by Jordan Rivet
For now, she couldn’t let Wyla find out how much he mattered to her, even if it would help her understand Dara’s Spark better. She hadn’t missed Wyla’s reminder of the debt she owed. Dara feared she wouldn’t like it when Wyla finally decided to exact her fee.
4.
Pen Fighting
SIV checked the sharpness of his knife for the tenth time and bounced on the balls of his feet. The announcer’s voice rang loudly above the arena. The crowds stomped in time to the clashes of broadswords, the rhythm drumming through the dirt under his boots. Siv leaned against the wooden railing, surveying the five-sided arena. The Steel Pentagon. It was almost his turn to fight. His hands were sweating worse than a Truren saddlemaker’s at midsummer, but he felt ready. Mostly.
He had neglected to tell Dara he had a big pen fight scheduled for the day after their swimming lesson. He’d let her think she had time to convince him not to do it. The team had originally been scheduled to compete the day after their scrape with Vex Rollendar’s mercenaries, but they’d been worn out from their unplanned melee. Kres had ordered a few days of rest before they risked themselves in the pen. But they couldn’t delay another match.
Of course, Dara would be mad at Siv for going ahead with this, but she was almost as pretty mad as she was when she smiled. Besides, he needed the coin. He couldn’t sit idly by for three months without working toward their return to Vertigon. It was the only way he could justify leaving Sora in the Lantern Maker’s clutches for a little while longer. He felt confident that Dara would come up with a way to deal with her father, but they needed armed backup too. Judging by the rumors from Trure, his grandfather was no longer in a position to provide him with men or gold.
Besides, Siv had always wanted to fight in front of a really big crowd.
The one filling the benches overlooking the Steel Pentagon didn’t disappoint. They cheered for the competitors with an enthusiasm bordering on bloodlust. Pendarkans loved the heave of competition, the frenzy of violence. He should be sickened, but it was exhilarating. He could hardly wait to show them what he could do.
The previous match ended, and Fiz Timon strutted around the pentagon, waving his broadsword over his head in victory. The weapon looked small compared to Fiz’s massive frame. The flaxen-haired man was a colossal fighter—and a decent friend and drinking companion. He accepted a prize purse and acknowledged the adoration of the crowd with a bow. Siv’s fight was next.
“Don’t die.” A hand slapped his back, and Siv turned to find Gull Mornington standing beside him. The grumpy swordswoman hailed from Fork Town. Gull had proved to be a friend too, once she decided not to kill him.
“Thanks,” Siv said. “I’m getting better at that every day.”
“Let’s not get cocky now, Sivren.” Krestian March appeared on his other side wearing his signature red baldric and an assortment of knives, both hidden and visible.
“Don’t worry about making it a show,” Gull said. “At least for your first few fights.”
“No need to smother the lad, Gull dear,” Kres said. “He can be as showy as he likes in the pen.”
“I’ll settle for winning for now,” Siv said.
“That’s my boy.”
The final member of the pen-fighting team, Latch, didn’t offer any encouraging words, but he gave Siv a reasonably friendly nod from beneath a broad-brimmed hat. Latch was still grumpy about not being allowed to compete. He was here strictly to cheer Siv on—or at least give him reasonably friendly nods.
Siv nodded back and wiped his palms on his trousers again. It was time.
The announcer shouted his assumed name (Sivren “the Slicer” Amen) and informed the audience that this “new talent from the north” had made his debut in a gutter match a few days ago. Siv had defeated the Pendarkan Panviper in an ungainly victory. But as he hopped the railing and jogged out to scattered applause, he could tell this fight wouldn’t be so easy.
“Siv the Slicer will face the Pallbearer, a fighter from right here in the Market District. Let’s hear it for the Pallbearer!”
Siv’s opponent was about ten years older than him, and he looked as if he’d spent every one of those years with a knife in his hand. His blade was nicked and battered, and his vest had a dozen slashes sewn up with bright-red thread. His face had been sewn up a few times too. He raised his arms, and the crowds roared in response, bloodthirsty and eager.
