by Keith Ahrens
He stares at me for a moment longer. “It takes some pups longer than others to learn their place. I accept your apology,” he responds with just a bit of condescension.
I rankle a bit at his tone. I’m not used to being the useless new guy. For years now, I’ve been the guy in charge of the large crews at emergency scenes, barking the orders and knowing exactly what to do. It’s been a long time since I've had to suffer as the rookie, and now I'm getting treated just as one might. Yes, I know I’m the noob here, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Also, I begin to wonder what would've happened if he didn’t accept my apology.
He continues with reluctance, “The other Folk—races of Gnolls, Goblin, Troll, Ogre, Redcap, and others. I will not name them all… most are beneath our notice or worry. And some should never be spoken of openly. The Highborn have always been few in number but great in magic, and each passing war lessened their numbers even more. They began to subjugate the other races… using them as foot soldiers, easily dispensable. Some races joined them willingly for the chance of plunder or killing. But soon, even those ranks grew thin, and they had to turn to Above the Hills for fodder. This is how you, and those like you, ended up here. You are fighters in your world as we are here. Our natural Packs have been broken up, and we are forced to make new ones as time goes on. Most of you Humans are fragile. We see many of you pass through here each year just in our preparations for war.”
I wait a few moments to make sure I don’t accidentally piss off the large dog-man again, before I ask, “But what are these wars over? Like is it over land, money, or maybe some ancient rivalry?”
Thirax now gets a look of concentration before he chooses to speak. “Control… these wars are fought for control of the very air we breathe and the sun shining upon us. The magics that surround us create and maintain the world we live in. Hence, each year, the victor controls the magics, and by extension, the rain and the drought, the moon and the tides—all that which allows us to live. That is what they fight for… and now what we are forced to fight for them.” He snorts in disgust and looks down at the dirt beneath him.
“One minor problem with this story… I’m not much of a warrior. I was never in the Army,” I contest with a nod to Haynes. “I’m not a cop, and I don’t fight for a living. So, why was I chosen to be here?”
“Lies!” growls Thirax loudly. “You came here stinking of others’ blood and fear, yet you play as if you are a poor sword fighter! You weaken our Pack! We know you fight, though you pretend otherwise!” He leans forward, balancing his weight on his legs and one hand; his other is splayed open, showing his claws, as he bares his teeth.
Oh, shit. I still have my shield on my left arm, but my sword is on the ground, just out of reach where I tossed it. I’ve seen how fast this thing is, and I don’t have high hopes of grabbing my sword before he gets to me.
I also recognize this for what it is. If I back down now, it’s all over. I'll be at the bottom of the pack and likely to stay there forever... if I survive this. Some things I just can’t abide, and one of them is a bully. And I guess a bully is the same all over, no matter what species it is. My stubborn streak is gonna get me killed someday. Maybe it’ll be today.
I match his stare and lean forward a little to change my center of balance. “Well, little dog, you gonna bark all day, or you gonna show me some teeth?”
His eyes widen in surprise and anger, and then they narrow just as quick. His muscles bunch in his legs, the ground tearing beneath his claws. He moves much faster than me, so I begin to shift before he does.
Angry men and angry dogs always seem to attack in the same way—face-first and fully committed. A man will lean forward while punching to give his swing as much momentum as possible, and a dog always goes for the throat. Either way, I have a good guess where his face will be in the next fraction of a moment. So, I swing my left hand straight up in front of me, pushing with my right hand under the shield as hard and as fast as I can.
I want to say that the result is more skill than luck, but either way, same result. The steel edge of the shield comes up directly under his elongated lower jaw, and his teeth slam shut with an audible clack. I drive forward with all the strength in my legs, fighting his momentum until we are both standing upright, my buckler pressing against his throat. A strangled growl escapes him, and he reaches up to grab the rim of my shield.
