by J P Nelson
Prancing around her in a close circle, hands raised in triumph to the stands, he spun about in dramatic anger as again Lath fought to rise.
Furious, Ginju yelled at her in his thick Tien Wu accent, words the crowd did not know, but which were later interpreted to mean, “Die you damned bitch!”
Vehemently he kicked her in the head, as if punting a leather ball from the game of pigskin. Grabbing her hair again to stand her up, he slapped her across the face with his right, followed with a backhand slap, then a left cross-punch, then stepping sideways into a spinning right back-fist … a strike he followed through with great dramatization.
Blood flew through the air as she clumsily spun about, landing not on her back, but on her right knee. Her face and golden hair now smeared in crimson, it did not seem she knew where she was.
Again, he was in front of her, cautious, but bellowing his rage as he slapped her time and time again, as she reeled from the blows but refused to fall. He rammed his knee into the side of her head, knocking her once more to the ground … but she slowly rolled to her knee and staggered back to her left foot in a kneeling position.
But even as Ginju had taken the upper hand, something was happening within the crowd. They were no longer chanting Ginju’s name. A full third of the spectators were female, and the temper of the crowd began to change. Not all at once, but it was there.
What’s more, the warrior class was seeing a fighter refusing to go down, they saw courage and heart within their champion … and who was this man from the west to insult a warrior of Dahruban with the flat of his hand? To kick, yes. To punch, of course, for that is the way of the coliseum, but to slap?
Ginju did not notice, but the masters did, and they were displeased.
Once more, the man strode up to his prey, but as he did a female voice from the stands yelled, “Do not take that shit!” Another woman shouted, “Kick him in the nuts!” Yet another woman screamed, “Slap him back Lath!” Then a man’s voice, “Kick his bastard ass!”
Offended by the words, Ginju looked about for the affronting voices. With renewed vigor, he reached to grab the blood soaked hair.
Suddenly, Lath stepped up and forward, her right foot stepping well between his feet and past his center, both of her hands upon his torso, and she shoved Ginju with an upward motion catching everyone by surprise. A full fifteen feet he hurtled through the air; landing on his back and rolling onto belly with force of the momentum.
The boom of the crowd’s yelling response was near deafening. As she wavered and fought to regain composure, she slung her matted hair as the crowd began to lavish encouragement upon her.
A voice cried, “Wo-o-oman-n-n PO-W-W-W-er-r-r!” As a stunned and shaken Ginju got up, and Lath kept trying to shake cohesiveness into her head, the chant began to pick up momentum, “Go-Lath-Go … Go-Lath-Go … Go-Lath-Go …” to the chagrin of the masters, and of a confused Ginju.
Again they circled as the stadium resounded with a stomp on the one and two count of the words “Go-Lath-” and a loud clap to the second, “-Go” … stomp-stomp-clap … stomp-stomp-clap … “Go-Lath-Go … Go-Lath-Go …
The masters were beside themselves, and Edgarfield was beaming.
Lath appeared to have blurred vision, as she had taken severe blows to the head. Edgarfield declared, “Her even being alive was a miracle in itself.”
As they circled and closed, they began to touch left fingers, then their hands, as they seemed to be feeling each other out. Like a darting tongue from a serpent, Lath seized his wrist and stepped back, yanking Ginju off of his feet and into the hook of her arm, causing him to do a full flip, landing on his face from her clothesline as the crowd cheered.
She turned to press the advantage, but her action was too slow as he rolled sideways and up, then jumped up for a right and left toe-thrust combination. Lath slap-blocked both strikes, then with unbelievable speed executed her patented spinning-crescent-kick again.
He ducked the kick, but as she planted the foot down, she immediately snapped it back up to catch him with a cross kick into the face, knocking teeth into the air, followed by another spin with the opposite foot into a side-kick to the torso.
The kick lifted Ginju up and back, but he landed on his knees as he clutched his ribs. She went for a knee-lift to his head, but he lunged in to catch her, lifting her up sideways, and went back with a perfect suplex, dropping her solid on head and shoulders.
As Lath fought to roll away and stand, Ginju quickly seized her left hand and slid his body under, reaching up with his legs around her chest, over her right shoulder, and crossed his legs tightly about her neck in a triangle-choke.
Many a man has died in the arena from this move, and the crowd was now in a frenzy for Lath. She fought to find purchase and stand as the chant was now a steady, “Lath-Lath-Lath-Lath---”
As she got up behind him, Ginju was bobbing his head and intently applying the pressure, not just trying to close off the blood supply, but to break her neck. Waving her right arm and fighting for coherence, Lath managed to lift him up from the ground and drop him on his shoulders. Twice she did this, but the height was not enough to stun, and the second time he managed to pivot and throw her to the ground.
The masters were yelling themselves hoarse for Ginju to kill her.