Siv faced the Pallbearer in the center of the Steel Pentagon, which was about forty paces across. Obstacles were scattered around them: barrels, logs, a battered wagon, the pockmarked hull of an old boat. A wide patch of muddy water covered two corners of the arena, but it wasn’t clear whether that was an intentional obstacle or a natural feature of the swampy Pendarkan terrain. It all looked more ominous from inside the arena. What had he gotten himself into?
“All ready?” the announcer shouted.
Siv drew his knife, forced himself to breathe deeply. This was for Vertigon, for Sora, for Dara.
“Let us dance!”
The Pallbearer advanced slowly, keeping the edge of the fallen wagon between him and Siv. His scarred brow furrowed, and he studied Siv’s stance like a craftsman.
Siv crouched, aware his form wasn’t perfect yet. He was probably giving away his intentions with every step. He wouldn’t rush the fight, though. Dara was right. He couldn’t get himself killed when his family needed him. But he’d have no chance to bring them help unless he could pay for it.
The crowds murmured as Siv and the Pallbearer continued to circle each other, moving cautiously around the pen. They danced around the obstacles, using them for cover, feeling out the space. The spectators began to boo and stamp their feet, impatient for blood. Neither fighter made a move to attack yet. They were both—
The Pallbearer struck, leaping over the wagon and hurling himself toward Siv. The crowds shrieked. Siv barely managed to dive out of the way. He tried to catch his opponent with his foot as he passed, but the fellow was too agile for such tricks. The Pallbearer dodged the trip and plunged forward, knife flashing.
Siv caught his wrist, gaining control of the blade for a moment. The Pallbearer twisted like a viper. Siv couldn’t get near his throat. He tried to shake the knife out of the Pallbearer’s grasp, but his grip remained solid.
Siv changed tactics and yanked the man toward him. The Pallbearer resisted, knife firmly clasped, pulling against him with his considerable strength. But the muddy earth betrayed him. His boots slid through the mud.
Siv tugged the Pallbearer across the arena, straining and sweating with every step. He’d drag him all the way out the other side if that was what it took. Then his back slammed into something. The Pallbearer stopped resisting. Siv suddenly found himself flattened against the hull of the fishing boat. Uh-oh.
The Pallbearer lunged, driving his knife toward Siv’s torso, which was now stuck against the boat.
Siv dropped his own knife and grabbed the Pallbearer’s arm with both hands, barely keeping the blade from his belly.
They strained against each other, arms locked. Siv was trapped. The smell of old leather, sweat, and fearsome garlic breath assaulted his senses. The spectators roared. They could feel the end coming.
A triumphant gleam lit the Pallbearer’s eyes. Siv bared his teeth. He wasn’t going to lose like this. Not when people were counting on him.
Siv knocked his head into the Pallbearer’s nose with an audible crack. A gasp tore through the crowd.
The Pallbearer staggered back, disoriented. Siv scooped up his knife from the ground and leapt forward. Before he knew what was happening, the Pallbearer leaned a thick shoulder down, not as stunned by the head butt as he should have been. Siv barreled into him with the force of a terrerack bull—and flipped right over his back.
He landed hard, every ounce of wind knocked out of his body. A glint of silver flashed above him as the Pallbearer swung his knife downward.
Siv threw up his hands to block his face, knowing they wouldn
’t do any good. The Pallbearer’s knife stopped mere inches from Siv’s neck. He froze, waiting for the end.
Then hot drops of blood dripped onto his face.
The Pallbearer let out a fierce howl and stumbled back. Siv’s knife was embedded in his wrist. Right. He’d been holding that when he threw up his hands to protect his face. The knife had angled up—and sliced into his opponent’s forearm at the last moment.
Siv scrambled to his feet, not quite able to breathe after being thrown, and punched the Pallbearer in the face. The fellow was definitely the type to keep fighting with a knife sticking out of his arm. The punch felled him. Siv dove on top of his opponent, yanked his knife from where it was lodged between sinew and bone, and put it to the Pallbearer’s throat before even managing to suck air into his lungs. Firelord, that was close!