Angry fighters do stupid things, and his short temper makes this almost too easy. As he reaches up, he leaves his whole body open. So, I knee him in the balls. My steel-capped joint meets his leather armor, and I feel my knee stop when it hits bone. His entire body is lifted an inch or two off the ground, and he makes a strange groan. I can almost feel everyone around me wincing in sympathy.
A person might be thinking right now, “Hey, that’s fighting dirty!” (Gasp) Damn right it is. Nevertheless, I just call it ‘fighting.’ No such thing as 'fighting dirty' when you are defending yourself or someone who can't defend themselves. I’ve always believed that if someone starts a fight, they must be prepared to deal with all the consequences that accompany said choice. Anyway, back to the brawl.
Thirax lands on his feet and stumbles forward, whining. I step backward and to my right, withdrawing the shield from in front of my chest. I swing it backhanded and catch him squarely across the side of his head. The metal and wood vibrate on my arm as I continue the movement past him. I use the momentum to follow up with a punch to his left ear. The metal plates on the gauntlet absorb much of the blow, but not all of it. My hand stings sharply and goes a little numb. Quick heads up: Never punch a skull with your bare knuckles. It’s a guaranteed way to break a few fingers.
The last shot finally knocks him off his feet, and the Gnoll hits the dusty ground, face-first and dazed. Before he can get up, I jump on him and land my right knee on the back of his neck, not trying to break it, but only to pin him in place. I grab his left arm, twist it up behind his back, and rotate his wrist outward, making sure to steer clear of his sharp claws. This is one of my favorite moves. It holds a person (or a dog-person in this case) in place, and it only hurts if they struggle. The only limiting factor is their pain tolerance.
And this is the part where I learn that I’ve underestimated his pain tolerance.
Roaring, he gets to his feet with relative ease just by pushing himself and me off the ground with his free hand. I'd like to point out that I'm about two hundred and thirty pounds without the armor. Once his feet are under him, it's not a problem for him to launch me through the air with his one hand. I go weightless for a second and then hit the ground like a crash test dummy.
When I land, I land… badly. Real badly. It takes a moment for me to notice my left knee is sideways and bent in an unnatural way. Then the pain hits. I let out a scream (ahem, I mean—I really got to get better at this—a manly yell) and scoot backward on my ass, propelled by my good foot, all while trying to straighten my leg.
Bones grind together, and the pain intensifies, but the leg manages to straighten almost to where it should be. I bite back another scream, brace myself with my right arm, and raise my shield to fend off the next attack.
“BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!” Haynes’ authoritative voice cuts through the din of the practice field.
Thirax stops mid-stride and drops to his haunches, mouth open, panting and dripping bloody drool. Then he lets out a guffaw. Though loud and growly, his laughter is clear and distinctive. “Well fought, human.”
“Goddamn, Son. I guess you can fight after all!” crows Desmond.
5
Ever break a bone? I have. Too many of them at one time or another, in fact. I’m a big guy, and I’ve played all kinds of contact sports, ranging from football to motocross to martial arts. Injuries are kind of inevitable. That being said, breaking a bone hurts a lot. In my humble experience, the bigger the bone, the greater the pain. The leg is on my list of top three bones I’ve tried not to break again, and yet here I am, depleted Hit Point meter and all.
I'd like to think that this was a draw, but I’m not eager to argue about it or try for a rematch. He continues to yak on about the fight and other fights he’s enjoyed in the past. During all this, he keeps jostling my leg as he tries to swing his arms while acting out each brawl. Add in his odd, loping gait, and you get a definitively painful ride.
We had to make a quick stop at the arming room to drop off our weapons and armor. Apparently, no one cares how broken or maimed a person is, you're still required to return your gear. "The ogres," he explains to me, "are very strict about this."
While I’m pulling off bits of dirty, sweaty armor, I notice my tattoo is flashing a brighter red, about once a second. A closer look shows a small blue arrow in the center, pointing up. Tentatively, I press on it. Right away, the flashing stops, and I feel a small surge of strength through my whole body. At the same time, my legs seem to hurt slightly less. The stat sheet pops up, but at a quick glance, I don’t see anything different. I let it close when Thirax growls at me to hurry up. I make a mental note to look at it closer later on.
