Fight Like A Girl

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Derin watched her all the while, taking in the dress, the hair artfully piled and pinned, the veil, sheer and short as a whisper now that the long year had ended. It suited her, she decided, and she felt a smile pull at the corners of her mouth.

  Others had passed this way all morning. Dutifully paying respects and shedding modest tears in this calm quiet. Birdsong chorused to their work, but they were all as dull as the stones that stood about them, compared to the widow.

  Derin’s hand rested on the pommel of the sword at her hip, the one that had created the widow who stood twelve heartbeats away. Carved out a new life, as it had ended another. She watched as the woman gathered the folds of her skirts about her, eyes still on the polished stone before she made the sign of three fingers, turned and followed the mourners down the gravelled path.

  ONE YEAR AGO

  The blade bit into the rim of the buckler gripped hard in her fist. Pain shot through Derin’s joints at the impact but she knew it was nothing compared to the oblivion she’d have faced if the buckler had not been there. As her opponent pulled the sword back it nearly tugged the small shield out of her hand and she followed the movement, striding forwards as her own blade cut down at his head.

  But he was fast, and strong. His blade parried her cut, turned and the point thrust at her chest.

  A slipping step back, and once more she circled with him. Their ragged breath came in unison as their eyes met over the shields in their fists. A flap of skin hung down one side of his head, blood dribbled in and out of the creases of his nose, mouth, into his ear in a red network. She could feel warmth inside her sleeve, more than the sweat that drenched her back, stung her eyes. The sword was heavier by the second, but she gripped and released the familiar leather in her hand. Breath hissed through her teeth.

  “There’s nothing for you here. Crawl back to your master.” Her voice was low, but she could not keep the fear from it. Instead of laughing, he just shook his head, resigned. Sweat and blood sprayed from him.

  “I can’t do that. There’s nothing for me to go back to. I’m doing this for me.”

  The thuds of her heart against her ribs grew more insistent, her head swam, teetered between the fight before her and the vengeance that was to come. And he saw her hesitation, and he took his chance.

  “Ah!”

  She leaned into the cut, sword edge met sword edge, steel rang out in the dark. He grunted, turning his point towards her eye as they drew closer to one another. She was running out of room. As he moved to slide the sword through her skull she stepped to her left, raised her buckler and smashed the rim into the side of his head, the side where the flap of skin hung. He screamed at the pain and tripped on something, scurried back, finding his feet as he hissed curses through his teeth.

  “Bitch!”

  “I’ll give you that, but why want me dead?”

  “For my brother.”

  She gazed at the half shadowed, bloody face, searching her memory.

  “Nope, sorry, you’ll have to be more specific.”

  He bared his teeth. “As if you’d recall. His name was Jermond Travin, we worked together for Sedgewick.”

  “So?”

  “You slit his leg after stealing two thousand wheels and Mistress Sedgewick’s jewels.” Their breath rasped, and she felt herself stepping away from him. “He just kept bleeding, bled to death.”

  She remembered the fists in her back, the fingers squeezing her throat.

  “Good.”

  And her snarl matched his as they came together, swords clashing with anger and defiance. Momentarily her fear left her as she raged against this idiot trying to steal her life; she’d make him pay for daring to raise her anger. What was his dead brother to her anyway? She was glad.

  He ducked low. His leg shot out sweeping her aside and she tumbled, head hitting hard on the cold cobbles. White flashed at the edges of her vision, a tightness in her nostrils as she reeled.

  A boot, hard in the softness of her belly, kicked the wind from her chest and she doubled onto her side. Another – and she felt something snap. All she could focus on was trying to keep a grip on the sword; the buckler clattered clumsily to the ground and rolled away into the dark.

  “Whore! I’ll kill you slow.”

  His voice was far away, faint, drowned under the blood pounding through her head . . . but his boots thudding into her confirmed he was still right there.

