The Whetstone Fist 2

by Brian K Declan

  He could have stopped there but for some reason he didn’t feel like it. Something about using his abilities made him not feel the sting of losing all that money. He should have kept it. For once he had enough to not worry about tomorrow and he pissed it away. Because he got greedy and overconfident.

  Maybe it was fate, he wasn’t meant to get off the street.

  Was that so bad, he had his dad and with the things he could do there was no doubt they’d accept him into the guard. The pay wasn’t great but the city always had need of capable guardsmen. Pull in a few extra patrols and between him and his dad they could save up for a better place. Better food. In a few years maybe they would even have enough for him to get some formal training.

  Or he could accept Stanwick’s offer.

  No, that thought almost made him puke. That or he slid too many times. Come to think of it, he’d lost track of how many times he slid so far. Twenty, thirty, more. His dad was right after all; he just needed practice.

  With that thought he slid to a nearby rooftop, and immediately stopped to puke his brains out.

  “Fuck,” he said as he flopped on his back to catch his breath and let the sickness fade.

  As he stared up at the orange and purple sky, he felt at peace. Money or not, his life wasn’t over. Waystar was not everything; heck Ronnie was a prime example of that. He beat people with decades of experience more than himself. All without formal training. There was no way that came easy but if Ronnie could do it so could he.

  Yeah, he could do it. One loss was not the end of the world. He just had to get up and keep pushing forward.

  With his mind cleared and his spirits partially lifted. Lock pushed himself to his feet and took a deep breath. The twilight air was cool and refreshing but it was also a reminder that night was approaching. He did not want to be caught alone at night on this side of town. Good thing he only had a little farther to go to get back to his neighborhood.

  He considered sliding across the rooftops but one look at the pile of puke next to him made him reconsider. Better to jog the rest of the way. Besides he might be mistaken for a mugger if someone saw him up there.

  He peeked over the edge of the roof to make sure it was all clear, then he slipped down the side of building. Good thing it wasn’t a far drop. It did kind of stink to be back on the streets without a clear view of the sky but whatever. He had get back so he took off down the street at a steady jog.

  By the time he got home he felt back to normal, a little disappointed but happy to be home. He walked in the door, took one whiff, and his mood soured once again.

  “What the hell is that smell?” he blurted.

  “It’s stew,” answered his dad, “I figured you’d be hungry when you got back, come have a taste.”

  “No thanks, it smells like you made it from a stray dog,” said Lock.

  “Nonsense its stray cat,” answered Flint as he filled a couple of wooden bowls, “So tell me how it went.”

  Lock grudgingly took one of the bowls, more to be polite than anything, “Great, I might have offended Lucas Santi. I scored in the bottom tenth on the challenges and I’m pretty sure I broke one of them in the process.”

  “How many offers did you get?” asked Flint.

  “I don’t know I didn’t stick around to check,” answered Lock as he pushed the stew around in his bowl, “I did set some sort of record on the speed thing, but it seems like nobody cares about that anyway.”

  Flint downed a few scoops of stew before replying, “You know I was joking about the stray cat. It’s rabbit.”

  “Sorry dad,” said Lock as he prepared himself to take spoonful of stew, “I’m not really in the mood to eat.”

  “Nonsense, you can always eat,” said Flint as he filled his mouth again.

  Lock gulped down a spoonful of stew just to appease his dad and was surprised. It wasn’t burnt and despite the smell it was not terrible.

  “Good huh?” asked Flint.

  “Sure better than it smells,” said Lock.

  “So what’s the plan,” said Flint, “Wait for an offer or accept Stanwick’s?”

  “No way in hell I’m going to be one of Stanwick’s retainers and my score was horrible. I doubt anyone is going to make an offer,” said Lock as he went back to playing with his stew, “I’ll most likely need to spent a couple years scraping together the money myself.”

  “How much?” asked Flint.

  “It doesn’t matter, a lot,” answered Lock.