At the intersection where the cell hallway meets the exit, we find a pair of ugly brutes blocking the way. The smaller of the two steps forward and begins grunting questions at us. Seeing that we don’t understand him, he begins to none-too-gently ensure we aren't trying to smuggle a codpiece or a battle-ax back to the cells. It’s a thorough frisking that feels more like a mugging, and I'm wincing with every pat, hoping I don't pass out right in front of them. I do not want to be beast-chow. Satisfied, he and his partner step back and let us pass.
Finally, Thirax dumps me gently (for him) onto my pallet. He sniffs the bucket of water. Deeming it clean, he slides it and a cup where I can reach them. Then he tells me that Haynes is arraigning for 'Maidin Dealg' to meet me here.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Not a what, Maidin Dealg is a point ear,” he chuckles.
“Well, that doesn’t help at all. What’s a point ear?”
He laughs a barking, yipping sound. “I forget you are so new. She is a Highborn brought low, but an ally, nevertheless. Our Pack has to share her with the others, but I think you are among the first to be injured today, so you may not have to wait too long. I must return before the jailers come looking for me.” With that, he turns around, pausing briefly at the doorway and sniffing. He cautiously steps into the hallway and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I slump back on the pallet and roll with the pain for a few minutes, wondering what the hell is gonna happen next. Calling 9-1-1 is out of the question, and I don’t think a quick trip to the ER is an option, either. At least Des was kind enough to bind my legs together with some old rags. That stops the broken one from flopping around too much, but it does nothing for the pain.
The pain also brings more clarity to my new situation. I am going to have to get better at this. I may have to eventually hurt someone, possibly even kill them. I have no desire to be beaten or broken any further, and the thought of ending up rotting in a rusting suit of armor fills me with horror and revulsion. Why the hell is this happening? What the fuck did I do to deserve this?
Okay, enough self-pity. I take a long drink of water and get ready to assess my leg. It’s a common fact among the medical community that doctors, nurses, and medics make the worst patients. We all think we know best. Lucky for me, there is no one here to contradict me. So, I delve in and start untying the rags. Right away, I feel the bones shift and grind together as the muscles spasm. I drop back flat on my back and bite down on the wad of rags to stifle a scream.
The pain is rather intense, but I ride it out. Hard-won experience tells me this will pass in a few minutes, but it will feel like hours. Experience never lies. When the waves of agony and spasms finally subside, I spit out the rag and carefully reach for the cup of water and swish some around in my mouth. The intensity of the pain is making my mouth very dry, and now it tastes like an old rag.
For the next few minutes, I am occupied with making sure my leg is splinted as straight as possible. To do this, I break up some of my pallet bed and reuse some of the filthy rags from Des. This process hurts more than I care to admit. When I finish, I flop back and breathe deep and slow to try to control the pain, though it comes out more like harsh, ragged breaths. There's nothing else I can do until this 'Maiden Teal' shows up. I can only hope they have some pain killers with them.
Alone and wrapped in the agony of my current state, I begin to ponder my situation. Things are looking kind of bleak right now. I still don’t know where I am or how I really got here. By now I’ve missed a few days at work, so they’ll consider me AWOL, and I'll get no pay. I have some family, but none live close by; therefore, it might take a week or two before they even notice I’m gone. Most of my friends are co-workers who will notice I’m gone, but in our field, disappearing and going on a bender for a few days is not unheard of. The rest of my friends are scattered throughout the country, and we only talk every few weeks, if that. I reckon the first person to really care that I’m gone will be my landlord when my rent is late. No phones, no calendars, nothing to ground me to any specific places or time here, which is also evidenced by the Sarge supposedly being dragged here from sometime in the '70s. Oh, yeah, and my leg’s broken, and I’m in some bizzaro dungeon prison. Perfect. Looks like this one-man pity party is in full swing!
