by J P Nelson
“We began as I did, we attended gatherings and he worked as a hooker, a man who takes challengers from the crowd and fights for a time limit. If the challenger wins, they get a small purse, but they must pay a small amount for the chance.
“The practice is still popular in Nahjiua and Shudoquar, although the gain is not large. Death is rare, as the time limit is usually three minutes and a win is declared with a knock-out, submission, or a forced three-count pin.
“After we claimed the City-State Championship, I promised if he could keep it for twice the long-standing record of four months, I would grant him freedom. It just so happened the total time came out to seven years. After which, I use the period as a standard.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” Quickly I added, albeit with an evil grin, “Is he your friend? Did you part on good terms?”
A flash of anger ran through his eyes and there was a touch of cutting edge in his tone, “He stayed on with me as a trainer for three years. We were partners. I keep my word, Gojai. Afterward he left to follow his own enterprise. I sincerely wish him well.”
He stepped closer to the bars. I could have reached out and …
There was a force of confident control in his attitude, no fear, an aura of one who has walked through blood and battle and prevailed, “You do not wish to speak of your own issue, it is your choice. I do not care to swap spit with you, but I am a businessman. What you did to place yourself in your predicament was of your doing, not mine. Do well to remember that.”
He grabbed a bar and gave it a shake, “As I have stated, you could have escaped before this. Your cage is your choice.”
The words slammed me in the pit of my stomach. What could I say to that?
“Edgarfield?”
“Yes, Gojai?”
“I still don’t like you.”
He snorted a brief chuckle, “I know. But I like you.”
Again, he started to turn away, but stopped and looked at me, “Gojai?”
I reached to the bars and wrapped one hand around a piece of iron, “Yes, Edgarfield?”
He circled his left hand with his right and quietly said, “Wrap your hand for a few days. The guard thinks you are injured.” Then he walked down the hall.
As I watched him go I felt anguish in my soul, L’Sol was alive and well, healthy … but he was being raised in the poison thinking of House Fel’Caden. Thankful no one was in adjoining cells, I closed my eyes and thought, ‘I’m so sorry momma, I’ve let you down. But what could I have done?’
Putting my head to the bars, I closed my eyes, then rammed my head three hard times and muttered, “I am such a failure …”
___________________________
There was no sleep for me, my soul was in turmoil. The only thing that consoled me was, my little brother was not a slave; he wasn’t in chains, anyway. But his mind … what had he been taught? And he apparently was eating good, that was another thing. And he wasn’t being raised like a, like a half-breed.
There was a sudden rise of emotion in my belly. Was that moisture in my eyes? I brushed my face, the dust in this musty cell was bad. Anyway, I just sat on my bedding, back against the wall and tortured myself with malignant thoughts.
A couple of days later, Edgarfield came to make his regular check-up of his merchandise. He looked sharp and crisp, as if he had just climbed out of a bath, which he may well have done. I knew nothing of his personal life, and didn’t want to.
His voice was casual, “Good morning, Gojai. Here is your request.” He handed a closed tube through the bars, and from a pocket produced a vial of ink.”
I took it, and for a lingering moment our fingers touched. It was the first time we had made physical contact. Was there a hint of challenge in his manner? Was there a dagger in his other hand I couldn’t see? Edgarfield was in no way careless, but his face was calm.
Mon’Gouchett, I could not read this man.
I took the articles, then with a grudging tone I muttered, “Good morning, Edgarfield.”
I could have sworn I noticed a hint of a smile, but when I looked back up it wasn’t there. Carefully, so as not to press through the scrap of parchment with the quill against my bedding, I wrote my list.
Patiently he waited, then I handed it to him. After reading it he looked at me incredulously and asked, “You are serious about these things?”
With a level gaze I replied, “You want me to win, yes?”
He looked at me.
“Then this is what I want.”