  Flint finished his bowl of stew, tossed the bowl on the table and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Money was not a common topic of conversation, mostly because there wasn’t any money to talk about. But partially because there was no reason to dream about things they weren’t going to have. That was just a recipe for disappointment.

  Still Lock knew his dad wasn’t going to ask a second time.

  “A full silver for the first half year’s tuition. Another silver for supplies, spellrod, personalized auraband, uniform, and books,” said Lock.

  “Auraband,” said Flint more into the air than to Lock, “Tuition includes lodging?”

  “No, but I can hitch an early ride with the migrants and save a little by staying here,” replied Lock.

  “Nonsense, classes start early so I hear. Plus, you’ll need the time to study,” said Flint, “How much more for a room?”

  “On school grounds, another silver at least,” answered Lock, “In the city I bet I’ll be able to find something for half that.”

  “Three talents for half a year,” said Flint as he stood up and started pacing in front of the fireplace.

  “Not including food, that’s about right,” said Lock.

  Flint stopped pacing, “About right? What else do you need?”

  “Glasses,” said Lock as he set his empty bowl on the table.

  “Huh,” said Flint as he cocked his head, “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “Nothing, just I saw someone at the tournament. He had similar abilities and wore glasses that stopped him from getting sick,” answered Lock in a rush to explain.

  “A crutch,” said Flint as he shook his head, “I taught you better than that.”

  “Its just a tool to help me train,” said Lock.

  Flint huffed out a breath then crossed the room and slammed his foot on one of the floorboards, “Well, come on then, give me a hand.”

  “A hand with what?” asked Lock as he twisted in his seat.

  “Just get over here,” said Flint as he pried loose the floorboard, “Pull up those two as well.”

  Without another word Lock did as his father asked and pulled up the other floorboards. As soon as he had the floorboards pried up, his dad flopped on his belly and started fishing around under the floor with his entire arm. It took him a good minute but eventually Flint found what he was looking for. Then he motioned for Lock to give him his hand for some leverage. Lock grabbed his father’s hand and hauled him up along with a long slender box.

  “How long has that been under there?” asked Lock.

  Flint didn’t answer, instead he brushed the dirt off the top of the box and stared down at it in silence for a several long seconds before he leaned down and kissed the box.

  “Long enough,” said Flint as he gently popped open the box with his thumbs and slid out a long thin sword that was bound in worn red cloth.

  “What is it?” asked Lock.

  “A gift from your mother,” answered Flint, “One fit for a king.”

  From his mother, no way. Lock had never seen a single thing that his mother left. Not an old piece of clothing or piece of jewelry so without thinking he caught his father’s hand, “Put it back.”

  Flint broke Lock’s hold and stood up, “Nonsense.”

  “Dad,” said Lock, “Please its not worth it. We’ll find another way to pay for my schooling.”

  “I’m the one who decides what’s worth what,” said Flint as he pointed the cloth wrapped rod at Lock’s chest.


  Lock frowned, “I know,” then he grabbed the rod and let his dad pull him up, “but please. Don’t sell one of the few things mother left us.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Flint as he started tying a strip of leather to the handle of the sword, “I’m not selling it.”

  “Huh,” said Lock, “What then?

  Flint finished tying the strip of leather and cracked his neck, “I’m going to place a bet.”

  “You’re going to do what?!” blurted Lock.

  It could have been his own recent failure with betting, but he couldn’t stop the feeling of dread that washed over him. His dad just looked at him with a slight smirk and it finally dawned on him what he really meant by placing a bet. He was going to fight.

  “When?” asked Lock.

  Flint slung the sword over his shoulder, “As soon as you change your shirt.”

  One quick glance at his shirt and he realized he was still wearing his too tight borrowed shirt and it did look a bit out of place. If he walked into Bruno’s he’d stand out worse than a purple haired goat. Then again with his dad they were going to stand out regardless.