To distract myself from all the details I still can't wrap my head around, I look at the tattoo on my arm again. Right now, it seems to be dully flashing with a small blue arrow in the center. It stops flashing when I put my finger to it, and the image pops up with my stats. I can't find any obvious reason for the flashing. I let the image collapse, and the tat goes inactive.
Pressing it again, I review the new changes:
FIGHTER
Level: 6
Hit Points Max: 62
Current Hit Points: 55
Dexterity: 6 (-2 penalty) for checks based on movement and A/C1; 12 (+2) all others
Armor Class: 8
Base Movement: 5 (Crippled)
My ‘Armor and Weapons’ lists are empty again, and my A/C is down to 8 without the Dex bonus and the new penalty due to my leg. Playing around a bit, I manage to get it to flip to the next page. Also, it seems my ‘Base Movement’ has dropped to ‘5’ to reflect I can’t move very far or fast. Great, I can add that to my resume: “Crippled, clumsy, and slow, but has a great personality.”
I must have drifted off into an exhausted sleep, because the next thing I know, I’m jolting upright on the pallet from an intense pain in my knee. I let out something resembling a scream and take a wild swing at the shape crouched over me. This earns me an elbow to the nose that knocks me right flat on my back again, causing more pain to shoot down my broken leg. Blood flows from my nose, and through my watering eyes, I see a woman dressed in blue robes. She steps back and watches me with suspicion from above the veil half-covering her face. I rub my eyes and huff.
“Maiden Teal, I presume?”
She stops retreating and says, “Your accent is atrocious. The way you say my name hurts my ears. You may call me Thorn if you must speak to me.”
Yeah, definitely some kind of brogue, remembering her voice from the last time she had attended to me. I ignore her insulting scorn and ask, “So, are you here to just hit me, or is there anything you can do about broken bones?”
“Is it the habit of your people to question the abilities of your healers?” she retorts. I notice her eyes glowing a brighter blue with her mounting anger.
“Actually, it is. It builds trust and discourages assaulting a sleeping patie
nt! Maybe next time—”
She cuts me off with what sounds like a few curses in her native language. I’m not going to even try to spell them here, but trust me, it sounded rude. She spins on her heel, hood falling back as she marches out the door. I briefly catch a glimpse of a pointed ear poking out of her reddish-blonde hair. Her blue robes flash above her brown leather boots as she slams the door shut behind her. I let out a deep breath and lay back down, trying to get comfortable. My knee and nose begin to throb in rhythm. Sigh.
Sometime later, I hear many feet trudging down the hallway. A low murmur of voices and several different languages echo from the hall. After a few minutes, the door swings open, and Des and Jesse shuffle in. Distracted and exhausted, Jesse nods at me, takes off his coat, and flops down on his pallet, facing the wall. Des stops next to my cot and looks down, a smirk on his unshaven face.
“So, you attacked Thorn, eh?” he says, humor in his eyes.
“Are you kidding me? Is that what she said? She grabbed my damn leg while I was sleeping! I didn't know who she was!”
“And yet, you're the one who ended up with the broken nose!” He laughs out loud and sits on the edge of my pallet. “Don’t worry about it. Most elves are even more stuck up and prouder than she is. I do think you made a good impression though; she didn’t stab you with anything!” He's shaking with laughter now.
“Is there any other doctor here? I think she’d rather kill me than help me.”
“Doctor? Ha. Don’t worry; she ain’t gonna kill you. Hey, you showed some real promise out there. That is until you got tossed like a sack of manure and then smacked by a little elf maiden!” Now, he kind of collapses, tears in his eyes, while he clutches his sides. Jerk. It’s not that funny. At least, not from my point of view, it’s not.
I wait a minute or two for him to get a hold of himself. And still I wait another minute.