By the time Siv could breathe again, the crowds had erupted. They hollered his name, every man, woman, and child on their feet. The Pallbearer lay in the mud, his hand wrapped tightly around his wrist to hold in the blood. He looked more worried about his injury than his loss. He gave a brief nod as Siv pulled back the knife and staggered away.
A hand landed on Siv’s shoulder, and he almost stabbed this new attacker before realizing it was the announcer. His head spun with nerves and adrenaline. Then the man was shouting the results and shoving a clinking bag into his hands and pushing him toward the edge of the pentagon. It was over. And he had won!
Now that his head was catching up with what had happened, Siv wasn’t ready to leave the arena quite yet. He had won a real pen match against a skilled opponent. True, he’d been knocked flat, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever breathe normally again, but it didn’t matter. He had burning won!
He turned in a full circle, hands raised for the crowd. They cheered in response, drumming their feet on the rickety wooden stands.
“All right, all right, Siv the Slicer,” the announcer said with a chuckle. “Let’s make room for the next dance. Let’s hear it one more time for Siv the Slicer, folks!”
The crowds screamed, chanted his name. Faces blurred around him. The hot flush of victory swept through his body like the purest brandy. Oh, he could definitely get used to this.
“Well done, lad,” Kres said when he finally stumbled out of the pen. “That’s the way to get them to look at you. Not a clean fight, but that slug at the end sealed it for you.”
“Not bad.” Gull gave him an approving nod. “Don’t get trapped on the obstacles like that, though.”
“We’ll work on it in practice,” Fiz said, thumping him on the back so hard, he staggered.
“It’s always good to give your audience something to worry about anyway,” Kres said. “Now you just have to hold your own in the Dance.”
“The Dance?” Siv blinked.
“We’re fighting again in half an hour.” Kres grinned at the look of consternation on Siv’s face. “Don’t let every little victory go to your head. We still have the melee.”
“Right,” Siv said. “I’ll be ready.” And he thought he would be. He had been perilously close to losing, but what a rush! And the prize purse was bigger than the piddling bag of coins he’d received for his gutter fight. He could make this work. He’d buy Dara her freedom yet.
The pen fighters adjourned to a tent beside the arena while they waited for their next Dance. It had rained during the night, and the tent did little to protect them from the muddy ground. Siv felt as if he’d been covered in mud more often than not since he arrived in Pendark. Still, this place wasn’t so bad. Fighters in mismatched and patched clothing milled around the tent, assorted weapons gleaming from their belts and backs. They were a ramshackle bunch, drawn by the money as much as the glory. Siv supposed he was one of them now.
The fighters traded insults and called out for ale and medical attention. A harried-looking young man darted amongst them, pausing to send silvery streams of Watermight from his fingertips into the wounds to clean and seal them. His patients offered coins from their prize purses in return for his help. The Watermight healers were a big part of why more Pendarkan pen fighters didn’t end up dead or maimed—and why Siv deemed it worth the risk. Watermight didn’t heal instantly, but it would allow the injured to recover more quickly and fully. Siv was lucky he didn’t need the man’s assistance today, though. Watermight healing didn’t come cheap.
Fiz handed around mugs of ale poured from a barrel in their corner. Siv gulped his down in one go, still breathing heavily. The fight hadn’t lasted long, but it had been surprisingly taxing. Maybe he should start running laps or something. That would make Dara proud. Or—he supposed—he could skip the ale between matches.
“Watch your center of gravity,” Latch said, coming up beside him. “You shouldn’t have gone flying over that fellow.”
“Made for a better show, didn’t it?” Siv said.
Latch grunted. “Just trying to help.” He started to walk away, but Siv put a hand on his arm.
“Hey, can you help me practice a way around that move later?”
Latch brightened—well, for him—and Siv reminded himself that Latch was still disappointed he wasn’t allowed to fight. He’d joined the team hoping to participate in the Dance of Steel, but Kres had decided he was too valuable to risk. He’d taken it upon himself to protect Latch against all threats—including Siv, if he caused trouble. Still, Siv figured training with Latch was the least he could do. Plus he was sure Latch wasn’t telling the full truth about his father. Siv needed to know more about Commander Brach than ever now that the Soolen had occupied his grandfather’s capital city. There was no way Brach’s army should have been able to defeat Trure so quickly. Latch was still hiding something, and Siv meant to find out what.