  Lock pinched open the buttons on his shirt in one smooth motion then struggled his way out of the shirt in an almost embarrassing series of twists and tugs.

  “You need a hand there?” asked Flint.

  “No I got it,” as he finally worked his way out of the shirt and tossed it on the edge of top bunk. He’d wash and return it tomorrow.

  “Good, grab my sword when you’re done screw’n about,” said Flint.

  With a solid thump Lock kicked open their little footlocker and fished out a simple linen shirt and both his and his father’s sword.

  “Ho there hot stuff, you’re not going in there armed,” said Flint as he finished tying the strip of leather to the other end the sword on his back.

  “Why not?” asked Lock as he slipped into his shirt with a lot more ease than the previous one.

  Without giving a reply Flint snatched the sword away from Lock and tossed it back into the footlocker, “You go in there with a sword and you’d better be ready to use it.”

  “What says I’m not ready,” said Lock but it wasn’t a question.

  “I do,” answered Flint, “You beat me and you can carry that sword wherever you want. Until then you keep it where I say. Hear me?”

  “Hear you,” said Lock as he shut the footlocker.

  “You better, now let’s go,” said Flint, “They’re not expecting us but if we get there early, I’m sure Ben’ll work me into the line-up.”

  “You know Ben doesn’t manage the fights anymore,” said Lock, “Dean’s been doing it for years.”

  Without warning Flint poked Lock in the ribs, “And how do you know this?”

  “Stop that,” said Lock as he swatted at his father’s hand, “I’m not deaf, I hear things.”

  “What things?” asked Flint with a tinge of concern in his voice.

  “Nothing, just Ben’s getting old. It’s only natural that his son’s take over the fights,” answered Lock.

  “Ha,” said Flint as he spun on his heel and started for the door, “Well I’m never getting old, so keep dreaming.”

  Rather than continue trying to persuade his father to let him fight, Lock gave up and followed him out the door. For now.

  Going to Bruno’s wasn’t like walking down the street to the local grocer. First of all the fights didn’t take place in a single location. Occasionally, Bruno would clear out one of his properties and run the fight out of there but that was rare. Most of the time the fights took place in the tunnels beneath the city.

  The tunnels offered ample space, privacy and hundreds of escape routes in the event that Stanwick’s men attempted to raid the place. Not that Stanwick cared to shut down the fights in the first place. They were illegal but the majority of the fighters were guardsmen, retired soldiers or sellswords. So sure, he could shut down the fights and lock them up, but he would have a serious shortage of labor. There was also the fact that raiding the place would entail attacking a room full of the most dangerous swordsman in the city. His retainers could do it but there would be casualties, and little gained.

  The only real reason Stanwick had to shut the fights down was the unregulated betting that surrounded the fights. That wasn’t much reason but it was enough to make Bruno a bit paranoid. So the only people he trusted were his family. If you wanted into the fights you had to get past one of his son’s, Dean or James. Since Dean started managing the fights, James was the only gatekeeper.

  Then again, you could snake your way through the sewers and sneak in like Lock and Ronnie did as kids. But not tonight. With his dad by his side nobody was going to turn him away.

  As they walked up to the gated entrance to the tunnels Lock and his dad shared a cautious look. There should have been a handful of Bruno’s enforcers guarding the tunnel entrance but tonight there was nobody in sight. Without turning his head Lock scanned the nearby rooftops and searched any shadowed area he could find. Still he found nobody keeping watch over the gate.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Lock.

  “Don’t know,” said Flint as he tapped the gate with his boot, “Anyone around?”

  There was a slight shuffling sound deeper into the tunnels then three men slipped out of a tiny culvert about ten feet into the tunnels. Two of them were well armed, those were Bruno’s enforcers, and the third was of course Bruno’s younger son James.

  “Flint that you?” asked James.

  “Yeah,” answered Lock’s dad, “What’s with the hiding and where are the rest of your men?”

