dashed past the ornate buildings constructed with circular windows, clustered columns, towering spires, elaborate door decorations, and richly carved façades. That it all seemed thrown together with neither rhyme nor reason, a slapdash mishmash of the fanciful and functional, merely added to its appeal.

  He slowed his pace as he turned onto Calle de la Iglesia, a street infamous throughout the Thirteen for its businesses and shops that catered to those with appetites for the unusual. Anything goes on Calle de la Iglesia, was how the saying went, and if one was in Santuario del Guerrero and sought to engage in extraordinary debaucheries, this was where one came. The folk milling about the streets wore their hoods up and kept their heads down. Pickpockets and worse roamed the street with near impunity. The City Guard ignored most of what happened here. Only the occasional murder caught their attention—and then only if the corpse belonged to someone of note. One walked the street of Calle de la Iglesia at one’s own risk. Despite its wicked reputation, however, the buildings here were more elaborate than anything he had grown up with in Kalteströme. The taverns were as refined as guild halls and the brothels as elaborate as cathedrals. For a moment, he could not imagine why Templo Santos—or any other holy place—would exist in this unsavory part of town. And then he remembered what he had thought of the Santosians before he had met Pía.

  Anything goes on Calle de la Iglesia, he thought. Even Vile Creadorianism.

  Without warning, a pair of large hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him from his feet.

  “Here he is!” the female voice belonging to the hands said. She sounded young—his age or just a little older. Oestean. “Just like the old witch said!”

  “Mind your tongue, girl!” A male voice. Older. Thick Kusini Watu accent. “Do not blaspheme. The Talentosa serves the Prophet.”

  The burly girl’s breath stank of whiskey. She moved to wrap her arm around Fox the Runt’s throat, but he slammed his heel into her knee and she dropped him, yelping in pain. He landed in a low crouch, readying a defense as he made a quick assessment of his situation. Most of the crowd backed away to a safe viewing distance, leaving him to face the big Oestean girl and the three richly dressed highborns with her: two more Oesteans—one male, one female—and the Kusini Watu man. All of them were armed, three short swords and a quarterstaff.

  “You are no champion!” She grinned drunkenly and slowly pulled her short sword from its sheath at her hip. “Just a runty little enano!”

  She was a brute, tall and muscular enough to pass for a Nord, though her coarse red hair and beady little mantis-green eyes established her as a pura-sangre Oestean. Her fancy clothes and lisp established her as highborn. And a male version of her, obviously her brother and most likely her twin, moved up next to her. He had his sword drawn, eyeing Fox the Runt with hatred in his eyes, the personal kind, though he was sure they had never met. The others moved to surround him. Their grace of movement marked them as skilled warriors. Their balance marked them as mostly sober.

  Fox the Runt skipped backward, keeping as much distance as he could between himself and the highborns. “What do want of me? I am pureblood Nord. Go find yourself a híbrido to bash!”

  The drunk girl laughed and pointed her sword at him. “We know who you are, little Fox.”

  Fox the Runt blanched. This was no random attack. For some reason, they had sought him out. His throat felt dry. “What do you want?”

  She advanced, unsteady, chuckling. “Your blood, chico.”

  She lunged. He sidestepped and the sword punched through his cloak. He backhanded her, knocking her into a backward stumble, but as she fell away, her sword blade slipped across his hip, slicing through his kimono to draw blood. Her brother caught her before she hit the ground.

  “Take care, Bernadita!” the boy said. “He is said to be skilled.”

  “Do not piss your pants, Osvaldo,” Bernadita slurred. “This one is no threat. You place too much faith in fortune-tellers.”

  “And you too little,” the Kusini Watu man said. He had thick ropy hair and long lean muscles. He and the other Oestean woman moved to surround Fox, and the gathering crowd buzzed, eager to see some bloodshed.

  “Let us be quick about this,” Osvaldo said. “And stop using names. We know not who is watching.”

  Fox the Runt swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, focused on centering his ki, and took up a defensive stance. “I have done nothing to you. I do not even know you. What do you want?”

  “He is so little,” the Kusini Watu said. “Could the Fatesayer have been mistaken?”

  “Cállate, Sentwaki!” Osvaldo said. “Speak no names!”

  “You just spoke mine, you fool,” Sentwaki said, rolling his eyes.

  “I have no money!” Fox the Runt said. “I know no Fatesayer! You have made a mistake.”

  “You are the White Fox,” Sentwaki said, moving closer. He took two tentative swipes at Fox the Runt, more to test him than anything.

  “I am Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead,” Fox the Runt said, raising his chin defiantly. “Of Großemänner’s Line.”