  She would die here in this cold alley among the litter and the shit of Sondim. Another forgotten soul to be dropped in the sea and never spoken of again. She heard him spit, and felt warm spatter against her cheek.

  “It’s not right you know,” said the man, sniffing “Me doing this. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, even my wife, when she clawed at me. Just couldn’t do it, stood there and took it. But you . . . you need to suffer.”

  His boot ground into her hand and she screamed as her fingers were crushed amid the steel in her grip, the weight of him above, and the stone beneath her. When he took his foot off he kicked the sword away. Her ears rang and she rolled from side to side, clutching her hand with the other. His voice was close to her ear.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Air hissed between her teeth as she huffed, trying to regain control, grip onto her milling thoughts. Memories and fears jostled for attention as he stepped around her. Who was he? What would he do next? How could she stop him?

  She kept her hand to her chest, the pain matched only by the pain in her belly and ribs.

  “Listen,” she croaked, she felt warm breath in her ear, smelt sourness. He was still close. “I will give you everything, just . . . let me live.”

  A low, cold chuckle. But when he spoke, she heard pain at the edges of his voice. “Oh you stupid bitch, I don’t want anything from you. Just your life.”

  “Thousands, I’ve thousands of wheels at the house of Culdass locked up there. I can get it to you, I’ll take you there.”

  He paused, and she turned onto her back, breathing breathing quick with the pain. Maybe some things were stronger than brotherly love. She tried to find his eyes but they were hidden in shadow as he crouched over her, only his jaw was visible, stubbled and slick with dark blood down one side. His lips pulled back revealing yellowed teeth.

  “Dog shit. You’ll say anything to save your scrawny arse. Keep begging, it’s funny.”

  “Please!” She opened her eyes wide, awaiting the thrust of a sword through her neck, raising a palm in supplication, in protection.

  Now his laugh was genuine, and he pressed his face closer, she could see it.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Her outstretched hand reached up and snatched the flap of skin on his cheek, tearing it down hard.

  “Aaaaargh!” He screamed, pulling away, but she put all her weight into it, the skin stretched taut into a string. He dropped his weapons, pushed her away, grabbed at his face, and she felt fresh blood run down her forearm. She released, rolling away as he danced in pain, head tipped back with his screams.

  Her sword was in her reach, she grabbed it with her left hand, heard his boots scuff the ground. Jumping up into a crouch she turned, and thrust it into his thigh. He screamed again and she jerked the blade out of his leg.

  “Does it hurt?”

  He released his face and both his hands went to his leg, she could see the meat beneath the skin. Blood gushed down his neck and shoulder, darkened his clothes. The sounds he made were unintelligible; the screams would only bring people out of their houses. She moved a little closer, her voice soft.

  “Keep begging, it’s funny.”

  Reaching down she drew the blade against the back of his knee. His eyes grew wide, darting from side to side, before turning on hers, incredulous. She wasn’t smiling. In the dim light she saw the dark puddle grow beneath him, spreading into the cobbles like spider legs stretching. Still close, she whispered.

  “Your brother was in it with me, he let me in.”

  His eyes wi
dened further still.

  “He got greedy, wanted half for doing nothing. I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t want to kill you.”

  She felt the weight of guilt shifting in her chest, though it had simply moved to another place where in time it would grow uncomfortable once more.

  “I’ll leave the half in your house. If you can make it there, it’s yours. If not, your widow will be well provided for.”

  ONE YEAR LATER

  The crimson dress lay spilled across the floor, wine splashed and rumpled. Fire crackled in the hearth and softness lay in the bed. Fera sighed.

  “You really shouldn’t be here you know, I’m still in mourning.”

  The sword rested in a corner, leaned against a wall. Derin looked up at the portrait of Jorvan, his face grim with disapproval, before turning her attention to the face on the pillow beside hers. She brushed a stray lock of hair, loose now, from Fera’s cheek, running her fingers lightly down the side of her neck, tracing the curve of her shoulder.