  “Oh nothing,” said James as he motioned for one of the enforcers to open the gate, “My dad just wanted a bit of extra muscle at the arena tonight.”

  While they waited for the enforcer to unlock the gate Flint stared Lock square in the face. Lock lowered his gaze then stared back in his dad’s eyes to let him know he understood.

  The moment the gate opened Flint disappeared, well not disappeared but he moved so fast that it looked like he disappeared. One second he was standing there, the next both enforcers were flat on their back and James was pinned against the side of the tunnel, “Be a good lad, and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Relax. Relax, its nothing. Just a bad batch of fighters,” said James as he raised his hands.

  “Who?” asked Flint as he shoved James against the tunnel.

  “Grimm,” said James, “Grimm and a handful of guys he’s training or something. They’ve been cleaning up the fights. Couple of the off duty guards got in a scuffle with them outside the cage so my dad brought in some extra muscle to keep things under control.”

  “Why’d they pick a fight? What happen?” asked Flint.

  “Come on man,” said James as he let his hands fall, “I wasn’t there, I just run the door.”

  “But you know what happen,” said Flint, “So talk.”

  “Shit man,” said James, “You know how it is in the cage, anything can happen. No rules.”

  Frustrated Flint yanked James off the wall and shoved him back against the side of the tunnel, “So what did happen?”

  “A guy died, okay. Grimm killed him. In the cage though not just for the sake of it,” said James.

  “Dammit,” said Flint, “You’re fools for letting Grimmlock back in here. I warned your dad about that fucker. The blood’s on his hands.”

  Again James put his hands up, “I know.”

  Flint shoved James farther into the tunnel, “Let your dad know I’m coming.”

  Lock hopped over the unconscious enforcers, and followed his dad farther into the tunnels.

  “Stay close to me,” said Flint, “If Grimm’s down here it’s not safe to be wondering around by yourself.”

  “Of course, Who’s Grimm?” answered Lock.

  “Chester Grimmlock, a sellsword, bad news. Ben should have never let him take a fight,” said Flint as he checked his sword and started into the tunnels.


  That was a straight answer and it was also total bullshit. The type of bullshit you can only see through when you’re family, “Who is he to you?” asked Lock.

  Flint stopped and glanced at Lock, “A rival of sorts.” Then he continued leading the way into the tunnels.

  That was the truth, not the whole truth but they were getting there.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Lock as he followed in his father’s wake.

  “Three things matter down here. Swordskill, speed and strength, in that order. Most of the fighters, the notable ones anyway, have some ability like us that enhances one of those. Grimm creates an image, or double. Whatever, it gives him an advantage in speed and he is quite skilled. It’s a tough combo to beat. He’s also a seasoned killer, likes the blood.”

  “But you beat him,” finished Lock.

  Flint let out an amused breath, “Something like that.”

  “Something?” pressed Lock.

  “Your mother did,” said Flint, “not me. Plus, I’m undefeated in these matches. He doesn’t like that.”

  Mentioning his mom twice in one day, when was the last time that happen? Oh, right never.

  “She fought him?” asked Lock in the off chance he’d pry a little more information out of his dad.

  “I wouldn’t call it a fight,” said Flint, “She was an illusionist. Shimmering Blessing of some word I can’t say. He burnt himself out fighting ghosts and literally passed out.”

  Three whole sentences about his mom, that would take a moment to settle into his brain. Good thing his mouth still worked, “And now you’re going to fight him.”

  “Looks like it,” said Flint.

  “Can you win?” asked Lock.

  Flint shrugged, “Twelve years ago, yeah. Now, who knows.”

  “Bruno?” asked Lock.

  “Ben should have never let him take a fight,” said Flint.

  “Like I said, Dean manages the fights now,” said Lock.

  “That would seem so,” said Flint as he raised the butt his sword to block Lock’s path, “You keep your mouth shut about all this when we go in there, hear me.”