Ravenheart (18 page)

T
HE
V
ARLISH SEATING
tiers around the fighting circle were full, and hundreds more townsfolk crowded around the base as the two fighters made their way to the boards. On the other side of the circle clan men and women were packed so closely together that there was little room for movement.

The sun had gone down, and tall lanterns had been set around the circle, casting flickering shadows over the two large men who were about to fight. Gorain, bare-chested and wearing tight-fitting gray leggings and knee-length riding boots, waved to the Varlish crowd, cocking his fist and laughing. He was unmarked, only the last of his bouts having stretched beyond a few periods. He was perhaps an inch shorter than his opponent, but his breadth of shoulder was enormous, and the lantern light glinted on his finely sculpted muscles. On the other side of the circle Jaim Grymauch seemed ponderous and massively ugly. He, too, sported huge shoulders and arms, but there was nothing of the beauty of Gorain. Stripped to the waist, he looked more like a bear than a man, clumsy and slow.

Sitting on the highest tier, Gaise Macon could feel the fear emanating from the clan crowd. It was as if they were witnessing an execution rather than a contest. Gorain began to move through a series of stretches, cartwheeling his arms and swaying from side to side. The one-eyed clansman watched him. The keeper of the sands took his place beside the circle, and the two white-cloaked adjudicators held a short conference before one climbed into the circle. The crowd fell silent.

The adjudicator, facing the Varlish tiers, bowed. “This contest,” he called out, “will be of unlimited duration, ending only when one of the contestants can no longer climb to his feet before the sands run out. Each period will end when either contestant drops his knee to the board and will resume when the sand keeper orders the horn to be blown. No blow shall be struck after a contestant has indicated the end of a period. Under the rules of valorous combat any contestant who grapples, gouges, bites, or kicks will have the prize forfeited.”

Gaise listened as the adjudicator named the contestants. The roar for Gorain shook the tiers, and the fighter responded by raising both arms and bowing. The clans cheered for the one-eyed fighter, but the sound was muted.

Gorain walked to the side of the circle and called out to one of the attendants. The man brought him a strip of black cloth, which he tied around his head, obscuring the sight in his left eye.

“A noble act,” said Gaise to Mulgrave.

“Indeed, sir, unless it is meant as mockery.”

The bright moon emerged from behind a cloud, and a chilly wind blew across the circle, making one of the lanterns gutter. An attendant relit it with a taper.

Gaise looked around and saw Chain Shada sitting some twenty feet to his right. He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his fist. He, too, wore the fighting leggings. A blanket was draped over his bare shoulders.

The adjudicator climbed down from the circle, and the keeper of the sands raised his arm. A single horn blast sounded.

Gorain moved swiftly across the circle. Grymauch advanced to meet him. Gorain feinted with a left, then sent a right hand whipping toward Grymauch’s blind side. The clansman stepped inside the blow, hammering a right uppercut to Gorain’s belly that almost lifted the Varlish from his feet. Air whooshed from Gorain’s lungs. Grymauch followed it with a left cross that cracked against Gorain’s cheek. The
Varlish managed to roll with the blow. Regaining balance, he blocked a right and sent a straight left slamming into Grymauch’s mouth, snapping back his head. The clansman was forced back. Gorain bore in, punches thudding into Grymauch’s belly. Grymauch suddenly sidestepped to the right while snapping out a left hand that took Gorain high on the right cheek. The Varlish, off balance, stumbled and almost fell. Grymauch followed in. Gorain ducked his head and counterattacked: three punches to the belly and a left uppercut to the face. Grymauch stumbled. Gorain threw a big left, but the covering of his left eye made him misjudge the depth, and the blow sailed harmlessly past Grymauch’s jaw. The clansman attacked again. Gorain hit him four times without reply, big meaty blows that rocked the highlander. The Varlish were cheering themselves hoarse. Gorain hammered a punch to Grymauch’s bearded chin that half spun him. Gorain rushed in, hitting him twice more but missing with a flurry of punches as Grymauch swayed and rolled. An overhand right cannoned into the blind left side of Grymauch’s face. Blood splayed from a gash to his cheek. A huge roar greeted the blow, and for a moment Gaise thought the clansman was about to fall. Instead he leapt forward, slamming a bone-jarring left into Gorain’s face. As Gorain fell back, Grymauch dropped to one knee, ending the period. The Varlish crowd booed and shouted.