  “You seem content enough to me, and doesn’t a widow need a bit of comfort now and then?”

  Fera smiled, though Derin could see the pain at the corners of her eyes. She brushed the damp away from one with a thumb tip, kissed her lips once more.

  “You’re safe now. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

  “Thank you. It’s a dangerous world.”

  They kissed again, longer this time. Derin opened her eyes as they came apart, pushing that brick of guilt to another compartment in her chest.

  “It certainly is.”

  Arrested Development

  Joanne Hall

  Cay’s back slammed into the canvas and bounced once, twice, before coming to rest. The air burst from her lungs, sending up a fine spray of blood from her nostrils. The blurred face of the referee loomed over her. He raised his eyebrows in question or concern, his hand already beating out the countdown.

  She allowed herself seven seconds. Seven blissful seconds where she could have been lying on the softest bed in the most palatial Grondhaus, before she forced herself up on her elbows, shaking her head. The murmur of people exchanging bets intensified.

  The referee stepped back. He wasn’t permitted to help her to her feet. She had to stand on her own. It was one of the few rules.

  Cay’s opponent had retreated to the corner and was glaring at her, yellow eyes beetling beneath her lowered brow-shield. The wire mesh of the cage threw patterned shadows across her green skin. One of her incisors was loose and bloody, and she wobbled it with her forked tongue as she stared. Cay didn’t know her name. The Grond didn’t share their names with humans, and it didn’t matter to Cay anyway. She was just another fight.

  “Are you ready?” the referee asked.

  Cay wiped the blood from her nose and her eyebrow with the back of her bandaged hand, and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Bring it on,” she said thickly.

  The lithe Grond flicked her loose tooth with her tongue in a final gesture of contempt and rose to her feet. Her spine cracked, audible even over the rustles of the crowd. Grond in the front rows, humans pushed to the back and the sides. At full stretch, she was a head taller than Cay, and her tail lashed back and forth as she prowled, waiting for the signal.

  At the whistle, the Grond lunged forward. Cay bounced back, leaping high over that lashing tail that thickened to a club at the tip. She had seen other fighters go down with broken ribs or legs after a blow from a Grond tail. Cay had toyed with the idea of getting the enhancement; it was better for balance, an extra weapon. But it would cost every credit she had and more, and she needed to save her cash. There was a trade; there was always a trade. She could add the enhancement, fight better now, and make more money in the short term. Or she could do what she had been doing for the better part of a decade, and invest in the future. A better future. And not just for her.

  The Grond stumbled, momentarily thrown by the force of the blow that didn’t connect. Cay was on her in an instant, raining punches against the hard carapace of her barrel chest. The Grond pushed at her with stout arms, seeking an opening. She jabbed in hard against Cay’s ribcage, a series of sharp explosions that left her reeling and drooling.

  The crowd roared, or it could just have been the blood rushing in her ears. Her foot slipped on the canvas and she lurched forward. Recovering from the slip, she caught the Grond around the waist, barrelling into her and pushing her back against the wire of the cage. The Grond’s feet scraped against the canvas as she tried to lift one leg to claw Cay’s stomach. Talons raked her bare thigh, scoring twin lines of fire from groin to knee.

  Cay pressed harder, breathing in her opponent’s sweat, her musty lizard scent. The fingers of her left hand dug into the flesh of the Grond’s back, slick now with loose scales as she shed in fear. Cay was inside her grip now, pressed tight as a lover, shifting so her elbow ground against the Grond’s exposed throat. She pushed the Grond back, her yellow eyes bulging, feet skittering for purchase as the metal of the cage dug into the flesh of Cay’s wrist.

  Cay clenched her teeth and hung on, muscles burning from the strain.

  The Grond made a choking sound. Drool hung in strings from her lipless mouth, and her eyes popped red as thousands of tiny blood vessels burst. Cay pushed harder, crushing her windpipe, willing her to break.

