Starflight (17 page)

Four-Eyes laughed. “Not anymore.”

“But I know her,” he said. “She would never consent to this.”

The din of the crowd had died down enough for a few men to overhear. One of them cocked a warning brow and said, “The girl wears his token. She put it on of her own free will, in front of witnesses.”

“A token?” Doran asked. “That’s what passes for a wedding with you people? She probably didn’t understand what she was doing.”

The man shrugged. “Ignorance of our law is no defense. They’re wed.”

“Okay, so they’re wed,” Doran said. “How do we undo it?”

His question drew the interest of another nearby group, who silenced their conversation to listen in. Four-Eyes studied Doran’s face warily before telling him, “There’s only one way to break a marriage bond.”

“How?” Doran demanded.

“One of us can challenge him for the bride.” Four-Eyes glanced at his comrades and let out a barking chortle. “But who’s fool enough to do that?”

While the men joined him in laughter, Doran peered across the crowd at Solara, who seemed to have shrunk an inch. Her skin was the color of almond milk, pale white against purple bruises. Soon her eyes met his and widened with the unmistakable relief of a lost soul who’d found her only friend in the world. She lifted her head in an obvious show of strength, but her gaze shimmered. And then her proud chin began to wobble.

Something behind Doran’s breastbone cracked in half.

He lost control of his vocal cords and heard himself say, “I’ll do it.”

For the span of two heartbeats, there was silence all around.

He repeated, louder, “I challenge him.”

The pirates must have craved a night’s entertainment more than a life of marital bliss for their chief because cheers erupted from nearby, along with shouts of, “A challenge! A challenge for the bride!”

Four-Eyes clapped Doran on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward a step. “You’ve got titanium twins between your legs, my friend. What’s your name?”

Doran had rehearsed this answer in the shuttle, but it took a few tries to untie his tongue. “Daro,” he said. “Daro the Red.”

Four-Eyes lifted Doran’s hand in the air and hollered at the stage, “Daro the Red issues a formal challenge of combat for the girl!”

“Wait. Combat?” All the blood left Doran’s face. He’d assumed the challenge would involve athletics—target shooting, or a race, perhaps. He’d never engaged in combat before, unless varsity football counted. “Can’t we do something else?”

But it was too late. Four-Eyes began pulling him through the crowd. Rough palms slapped his shoulders as he passed, while unseen men shouted, “Good on ya, boy!” and “Die well, you crazy bastard!”

Doran’s legs went numb somewhere along the way, and he felt like a wooden marionette by the time he climbed the stairs to the platform. His feet seemed to know what awaited him there, because they kept sticking to the planks, forcing him into a jerky dance across the stage until he stopped in front of a pair of boots large enough to house an elephant.

When Doran craned his neck up—and then up some more—to look Demarkus in the eyes, he was grateful he’d used the bathroom recently. Because a few of his internal parts simply let go, surrendering before the fight had even begun.

After Demarkus finished sizing him up, which didn’t take long, he beamed as if Doran had given him the best wedding present ever. “So this is my challenger?” he asked with a grin.

“Daro the Red, Chief,” said Four-Eyes. The man still had an arm wrapped around Doran’s shoulders. “The girl’s pilot.”

“And her lover,” Demarkus added.

“No.” The clarity of Doran’s voice surprised even himself. He glanced at Solara and said, “Her friend.” It felt strange calling himself that, but if combat with a seven-foot-tall pirate chief didn’t upgrade them to friends, nothing would.

Demarkus scratched his chin. “How old are you, boy?”

“Old enough. Eighteen.”

The pirate brought both hands together and studied Doran like a proud parent. “I command a thousand men. Seasoned fighters with three times your grit. And do you know how long it’s been since someone challenged me?”

Doran shook his head.

“Five years.”

That’s because your men are smart,
Doran thought.

“You’ve got more guts than sense,” Demarkus said. “I respect that. Traditionally, the challenged party chooses the weapons, but I defer that decision to you.”

Doran turned to Four-Eyes for a translation.

“He’s giving you the advantage,” Four-Eyes whispered. “What’s your weapon of choice? Pistols? Staffs? Clubs?” When that didn’t yield a response, he added, “Long blades? Spears? Pulse rifles?”

“None of that,” Doran whispered back.