“Canny,” said Mulgrave. “He needs time to clear his head from that big right.”

“They seem evenly matched,” put in Gaise.

“In raw talent, perhaps,” said Mulgrave. “But Gorain has more learned skill. He is also younger.”

“You think he will win?”

“He should, sir. He has the skill and the strength. The question is, Does he have the heart?”

That was a question occupying the mind of Chain Shada as he watched the first period. Gorain had been foolish to don
the eye patch. The clansman was well used to being single-sighted, whereas many of Gorain’s punches were missing their mark and others were landing off target. Gorain had taken the man too lightly. That first uppercut had winded him badly, sapping his strength. Gorain had also made another mistake that could prove costly. Unused to being at the center of attention, he had gloried in it and not taken rests between bouts. Instead he had moved among the crowd, bathing in the adulation. He had also, as Chain had witnessed, been drinking.

Under normal circumstances, having already severed his connections with Gorain, Chain would have been unconcerned by his stupidity. Not so now. They were linked in a political game that left a filthy taste in Chain’s mouth. Both fighters were tired, and if the fight were to end now, Chain knew he could beat them both—probably at the same time. Which was exactly the point that caused the foul taste. Chain Shada was a fighting champion. He fought the best—at their best. Here—if events turned bad—he would merely be an executioner.

The second period followed the pattern of the first, with Gorain landing more blows but the highlander absorbing them and putting in two or three powerful strength-sapping counters. Gorain came back strongly at the end with combination rights and lefts that rocked the clansman, pitching him to the boards on his back. Gorain walked to the edge of the circle and raised his arms once more to the Varlish, who yelled and bayed in their joy.

Chain Shada watched the clansman. The man rolled to his knees and sat back quietly, gathering his strength. There was blood on his face streaming from a cut to his cheek and another to his mouth. He did not rise but sat watching the keeper of the sands. As the keeper raised his hand, so, too, did the highlander rise.

The crowd expected the fight to be finished now. Chain Shada did not.

Gorain rushed in, believing his opponent to be weakened
and groggy. He was met by a hard left and a right cross that pitched him from his feet, slamming him headfirst into the boards. There was silence from the Varlish crowd, but it was more than made up for by the thunderous sound erupting from the clan area. Chain noted that the fighter did not acknowledge the crowd. He was standing quietly, taking deep, even breaths, allowing his body to recuperate. Not so Gorain, who angrily pushed himself to his feet. There was blood on his mouth, and he stalked to the side of the circle, calling for water. An attendant handed him a cup. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, then spit it out.

Chain knew what Gorain was feeling. Twelve years earlier Chain had met a man who just would not submit. He absorbed every blow and kept coming back. Such a man became a living question that wormed its way into the soul of a fighter, shrinking his courage, eating away at his self-belief. The fight had been a watershed experience for the young Chain Shada. It had lasted for forty-four periods before, weary almost to the point of surrender, he had unleashed one last murderous combination. His opponent had gone down hard and had not been able to rise. Only Chain ever knew how close he had come to quitting.

Now Gorain was facing the same maggot in the soul.

Chain watched his former protégé intently. Gorain reached up and pulled clear the eye patch, hurling it out of the circle. The horn sounded, and he once more moved in. For the next three periods he pounded the clansman, blows raining in from every side, seeking to overpower his opponent with sheer strength. But Gorain was tired now, and many of the punches lacked penetration. He, too, was taking punishment. Grymauch had begun to work the body, slamming big punches to Gorain’s midsection. All three periods ended with the highlander dropping to one knee. On the last Gorain threw a low blow after the clansman touched the boards. The surprise punch slammed into Grymauch’s good eye, hurling him to his back.

Chain could not believe it. In full view of the adjudicators
Gorain had broken the rules of valorous combat: no punch to be thrown after a period was ended. Even the Varlish crowd was silent, awaiting the disqualification. It did not come. Shame gripped Chain Shada then, deep and lingering. Everywhere there was silence. Grymauch rolled to his knees, shaking his head to clear it. Even by the lantern light Chain could see that the man’s eye was swelling badly. Pretty soon he would be totally blind. Chain rose from his seat and walked down to where the adjudicators were standing.