  The Grond was as tense as wire and then all at once Cay felt her snap, muscles falling into slackness. She stepped back and the Grond slumped forward, like a tree toppling. Cay slammed a fist into the back of her head as she went down, just to make sure.

  Cay held her breath for the long ten seconds it took the referee to count the Grond out, exhaling only as he took her arm and raised it high above her head. The hordes of Grond in the pricey seats hissed and flicked their tongues, the humans in the cheap seats cheered, money changed hands and Cay accepted the applause. She felt no particular joy, only satisfaction at another job survived without serious injury, another day lived through.

  “Still lucky,” she breathed.

  By the time the referee released her, the defeated Grond had crawled away, back to her own team and the nurture of her people. Cay had no people in the arena. As she lowered herself out of the cage, wincing as the adrenaline wore off and the

  pain kicked in, the hall was emptying fast. The punters had paid their entrance fee, placed their bets and won or lost, and now they were streaming out into the afternoon, back to their Grondhaus or to their own towns. Not to the Delphi. No one who lived in the Delphi could afford to watch fights.

  She crunched across the debris, the sticky floor and discarded plasteen cups still holding dregs of brew. They dug into her bare feet, bloodied from the wound in her thigh. There was no-one waiting in the changing rooms to greet her, no-one to take her gum shield and wipe down her wounds with astringent, or congratulate her on her win. She didn’t need them. She was used to acting alone. Rumour had it the Grond changing room had hot water, but in here she was lucky to be able to thump a lukewarm trickle from the taps. Still, it beat her capsule in the Delphi, and the stanchion pipes on the street outside that were often dry.

  Cay showered as best she was able, scraping the sweat and blood from her skin with a sliver of hardened soap and drying herself down with a rough gym towel that smelled like the inside of her shoes. Her trousers and vest lay on the bench where she had abandoned them before the fight and she pulled them on, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of the ingrained stench in the armpits and the groin.

  She stood up, brushing herself down, running her hands over hair cropped close to her scalp, to dry off the last of the water. Then she headed upstairs to the booth to get her money.

  The female Grond had reached the booth before her, so Cay hung back until she left, the door almost closing on her club tail. There was no point taunting a defeated opponent. The Grond would most likely be back. So would Cay.

  Sheeny sat in the booth, thick fingers flicking though the take, bottom lip pushed out in eternal petula
nce. He looked up as Cay’s shadow fell across him, and grunted.

  “You did OK out there today.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t want to stay and chat with him. The smell of grease rising from his skin coated her tongue and made her long for a drink to wash it away.

  “Always nice to see someone get one up on a Grond. Even a little one like that.”

  “I’d take on a big one if I had to.” The Grond pitted their fiercest male fighters against each other. They didn’t waste them on humans. The fights would be over too quickly.

  Sheeny chuckled, his crooked eye swivelling away from her. “I’ve no doubt you would. Here’s your money.”

  He handed over a tatty brown envelope. Cay made a point of opening it right there in the foyer.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t trust me?” His lip stuck out even further, and his weasel tongue flicked over it.

  Cay counted the cash. “It’s fifty short.”

  “Yeah, well, things are tight this week . . .”

  “Grond shit. Where’s my money, Sheeny?”

  “Are you sure? Count it again. That bump on the head might have made you dizzy – erk!” His words were choked off as she lunged across the barrier and seized him by the throat.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Sheeny. I’m not in the mood.”

  He squirmed. She pressed tighter, grimly satisfied to see his eyes bulge in fear. She rooted on the desk and grabbed a couple of notes without looking.

  “Hey, that’s too much!” He could squeak for his precious credits even through her grip on his windpipe.

  “Call it a fine for messing me about.” She reached into his breast pocket and extracted a packet of smoke sticks. “I’ll take these too.” She pushed him back, slamming him into the wooden wall of the booth. “Pleasure doing business with you, Sheeny.”

  “Pleasure’s all yours,” he grumbled, massaging his throat. “That was my last packet. Are you in tomorrow?”