Starlight Enclave

by R. A. Salvatore

  “How do they know who is winning?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “You’ll see,” Azzudonna promised. “Oh, Qvisi!” she added when her friend seemed to have an opening as the acrobat staggered, but Qvisi, too, slipped, and her right cross that might have ended the fight just clipped the other on the cheek and ear.

  Qvisi recovered quickly, though, falling back in a turning slide before coming ahead with a sweeping left hook that looked like it would rip the acrobat’s head from her shoulders.

  But she ducked, just dropped from sight, under the blow as if she had expected it.

  To her credit, Qvisi caught herself short with the swing, and squared up almost immediately.

  But up came the acrobat, like a fish leaping out of a pond, her arms down against her sides, her chin tucked, her head leading.

  She caught Qvisi under the chin, snapping the warrior’s head back, throwing her over backward, blood flying, and maybe a bit of tongue or a tooth as well, the acrobat falling down upon her.

  As quickly as she had attacked, up sprang the acrobat, hands raised, leaping and dancing about.

  “How does the wine taste with teeth in it?” Entreri asked their hosts.

  “Eh, we will strain that out,” Vessi answered.

  The four companions stood and stared in shock, but the crowd was roaring in delight.

  Azzudonna sighed heavily.

  “Qvisi won’t be invited as the next replacement to Biancorso that way,” Vessi chided his purple-eyed friend. “She is strong and fast, wonderfully balanced, but not so smart, I fear.”

  He turned to his guests. “What do you think?”

  “Violent,” Catti-brie said before the others could form their replies.

  “We live in a violent land. We are prepared, or we die.”

  “That’s not the impression we got from our walk across Scellobel,” said Catti-brie. “We see beauty and hear song and music. And dance. Everyone is dancing and smiling. Is it all a lie, then?”

  She heard Jarlaxle suck in his breath, an unsubtle reminder that they were fairly helpless here at this time.

  “Perhaps we view beauty all the more vividly because we know that our life here is ever on the edge of doom,” Azzudonna said. “You believe you have felt the cold bite of the wind, but you truly have not. For the day is ending and the night is colder by far.”

  “Breaking someone’s face open teaches one to fight off the winter’s cold?” Entreri asked.

  “Did the sight trouble you?” Azzudonna countered, and Entreri couldn’t help but laugh. If only she knew . . .

  Catti-brie, too, snickered a bit at that. Artemis Entreri’s reputation had not preceded him, which was almost certainly a good thing!

  “This is a land of dragons,” Vessi said. “And great bears and yeti. And warrior giants of murderous intent.”

  Catti-brie wasn’t the only one to perk up a bit at the remark about giants.

  “And darker beasts still,” Azzudonna added. “We fight to be prepared. We dance and sing and create beauty and make love to be alive.”

  She looked to Zaknafein. “What did you think of the fight?”

  The weapon master shrugged, obviously trying hard not to appear impressed.

  “The next barrel will be red,” the woman continued. “Are you ready to feel alive?”

  Another shrug from Zak, and he looked to his friends.

  “I can’t heal you at this time,” Catti-brie reminded him.

  “Their faith in you is truly heartwarming,” Azzudonna teased.

  Zak flashed her a wicked smile, one Catti-brie had seen her husband wear many times, usually right before he leaped into a wild battle.

  “Red wine, then,” Zak agreed.

  The weapon master felt a bit foolish as Azzudonna wrapped white ribbons about his upper legs. He was wearing only a shift, after all, a short dress.

  “If there is no clear victory, the amount of stain on you—grape, not blood—will be measured,” she was explaining, though Zak was hardly listening—something a bit too obvious, he realized only when she stood and slapped him hard on the butt.

  He turned a glare at her.

  “Your challenger is Ahdin Duine,” Azzudonna said into that stare. “Do not take her lightly. If Biancorso loses a center guard in the first fight of Cazzcalci, Ahdin Duine is likely to be named as replacement.”

  “I don’t even know what any of that means.”