“Good man.” Four-Eyes gave a respectful nod. “Bare fists, it is!” he announced to the crowd below, eliciting a chorus of cheers.

Demarkus rested one meaty palm on Doran’s shoulder, then gave it an encouraging shake that rattled his teeth. “Excellent choice. That’s how a real man fights.” He lowered his head and murmured, “I like your spirit, boy. I’m going to try not to kill you.”

If that was supposed to make Doran feel better, it didn’t work.

Demarkus strode off toward the boxing ring, leaving Doran to face Solara. She rushed forward and grabbed him by the upper arms. Her fingernails bit through his shirt, but the contact barely registered. Soon he would know
real
pain.

“Are you insane?” she screeched. “He’ll kill you!”

The wires in Doran’s brain must’ve crossed because that made him laugh. “Not on purpose.”

“Call it off. I’ll get out of here some other way.”

Doran sobered up then, focusing on her eyes—not the bruises staining her skin, but the rings of color where her honeyed irises morphed into green. “If you manage to escape,” he said, “and that’s a big
if
, it won’t be tonight—your wedding night. Do you think marriage is a joke to this guy? He’s going to…you know…” Doran’s gaze faltered for a moment. “Expect
things
from you.”

Solara’s eyes flashed. “I can defend my own virtue, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s not like that. He wants me in the engine room, not his bed. He only married me so I’d have to stay.”

“That’s not much better,” Doran said. “Look around. Do you feel safe?”

“I’ll figure out a—”

“Damn it, Solara. If I don’t do this, you could be stuck here forever. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then let me fight him.” He shook her off before she had a chance to fuss at him again. “I know I’ve got no shot against this guy. But I can’t just walk out of here and leave you.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he scrubbed it away with his shirtsleeve. “You’re the one who said I could be decent if I wanted to, so quit trying to talk me out of it. I’m about to piss myself as it is, and you’re not helping.”

Solara chewed on her bottom lip. Just when it seemed she was about to argue, she told him, “Men his size are slow. Guard your face and stay light on your feet. Hit the soft parts—belly, kidneys, throat—not the face, or you’ll break your knuckles. You won’t knock him out, but maybe you can wear him down and trip him. Then kick him in the head before he gets up. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty.”

Doran nodded, taking it all in. With that strategy, winning the fight almost sounded possible. Or at least that’s what he told himself when he turned and joined Demarkus inside the ring.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, a buzz of electricity sounded behind him—invisible ropes to lock him in. While Demarkus secured his long hair in a ponytail, Four-Eyes stood outside the ring and hollered to the crowd, “Witnesses, give heed!” The room quieted, and he went on. “This is a formal challenge of bare-fisted combat brought by Daro the Red against Demarkus Hahn for dissolution of marriage. There are no moves barred, and the last man standing wins.” He addressed his chief and bowed.

Demarkus flexed his long fingers and bent his head to the side, cracking his neck. He rolled both shoulders and nodded as if to signal his readiness. Doran figured he should probably loosen up, too, but it was all he could do to keep his wobbling knees locked. The smile had left his opponent’s face, and now Demarkus approached in sure steps, his fists raised and ready to strike.

Doran shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in an attempt to dodge the first blow, but a flash of skin blurred in front of him and connected with his left eye. Like whiplash, his head jerked back, sending him flailing for balance. The pain came next, a dull throb around his eye socket that he barely had time to register before another jab sent him tumbling to the floor. He landed hard on his ass, a jolt ricocheting up his tailbone.

The crowd roared with laughter.

What the hell was that? He thought big men were supposed to be slow.

“Get up,” Demarkus snapped. His brow was stern, his tone scolding. “They’re mocking you. Get on your feet!”

Doran pushed onto all fours and stood up, which lasted for half a second. One right hook to the jaw and he was back on the planks with spots dancing in his vision. This time Demarkus didn’t bother telling him to stand up. He reached down and lifted Doran by the shirt until the soles of his boots met the floor.

With his mouth pressed to Doran’s ear, the pirate whispered, “C’mon, boy. I can’t keep going easy on you, or I’ll lose the respect of my men.”

This
was taking it easy on him?

“Fight back,” Demarkus said. “You should be hitting me right now.”