  “ ‘Zwergfuchs’?” the unnamed Oestean woman said. She wore a beautiful silk cloak of pure white. She flipped it over her shoulder, clear of her sword arm. “What does that mean?”

  Fox the Runt rolled his eyes. He hated his name and was none too eager to share its true meaning. Sentwaki swung at him with his quarterstaff and Fox pivoted sideways to avoid it, but the strike came too fast. Pain exploded in his shoulder. The Kusini Watu grinned at him, white teeth flashing in his dark face.

  His strikes come quick, Fox the Runt thought, noting the black snake blazoned on Sentwaki’s long, loose-fitting coat. A fitting totem.

  “Take him,” Osvaldo growled. “Quickly, before someone calls for the Guard.”

  Fox the Runt doubted that. This was Calle de la Iglesia, after all, and he was no one of note. The murdered corpses of lowborns and híbridos sometimes lay in the gutters here for days, or even weeks in the winter, when the cold kept them from stinking. It was only when the stench became bad for the nearest businesses that anyone bothered to dispose of them. Besides, most of these folk were tourists come to view the violence and bloodshed of Torneo and paying a pretty penique for the privilege; here would be violence and bloodshed in the streets, free of charge. You need not be Shimabito to recognize the bargain. The gawkers might call the Guard, but not before seeing a show.

  The highborns seemed to sense this. They rushed Fox the Runt, Osvaldo striking first, stabbing.

  Rolling Wave Right. Fox the Runt stepped in close to the bearish boy and parried the strike with a wheeling forearm block to the inside of Osvaldo’s wrist, but he had no time to enjoy the cheers from the growing crowd. Sentwaki swung low, too fast to avoid. The backs of Fox the Runt’s legs exploded with pain, but he offered no resistance.

  Playful Dolphin. Stealing the momentum of the blow, he kicked his legs forward and up, throwing himself into a backward somersault. He landed in a perfectly balanced handstand that he held for a hundredth of a second before launching, feet first, into the silk-cloaked Oestean woman rushing him from behind.

  The crowd grew quickly now, and bellowed its approval as his feet collided with her face and the night echoed with the crunch of breaking bone. The woman crashed in a heap, her short sword clattering across the walk, her white cloak spattered crimson. Fox the Runt went for the sword, but the Kusini Watu blocked his path.

  “Death to evil!” Sentwaki cried, his staff swinging for Fox the Runt’s head, a black blur against a blacker night.

  Upturned Crab. Fox threw himself backward. Watching the length of wood pass harmlessly above his face, he landed on his back, spinning. Using the momentum of the spin, he swept Sentwaki’s legs out from under him and followed through to slam his foo
t into Osvaldo’s knee. There were shrill cries of pain as both men went down, their weapons flying from their grasps as they slammed, faces first, into the paved walk.

  Fox the Runt rolled to his feet just in time to snatch Osvaldo’s falling sword out of the air. It was straight bladed, with a very long, very sharp point, designed for the thrusts and stabs of the Combatedanza martial technique as opposed to the circular cuts and slashes of Ashi-Kobushi, the form he practiced. Still, it was a blade, and he could not help but grin as he felt the smooth, leather-wrapped grip in his palm.

  The crowd had grown to thirty or forty blood-lusting revelers. Led by a drunk trio of Nord highborns, they hollered and danced and punched at the sky, shouting, “Zwerg! Zwerg! Zwerg!”

  “Death to evil!” Bernadita screamed, and came at him like a wild thing.

  “Dita, wait!” Osvaldo called, he and Sentwaki watching in horror as she lunged into a sloppy thrust.

  Rolling Wave Left. He parried the drunken attack with ease and in the same motion slashed at her neck, drawing a perfect crimson line across her throat. She dropped her sword and clutched at the wound with both hands. Her eyes grew wide and filled with tears as she looked to her brother for help. The blood drained from her face and sluiced out between her fingers.

  “Ossy?” Her voice was raspy, and a blood bubble bloomed between her lips. She sounded confused, as if she could not understand what was happening. She dropped to her knees.

  “Dita …” Osvaldo began to weep. “Healer! Red Cloak! Somebody fetch a Red Cloak!”

  Bernadita toppled forward, her hands still grasping her torn throat.

  Fox the Runt was numb inside. He had always known he would kill someday, but he expected it to be in the arena or on the field of battle. Not in the gutters of Calle de la Iglesia.

  “That little dog,” someone in the crowd whispered. “He killed a highborn!”

  Osvaldo held his sister in his hands, sobbing, screaming for a Red Cloak or Guard. In seconds the crowd had joined him. They slowly advanced on Fox the Runt, growing bolder as they turned into a mob.