  “Center guards are the true brawlers of cazzcalci. The strongest. They open the way or defend the way for the dashers,” Azzudonna explained. “Vessi is a dasher.”

  “And you?”

  “I am a warrior, as are you, so they said. I support both guard and dasher. Strong and fast, I patrol all the way from my base to the Biancorso line in the enemy territory, two-thirds of the total battlefield.”

  “And the dashers go all the way into the enemy territory?”

  “Dashers can go anywhere on the battlefield. Warriors are limited to two-thirds, guards to the middle third of the battlefield alone”

  Zak nodded, beginning to catch on. There weren’t many sports in Menzoberranzan, since there were few rules for fighting there, but the drow did have a couple of games, notably sava, where pieces on a board were given the ranks of Menzoberranzan’s castes—slave to priestess—each with specific movements and powers. On the streets of Luskan, he had seen contests where teams kicked cloth balls about, trying to score in opposition goals. In Gauntlgrym, the dwarfs played “capture the keg,” where, as far as Zak had ever figured it out, the point was to drink enough of your opponent’s beer to forget the pain of the bruises you got getting to it.

  “If Ahdin Duine gets in close to you, she will overpower you,” Azzudonna warned him. “She is as strong as any orok, quicker than most. But she has a weakness.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Of course I will not.”

  Zak laughed.

  The gong sounded and Azzudonna leaned forward and kissed him on the cheeks, left and right. “Now we will see.”

  She ran out of the small room. Zak took a deep breath and slowly followed, digesting the little information he had been given. He figured that the dashers were more like the acrobat he had seen in the earlier match, nimble and fast, whereas the warriors, if he was judging Azzudonna correctly, were a combination—Zak figured that he would likely be a warrior under that cazzcalci definition. What that meant, though, was still uncertain.

  What was certain was that his opponent was probably stronger than he, but possibly not as quick.

  He nodded and strode out to the platform, then up to the side of the barrel, filled now with dark grapes. He didn’t have his hands raised, as did his opponent, a tall and broad-shouldered drow woman with dark gray skin and hair to match. Her face was set into a scowl, her eyes simmering red.

  She looked at Zak, snorted derisively, then, to his surprise, walked away from the barrel. She turned, laughed, and ran full speed and hopped sidelong into the barrel wall, using the impact at midthigh to launch herself into a flying somersault, landing on her feet and skidding across on the grapes—all the way across, where she grabbed the edge right before Zak and roared in his face.

  The crowd loved it, and cheered her all the way back as she sauntered to her side.

  Zak tried hard not to laugh. He walked slowly up to the barrel, then went over carefully, deliberately, one leg moving in as he turned, then the other.

  Hisses and laughter followed him.

  He didn’t care. He wasn’t giving anything away. He noted something curious and unexpected as he touched down with his bare feet, though. The grapes were frozen.

  “You cannot bite,” the dwarf barker recited. “You cannot claw. You cannot kick the head if the other has fallen.”

  To the crowd, he lifted his hands and bade them, “Tell me!”

  “Zio!”

  Zak charged to meet Ahdin Duine’s furious rush. He figured he’d get the worst of “zio,” so he focused on minimizing the damage, gettin
g his shoulder properly aligned at the last moment to fit across the widest area possible as the two collided.

  Still, his breath was blasted away, and he felt Ahdin Duine’s powerful hands grab him tightly, the woman already driving forward like an angry rothé.

  Zak tried to dig in and fight back, but he was skidding.

  To the side, the dwarf barker’s fingers went up for his opponent, one, two, three, four . . .

  Zak caught a foothold and braced, breaking her momentum finally.

  Before he could celebrate, even as he started reversing the flow, she pulled back suddenly, slammed her forehead into his face, then slipped down just enough to grab him lower, hoisting him.

  Five fingers raised for Ahdin Duine as Zak made his second mistake, trying to disengage as he had seen earlier, as he thought customary following zio.