The fighters were called back from the tent to ready themselves for the five-a-side Dance of Steel all too soon. With Latch being kept out of the fighting, they were one man short. Kres had called on an old friend to substitute. A few minutes before the Dance was to begin, a man of medium height and slight build sauntered up to join them at the barrier, a rapier slung low on his hip. Scars crisscrossed his olive skin, and he was missing a couple of fingers and part of his ear.
“Ah,” Kres said. “At last. Siv lad, meet Dellario Darting, the Darting Death.”
“Siv.”
“The Slicer.” The man’s handshake was firm, his palms rough and callused. “Saw your match. Not bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Your first Dance?”
Siv shrugged, trying not to let on how excited he was about his victory. “I won a gutter match a few—”
“It was just the Panviper,” Gull cut in. She leaned on the barrier nearby, inspecting her saber’s edge with a critical eye.
“I see.” Dellario chuckled. “Well, I look forward to seeing what you can do in the Dance of Steel.”
“We’ve seen him fight multiple opponents before,” Fiz said. “Real fights too.”
“Indeed?” Dellario studied Siv with renewed curiosity.
“I made it through all right,” Siv said. “With plenty of help from the team.”
Kres gave him a piercing look. He hadn’t been there when Vex Rollendar’s men attacked them outside headquarters, but he had been more interested in Siv than ever since then.
“You’re lucky to be with Kres’s team,” Dellario said. “Where are you fr—?”
“All ready, children?” Kres said, taking Siv by the arm and drawing him away before Dellario could finish his question. “The Steel Pentagon awaits!”
The Dance of Steel melees were fought with five weapon types: rapier, saber, knife, broadsword, and battle-axe. Each team had a different strategy for dealing with the mixed fights. Some split into groups to take on the more dangerous fighters first. Broadsword and battle-axe fighters in particular had a nasty tendency to cut off people’s heads. It was best to deal with them early on. Other teams sectioned off their opponents, with each team member taking on the fighter wielding their own weapon type. Spectator
s tended to respond poorly to that strategy, though. Different styles always made fights more interesting, and there was no better place to pit style against style than in the Dance of Steel.
Kres preferred to keep fights interesting. For this Dance, they faced a team that favored the divide-and-conquer method. Kres had carefully coordinated a plan to prevent them from splitting the fight to suit them. Siv felt less nervous after his victory against the Pallbearer, but he didn’t want to accidentally get any of his teammates killed. None of them had threatened to kill him all week.
The crowd roared louder than ever when the team strutted into the pentagon. They were clearly popular, and Kres was the most admired of them all. He preened as the crowds shouted his name, bowing to each of the five sides, accepting their adoration. Men shouted marriage proposals and lewd suggestions to Gull. She responded to them all with an equally imperious glare. Fiz had his fair share of fans too, and a few people must have been impressed by Siv’s fight, because they shouted his name just as loud as the others’. He waved, remembering that hot flush of victory when he’d knocked the Pallbearer down. He wanted that feeling again.
Their opponents entered the ring to somewhat lesser applause. They all wore jet-black team uniforms, going for a cohesive, intimidating look. They looked like capable fighters, but none of them had Kres’s charisma. He continued to bow and preen for the crowd, clearly in his element.
A few fighters on the other team nodded to Dellario the Darting Death.
“I’m a go-to substitute these days,” he told Siv as they took up their positions. “You can always count on Dellario. I even fought for these fellows a few times.”
“But you might kill them.”
“I might.” Dellario drew his sword. “Then again, I might not. No reason to be sensitive about it.”
“If you say so.”
Siv didn’t quite believe Dellario’s nonchalance over whether he might kill his opponents. All the pen fighters seemed determined not to let the killing bother them. Their fans wouldn’t like that. His teammates’ casualness made it easier for Siv to quash his nerves, but he couldn’t get complacent. Watermight healers couldn’t fix everything.