He tilted his head, wriggled his jaw and looking from list, to me, back to list, then me, remarked, “Meals four times a day, at these times, and a bowl filled with these kinds of fruits and nuts, plenty of tea …”
“I want to eat something six times a day; two meals of fruit and nuts, three meals of substance, and a salad with lots of greens.”
Edgarfield nodded once, “You take title, this will be easy. A long, tube-shaped bag?”
I looked to the ceiling in middle of my cell, “I want to hang it on those chain hooks.”
He looked at me with curiosity.
“So I can hit it …” balling my fists and jabbing a couple of times, then slapping my knee into hands, “… practice my techniques.”
A slow grin of appreciation crossed his features, “And these last two, a man to practice with, and you want me to teach you my joint-lock and submission skills?”
“That’s correct.”
A lot of contemplation crossed his mind. Then he asked, “How do I know you are not going to try something unwise?”
“I already did.” I glanced around the cell.
There was a moment of mutual humor.
“You say you don’t break your word. Neither do I.”
We were bargaining, he and I, and I believe he was enjoying it. The fact that I was taking him seriously, not as a slave, but as a man, or whatever it was that I was; the Itahro regarded males as bucks.
“You have heard my words, I want to hear yours.”
“Edgarfield, you have my word I will not do anything unwise.”
This was not a friendship pact we were discussing, and we both knew it. He eyed me carefully, then remarked, “Well said, and a somewhat ambiguous statement.”
“So are yours … seven years of service covers a broad territory.”
I held out my hand in offer to shake. I was a slave, and a shake hands deal was not binding. But ours was an honor bond. He had to gamble I was a person of honor, and I had to trust his word was good.
He took my hand through the bars and we sealed the deal.
His hand was still in mine as I added, “I noticed there was a fight against a bear. I won’t fight an animal for entertainment. People yes, anyone out there probably deserve it, but not animals. Are we clear?”
He gave me a solid nod, “We are clear.”
“Good.”
Maybe, just maybe, I could trust this man after all.
Chapter 28
WHILE JHA’LEY WAS sailing through the Meinkutt Sea en route to the Gulf of Ruben, I was working out every day harder than ever before. Forget sleep, I got what I could but mostly I was plagued by nightmares. I put myself on a rigid schedule and ate, trained, ate, trained, ate, trained, all day, every day.
Whatever I felt about Edgarfield, he was storm-for-thunder as a teacher. The man really knew his stuff, and he explained it well. Most of what he had to show I already knew, but there were a few things I had never seen before; mostly submission techniques.
Let’s face it, in real combat, submission and tap-out stuff just doesn’t work. Oh sure, a person might squeal mercy, but what’s to stop them from running you through when you let them go? I’ll tell you what, nothing. Submission belongs in the ring, not in combat training. But still, there were some interesting techniques he had that I could use.
He schooled me in how to really play to a crowd. “Your opponent is not the real objective, it is to entertain the people.” Well, I wasn’t concerned abou
t entertaining anyone, but some of those holds would come in handy for giving me a rest. I mean, if I couldn’t whip the person as quick as I wanted, a step-over-toe-hold, figure-4 arm-bar, or kneeling double-chin-lock could let me keep the person in check while I figured out what next to do.
I learned more variations of the suplex, one of my favorite moves, and the Russian Leg-Sweep. Edgarfield couldn’t tell me what a Russian was, but that was the name of the move and always had been. It turned out he was from Ingleshire in northeast Nahjiua, and that was where all these moves originated.
Some bone breaking moves I picked up, and really liked, included the shoulder-breaker, Dundee Drop, and Brunstein Back-Breaker. He said up in Nahjiua, the Dundee Drop is sometimes called an atomic drop, which starts like a back suplex, but drops the person on their tailbone against your knee, breaking the tailbone. The Brunstein Back-Breaker is an inverted version of the Dundee Drop, which drops the person on your knee but between their shoulder blades.