  Not so, he realized as he went up into the air, then flying over backward with Ahdin Duine atop him. The grapes padded his fall only minimally, as they were indeed frozen, and it was clear that his opponent was going for a quick kill as she slid to straddle him and began raining blows at his head.

  “Oof,” Catti-brie said, sighing heavily and dropping her face into her hands.

  Vessi laughed. “You still think us simple dancers?”

  They couldn’t see Zak, as he was below the rim, but they did see his hands coming up, trying to cut short the punches.

  Jarlaxle paid particular attention, noting that Zak’s defenses were improving against every punch.

  “You think this fight ended?” he said.

  “He lost zio five to none and he is already fully stained red, no doubt,” Vessi replied as Azzudonna came over, her eyes fixed on the fight.

  “Perhaps a wager, then,” said Jarlaxle.

  “All she has to do is stay awake and her victory is assured,” Azzudonna put in.

  “So wager,” the mercenary repeated, but he winced as he did, seeing one of Ahdin Duine’s heavy punches avoid Zak’s block, resulting in a solid smacking sound. “Gold?”

  Vessi and Azzudonna looked at him as if they didn’t understand.

  “Money?” he clarified.

  “Money?” Azzudonna echoed.

  “We have no need of such things, if I understand you,” said Vessi.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jarlaxle saw a clever block and a second, and Zak got his hands looped about the woman’s extended arms.

  “Then what?” he asked quickly, thinking they might change their minds soon enough. He thought, perhaps, that he shouldn’t be so confident here, but this was Zaknafein Do’Urden, after all, and when had Zak ever let Jarlaxle down?

  He tasted his own blood, his left eye was fast swelling—and he knew that he had caught her punching right arm only because of the feel. He fought hard to hold on, and moved furiously to entangle her left arm. Ahdin Duine was beyond thinking here and was just pummeling.

  And it was very near to working!

  He wasn’t done yet, though. Zak caught her left and didn’t hesitate, pulling her forward with all his strength, sliding himself beneath her more than actually moving her. But no matter, for he got enough of his length out behind her. He bent at the waist, legs whipping up high, knocking her forward a bit, but to little real effect.

  Little was better than nothing. He bent his legs and slammed them down, timing it perfectly to thrust his hips and arch his back, while reversing his pull and tugging Ahdin Duine straight down instead.

  She lost her balance. Zak got out farther behind her, turning onto his belly, then up to all fours, still with his shoulders and head beneath her. As Ahdin Duine tried to stand, he came up under her and shoved off with all his strength, sending her head over heels into the grapes. He too went down, but no matter, for he rolled away, putting distance between them, then came back up at the ready.

  Ahdin Duine was smiling, laughing at him, even, and stalking in. Trying to cut the ring, he knew, thinking to keep him in close. But he thought of her attitude when she had been atop him. It had been a painful lesson, but Zak had learned it and survived. And now he knew her weakness.

  “There are bets all about,” Jarlaxle said. “What are they betting with, if not money?”

  “Servitude,” Azzudonna said. “There are chores to be done. Or a proper back rub.”

  “Or a foot rub,” Vessi added. “Or even a kiss.”

  That might be fun, Jarlaxle thought, but he had another idea. “If Zak wins, then you two will show us all around Callidae, to all the boroughs.”

  Azzudonna and Vessi glanced at each other.

  The crowd roared and the three turned just in time to see Ahdin Duine’s flip, then the two coming up across the barrel from each other.

  “After cazzcalci,” Vessi agreed. “We of Biancorso are not permitted to go to the other boroughs until the wars are decided.”

  “And if Ahdin Duine wins?” Azzudonna asked.

  “Then you will dance,” Vessi told Jarlaxle. “In front of all Scellobel, you will wantonly dance.”

  “He’d do that anyway,” Entreri remarked from the side.

  “And you will dance with him,” Vessi replied.

  “Doubtful,” Entreri started to say, but Jarlaxle cut him short with “Agreed!”

  And they turned back to the fight, except Entreri, who paused a moment to glare at the troublesome rogue.