Curling his hand into a fist, Doran grunted and delivered an uppercut to the belly. His knuckles met the tension of flexed abdominal muscles, and Demarkus pulled back and gave him a disappointed look that said,
Is that all you’ve got?

“Where’s your fire?” the man asked, shaking Doran’s shirt. Then his gaze focused on something in the background, and a calculating smile curved his lips. “I can see Lara. She looks worried for you.”

A spark of anger ignited in Doran’s belly. He pushed against the pirate’s chest.

“She’s a talented girl,” Demarkus said. “A rare find in these parts. I hope you won’t miss her too badly, because she’s going to love it here. Soon she’ll forget you ever existed.”

Without thinking, Doran head-butted Demarkus in the mouth, then shoved him backward and punched him directly above the groin. Rage took control, humming all over his skin and making him numb. He hit the man again and again, anywhere he could reach, until one giant fist to the chest knocked Doran down. Only then did he notice the blood trickling over Demarkus’s chin.

He’d done it. Doran had drawn first blood.

Demarkus smiled as if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, and then the fight was on—in earnest. Doran scrambled up from the floor and charged the giant, landing a shoulder in his midsection. Demarkus brought down a hammer of a fist onto Doran’s back, flattening him with ease. As soon as his belly met the floor, Doran rolled aside and avoided a kick to the gut. But he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the next punch, a thunder jab to his good eye.

After that, Doran spent the match ducking and running with minimal success. He peered at his aggressor through the cracks of his swollen eyelids and the stinging sweat that blurred his vision. He couldn’t see his periphery, and Demarkus must’ve known it because three left hooks came in a row. Doran pushed onto his feet only to tense for the next hit—to the mouth, the nose, the stomach. No part of him was safe. At one point, Doran took a blow to the head so hard he saw the future.

And he wasn’t in it.

He began to realize this strategy wouldn’t work. He couldn’t match his opponent in strength or speed, so attempting to wear him down and trip him was a waste of time. To win the fight, he’d have to find Demarkus’s greatest weakness and exploit it. Doran knew the man was arrogant, but how could he use that to his advantage?

To buy himself a few seconds to think, he executed some basic football drills, faking left and darting right while he decided what to do next. He kept hearing Solara’s advice inside his head.
Don’t be afraid to fight dirty
. His instincts told him that was the key, but how?

Another punch clipped Doran’s jaw with enough force to send him back to the planks, where he bounced twice and landed faceup. The adrenaline began to wear off, allowing a torrent of pain to swallow him whole. His face throbbed like an overinflated balloon. Hot blood flowed over his mouth, and when he darted a tongue over his lips, it slid between a cleft of missing flesh. A selfish part of him wished he could pass out so his suffering would end.

Then an idea came to mind.

He
could
pass out, or at least make it look that way.

With an extra-loud groan, he rolled onto all fours and swayed back and forth, even gagging for effect. He stood from the hard planks and immediately let himself tilt to the side until he stumbled back to the floor. Then after one more feeble attempt to rise, he went limp as a noodle and gave up the fight. Almost at once, he heard Demarkus’s throaty chortle, followed by the crowd’s roar of applause for the victor, their chief.

While the hall erupted in celebration, Doran kept both eyes closed and waited for the planks to stir beneath him. When he felt the thump of footsteps, he snuck a peek at Demarkus’s boots and noticed they faced the opposite direction.

Now was the time to come alive.

He belly-crawled a few inches toward Demarkus, who was too busy pumping his arms in the air to notice anything else. Doran glanced up at the juncture of his opponent’s widespread legs, pleased to find that Demarkus had left his weakest spot unprotected.

Arrogance,
Doran thought, grinning.

He pushed himself onto one elbow while tensing his opposite fist. A few of the men watching from outside the ring had begun to catch on. They pointed wild fingers at him and shouted at their chief in warning. Doran knew he couldn’t wait another second. Drawing on all his strength, he thrust his arm straight up and punched his enemy in a vulnerable place that made all men weaklings. His knuckles connected with a satisfying pop, and at once, Demarkus bent at the waist as if an invisible hand had chopped him in half. In slow motion, his massive frame tipped over and landed on the electric ropes. There was a long crackle of energy, followed by the stench of burnt hair, and Demarkus went rigid as he fought to untangle himself. The pain had clearly made him clumsy because it took three tries before he managed to stagger free.