Like before, please don’t ask where some of these names come from. I know Dundee is the name of an old town in Nahjiua, so that’s a maybe. We have no clue what an atomic is, and Brunstein is the name of a small range of mountains where almost nobody lives.
Likewise, Edgarfield’s favored submission moves were the Rob-Roy Leg-Lock, Celtic Cross-Toe-Hold, and Boston Crab. He figured Rob Roy was someone in ancient history, but no one knows what a Celtic or Boston is.
He taught me incidental things like; there are three identifiers for fighters, at least from the crowd’s perspective.
Edgarfield said, “A Heel is someone who the crowd typically hates, for one reason or the other. Heels usually represent a mean or cruel type, although they are considered colorful. They are more often than not the main reason the crowd comes to see the fight.
He looked at me with clarity, “Gojai, you are identified as a Heel.”
I looked at him and glared.
Shrugging his shoulders he added, “It is all perception. If it makes you feel better, I was billed the same way.”
“It doesn’t.”
He chuckled and continued, “A Face is someone the people relate to. When they fight they use what are considered clean and humane tactics. Often they are somewhat boring. Often, I say. Occasionally one comes along and sets the stands on fire with excitement. Ames was one such. The people loved him. He is the only fighter I have ever seen receive almost unanimous support even as champion.”
“Why did he quit fighting?”
“He had shattered all the records, done what no one had ever done. And he didn’t have the rage. Ames did not want to kill.” Edgarfield blew a silent chuckle, “No, he would rather cook. He talked once of owning an inn in N’Ville. What a waste of talent, that man.”
I thought about Ames, he did like to cook … and he was good at it. He was one of the very few things that made those years bearable for me, and a lot of the slaves on the road crew. And he had been my friend. I didn’t think he was a waste, not at all. What’s more, what he taught me, he and Sym’s Tai’Jhi, were the basis of what had kept me alive, what allowed me to beat Stagus that day.
“No, Ames was ready to stand down, he wanted to go out while still on top. We agreed he could keep fighting until he was killed, or, he could pass his skills on and we could make money together.”
Edgarfield glanced at me, “As I have said, I am a businessman. His words made sense. In those three years working together we produced five City-State Champions”
“You said there were three types.”
“Yes, the third is called a Tweener, someone neither Heel or Face; someone the people cannot relate to at all. Lath?” There was scorn in his tone. “Lath was one of these.”
“You speak as if you didn’t like her.”
The discussion was in between the study of hold application during the workout. We both were sweaty. It was as if we forgot our positions in the owner-slave rolls of our relationship. For the moment, the only reminder was a pair of guards outside my locked cell door. Each with loaded and cocked crossbows, watching us work out.
Edgarfield took a dipper of water to drink, then another. Then he offered the dipper to me. I took the dipper as he walked to the wall and sat down. Leaning back he said, “I hated her damned soul.”
I felt a tale coming on, so I drank and sat against the adjoining wall. I couldn’t believe it, he was going to talk about Lath.
He glance at me in a just-us-guys-talking kind of way, “She was one contrary bitch,” he chuckled and shook his head, then ran his fingers though his hair, “but Mon’Gouchett, could she fight. And strong,” he looked at me with an animated expression, “that woman was stronger than most men I have ever seen, or heard of.
“No jest, I once saw her catch a huge man’s fist in her hand,” he smacked one fist into the other hand with a meaty slap, “like that. Then kicked him in the face, draped her leg over his arm and snapped his elbow like a twig.”
Edgarfield looked through the bars, as if at the guards, but he was remembering another time. That puzzled look came across his face again as he spoke.
“I bought her at a nondescript auction in a village far west of Dahruban. It is not there now, but was located in the Fair Susan Hills overlooking the Alburin Sea. She was up on the block, the most beautiful specimen I had ever seen. Naked as the day she was born, and there was no shame or embarrassment, like you most often see in a slave. It was as if she simply did not care. All she had on was a silver neck cord.”