  He had his own weakness now, too, Zak understood, for he could barely see out of his left eye, and even that minimal vision seemed to be diminishing by the heartbeat. He turned his right shoulder forward toward the approach of the grinning Ahdin Duine and got his hands up defensively before him.

  He had to fight her from a distance. Her advantage was that she was stronger than he.

  She waded in confidently, hands rolling over in a furious barrage as she tried to force him back. He went low instead, turning left at the waist, then back to the right as he came up, his left arm rising fast and powerfully to connect with Ahdin Duine’s left, driving it and her off to the side just a bit.

  Then up he rose, turning with a fierce uppercut from his right hand, his body weight fully behind it. It came from his ankles, from his hips, from his fast-turning shoulders, all of his power, as his right fist connected just under the left side of Ahdin Duine’s rib cage.

  He heard the blast of her breath as he immediately rewound, then drove up again in the same spot, this time lifting her right from the floor.

  She was staggering when Zak came around on her left, ducking low, but then springing upright and into the air. Now he pressed his middle knuckle out from his fist, a sharper point, and as he came down, the woman covered her ribs, so he drove that hand into her shoulder. He jumped back as he landed, measuring the damage as Ahdin Duine straightened and turned.

  She was still smiling, but betrayed herself with an occasional wince, and even more so by the fact that she was holding her left arm a bit lower now. Zak inwardly smiled, thanking his old Melee-Magthere instructor, who had taught him that a properly angled knuckle could be as numbing as a sword pommel.

  To those watching, the next exchange seemed no more than a wild blur of slapping, punching, and grabbing hands, but in the ring, both combatants methodically moved for their next play. Ahdin Duine was trying to finish him with a heavy punch, or to simply grab hold of him and get him in close, while Zak’s movements and strikes were simply meant to prevent either of those events.

  He was biding his time, hoping he could keep up, and very well aware that one mistake would cost him the fight.

  Her right hook flashed above him as he ducked. She grabbed his right arm with her left, but Zak turned and tucked that arm in tight, breaking the hold and completing the circle quickly enough to stick a right cross into her stung shoulder yet again.

  Enraged, Ahdin Duine came at him, her weakness, her overconfidence bringing her left foot too far forward, signaling her move.

  Across came a vicious and sweeping right hook, but Zak was dropping into a deep squat even as it began, and even
adjusting the angle of the swing, Ahdin Duine couldn’t do more than graze the top of Zak’s head with a glancing blow. No such problem for Zak, though, as he shot up straight with a snapping left jab, palm out instead of fist, connecting right under Ahdin Duine’s nose.

  She staggered back, stunned for just a moment, just long enough for Zak to step right and jab her shoulder once more. Then, as she was too late in executing a block, he stepped right again and jabbed, and a third time.

  All to the same spot, the front of the shoulder ball joint.

  Her arm sank more and she knew her vulnerability and swung about to get her left shoulder out of reach, but Zak wasn’t going for it, instead reversing his slide, going back to the left. He launched a heavy left uppercut, the mirror image of the first body punch he had landed, taking her breath and sending her back.

  He meant to follow with a running leap, but a sudden and overwhelming bolt of pain exploded within him at his own left shoulder, radiating down into his chest and arm. He saw Ahdin Duine recover and turn for him and tried vainly to get his left arm up in defense.

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop her, but he didn’t have to.

  For Ahdin Duine halted her rush even before it really began and lifted her hands up before her, fully defensively.

  “Phage!” she screamed, stumbling backward. “Phage!”

  Zak’s one working eye began to flicker. The pain did not relent. He heard her scream but knew not what it might mean. He glanced at his agonized shoulder and saw red lines pulsating out from under his smock, garish and angry.

  He was on one knee and sinking, but didn’t know how or why.

  Cheers turned to silence turned to horror, voices screaming “Phage!” all about the three companions.

  Vessi spun on them. “Deceivers!” he yelled at Jarlaxle, and he backpedaled along with everyone else about them.