He spun toward the first. “You are a disgrace,” he said. The keeper of the sands was about to raise his arm. Chain grabbed it. “Not yet,” he said, lifting the sand glass and turning it once more. “You will at least give him another minute after such a cowardly attack.”

One of the adjudicators spoke: “The blow was struck before the clansman touched the boards.”

“Be silent!” hissed Chain Shada. “There is not a man or woman here who did not see the truth. You make me disgusted to be Varlish.”

Inside the circle Jaim Grymauch had rolled to his knees. His eye was almost closed, his body a sea of pain. It surprised him that he had not heard the horn, but truth to tell, he was glad he had not. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and looked out past the crowd at the distant, moonlit mountains of Caer Druagh. All his life he had been cursed by the yoke of the Varlish. Now, here in his own mountains, he had a chance to defeat his enemy and stand triumphant before the spirits of his ancestors.

Rigante ancestors.

“I am Rigante,” he whispered. He looked across at Gorain. “Come feel my hammer, little man,” he said.

The horn sounded. Gorain advanced. Jaim Grymauch, his eye closing, leapt to meet him. Gorain’s first blow smashed into Grymauch’s face. Blood sprayed from a new cut under his right eye. A cold fury began in Grymauch then, feeding his exhausted muscles. He slammed a hard left into Gorain’s
jaw, following it with a right uppercut to the belly and a left cross that half spun the Varlish. Hardly able to see, he followed in with lefts and rights. The Varlish tried to cover up, dropping his head and shielding his face with his fists. Jaim stepped back and sent another right uppercut between the fists. It pulped Gorain’s nose, snapping him upright—and into a murderous left hook that hurled him across the boards and out into the clan crowd. Attendants ducked under the rope sections separating Varlish from clan. They tried to lift Gorain, but the man was unconscious.

Chain Shada leaned across the keeper of the sands. The man had not turned the glass. Chain Shada did it for him. A terrible silence had fallen upon the Varlish crowd, while clansmen were dancing and shouting.

Grymauch stood in the center of the circle, trying to see through the narrow slit in his swollen eye. Time was draining away, and still Gorain had not moved.

A chant began in the Varlish crowd: “Chain Shada! Chain Shada!” Louder and louder it grew. The clans fell silent. A horn blew. The fight was over. Grymauch had won.

But entering the circle from the far side came a tall figure wearing dark gray leggings. A towel was tucked into his belt.

Grymauch stared sullenly at him. “Come for your lesson now?” he asked.

“Perhaps later,” answered the man, moving closer. Grymauch’s fists came up, but Chain Shada ignored them. Pulling his towel from his belt, he said: “Let me look at that eye.”

Carefully Chain Shada wiped away the blood. “You need a cold compress on it, but you should be fine.”

The crowd began to boo and shout. Items began to rain down on the circle. Cushions and debris, food scraps, and even a pewter tankard bounced over the wood.

An angry murmur went up from the clan ranks, and a waiting squad of Beetlebacks armed with muskets moved into position, their guns trained on the clans.

“Coward! Fight him!” screamed someone in the crowd.

“Can you walk?” Chain asked Jaim Grymauch.

“Aye, but not far.”

A young dark-haired youth and a redheaded woman had climbed into the circle. “Let me take you from here, Grymauch,” she said.

“Ah, you’re not going to scold me, are you, Maev?”

“Not tonight. Come on, let’s be going home.” She looked at Chain Shada. “I thank you for your kindness, sir,” she said.

Chain smiled. It seemed to him the words had been as difficult as crawling naked over broken glass. “It was a great pleasure, lady. I will see that his prize is delivered.” A cushion struck Chain Shada in the back. “But it is probably best you leave now. Matters here seem to be getting out of hand.”

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the shouting began to fade away. People in the Varlish crowd began to look toward the woods to the north. The silence when it fell was almost eerie.

“What is happening?” asked the black-haired youth.

Chain Shada walked across the debris-strewn circle. He spoke to an attendant, then walked back to where the woman was supporting the clan fighter.

“A young Varlish woman has been found dead in the woods,” he said.