He looked at me with a raise of eyebrow and a twitch of lust, “As a prospective buyer, I could run my hands over her, check her muscle tone, other things … Her body was more firm than you could imagine, and not a scrap of hair on her, anywhere, if you get my meaning, except that flow of gold hanging from her head and her eyebrows.
“I do not mean trimmed pits and places, I mean she did not grow hair. Her arms, legs, even the little fuzz women have on the lips. She was smooth. I have never seen anything like her, before or since.
“I thought she was a pure-blood elf from Ch’Hahnju, perhaps a princess or other form of royalty, I am still not sure. Her ears pointed in a swept-back fashion, unlike most elves I have seen. The neck cord was seamless. How it got on her I could not figure out, unless it was magic. And her eyes were the deepest blue …”
Edgarfield seemed lost in memory. Hoscoe had been like that once, when relating me of his past.
“… but, there was something else, something I still do not understand. When she looked at me, it was as if she were seeing deep into my inner self. I felt as if she could see everything I had ever been, was, and ever would be. I felt as if she were about to spring forward and eat me, like a viper, or a large constrictor. But her body language, it was so docile.
“When I touched her, I expected a reaction, but there was none, none whatsoever.
“There were no blemishes on her body, no marks of the whip. Her skin had the most rich olive tone, and her body shone as if touched by the sun. She stood about five feet and a shade more than seven marks. I could not help wondering why she was being sold. The handler said her master had been found dead and she was being sold to cover debts.
“I knew something was wrong when there was no bidding against me. My thoughts had been to use her for pleasure, but her emotions, or lack thereof, took the thrill of that away straightway.”
He glanced at me, “Have you tried sex with a wooden statue with thin leather stretched tight across? For me, it ended with just trying to kiss her. And there was no, no penetration of any kind, anywhere; very frustrating. It was not as if it, you know, was not there … but rather as if she had clamped herself shut.”
Edgarfield slowly shook his head in irritation.
He rubbed his jaw in thought, “I asked if she had a name in three languages, and she just looked at me. Then with a flat tone in Nahjiuese she said, ‘I am called Lath.’ I hadn’t even tried speaking in Nahjiuese, how did she know it was my native tongue? At first I thought
it a coincidence, but now I am not sure.”
I thought, ‘Shael’s, she really got to him. Was he in love with her?’
“When I got back on the road with my crew, we were attacked in the night. I yelled, ‘To arms,’ and we fought. But she was the first one up. Shit, she grabbed a stick and took out three men like they were children. Right there I had the idea of fighting her. If I could not do the one, I could use her for another.
“My seventh champion had been killed, and there was not anyone with the talent to pursue the Primus, so I had gone out on search. Well, here was an opportunity, and I took it.
“Where she got her skills, I do not know. Where ever we went, no one knew of her, so I milked the angle for everything it was worth. She was good. I taught her nothing.
“She performed whatever duties I ordered, there was no complaint, no attempt to run. I believed, still believe, someone had somehow broken her spirit, taken the will right out of her.
“You and I have spoken more in conversation than we did in the six years I had her.”
“Six years?”
“Yes. Her communication was usually yes, no, or very simple answers to questions. If asked about her past, she would not make talk. No emotions, none at all, almost none.”
Again, he had that confused look. I gathered he did not like not having all the answers. Lath was obviously a puzzle he had never solved and it still worried him … that he hadn’t figured it out, I mean.
“Three times she showed passion, of any kind. The first was after touring Shudoquar; we made a stop in a town called Kynear. We drummed up a fight against some local want-to-be, but before the fight something happened. I do not know what it was to this day.
“One of my retainers said she saw something or someone in the crowd. After that, she acted strangely for days. It was as if she went into a moody funk. The only thought I had was there had been an elf type at the bath house. But we only saw him briefly.”
Edgarfield paused and glanced at me, “Have you ever been to Kynear, Gojai?”
Remembering that day when Parnell took me to the bath house, I did my very best to look confused, “Where is it?”