Only the feeble wave of her hand showed the fans she was still alive as he doubled his efforts. Ginju arched his body in an attempt to finish his foe once and for all. He curled his body once to throw her back down, then a second time.
Once more he attempted the move … but somehow she got one knee under her, then a foot, and stood; bracing herself for one last effort. The unbelievable strength of the woman put all in awe as Ginju tried again to snap her down. But as he lurched with the attempt, Lath got her free hand under his back, then with superhuman effort lifted him in an arc, up into the air, and hard over onto his face.
Ginju’s face was a caricature of shock, as he quickly released his hold and put up his hands to prevent smashing his face into the sand. As he fell, Lath sprang back to get distance, falling in the process. She staggered up, oblivious to the roar of cheers throughout the stadium.
Again the enemies faced each other, circling with resolve to send the other to journey Cherron’s Road. Seeing Lath stagger, Ginju once more began to taunt her, but with words indiscernible to anyone else’s ears. Again they reached tentative fingers out to touch. After moments of circling in this fashion, it was he who snatched her wrist and pulled her back. But as he did, she skipped forward and stepped under his arm and reversed the wrist-grab into a twisting arm-bar.
Behind and to his side, she raised her knee high and smashed Ginju in the face, then down hard on his bare foot’s instep. Back-flipping up the front of his body and onto his shoulder, she wrapped her legs around his head. Torquing hard, she curled under and threw the man violently to the ground and rolled sideways to her feet.
Still staggering, she slung her head, sending a wave of mingled blood and sweat through the air. This time it was she who spoke, loudly so all could hear in his own tongue. Words which were later translated to mean, “So … you wish to tame me, do you not?! Greet well your father, and your brothers …”
He got up and turned to meet her assault, but he was not this time prepared. Stepping in with a deep, left foot forward stance, Lath smashed him full in the chest with her right palm, a strike punctuated with a sound more like a roar than yell. The blow staggered the man from Tien Wu, but it did not throw him back.
Ginju’s face was a study in confused contortions as he staggered back three steps, blood suddenly streaming from his mouth. He did not seem to be able to evade, as Lath struck him hard in the face with a cross-hooking-kick, then delivered a smashing spinning-crescent-kick that spun him completely around … as Lath went airborne into a vicious, serpent-like spinning motion, landing into a side-kick which delivered a sound heard all across the coliseum.
Edgarfield affirmed, “You could see his chest cave
in … he flew twenty-five feet if he flew an inch, landing on his back with a thud.”
In the air once more, Lath whipped her body in a spinning move, landing in a stomp to his jaw and throat with a blood-curdling yell, a yell punctuated with a long grinding motion into his neck.
Stepping back from his convulsing body, she looked with purpose to the northeast sky … whipped her blood-soaked hair in defiance … raised her right fist to the heavens … and released a primordial roar which made chills run up the spine of all who heard.
Chapter 30
WE SAT THERE together, Edgarfield and me, against adjoining walls in my cell. I was amazed at the detail he was able to embellish in the telling of the tale. For a time we were quiet; he in his memories, me, because I was simply fascinated with Lath.
I broke the silence as I asked, “So … what happened? What kept her from going beyond eleven months? What made you sell her?”
He seemed to be coming out of a dream. Wrinkling his brow, he looked at me, then to the bars of the cell door, and wiping his mouth he glanced to my bunk and back at me. It was as if he had come to a sudden realization.
Calmly standing up, he looked at me and said, “You learn very quickly, Gojai. I think our time of personal training is at an end. You will have as many men to practice with as you require. But there is one last thing I wish to enumerate with you.”
Edgarfield motioned me to get up.
“I have been thinking of your snake-arm-choke. I believe we can add something to make it even more effective.”
As simple as that, our sessions came to an end. Our conversations came to an end, as well. Sure, he came to my cell to make sure I was healthy and what-have-you. He always talked with me about my opponent before a fight. And he always came to check afterwards.
When he spoke he was always polite, hey, I was his meal ticket and I won. But any rapport we had established was gone, as if it had never been.
Had I gone too far in asking a simple question, or three, for those who are keeping track? Questions were my way. Hoscoe had encouraged it. Of course, I was once more a slave. But shael’s, I was no longer the same person I was when a child. So, what was I?
There was never a shortage of men for me to train with; all I had to do was tell the floor guard I wanted someone for practice. Pretty much I had someone in my cell working out six to eight hours a day, five and six days a week. Even the days I fought, and I fought the lesser venues twice a week, I would spend some time practicing.
When Edgarfield mentioned my learning fast, it wasn’t some innate talent I had. My momma had somehow coached me along in Bardic Ways when I was little. Of course, the elvin term is Tell Singer, but most folk wouldn’t know what I was talking about.
I’m not exactly sure what Bardic is and what isn’t, in the way of learning, but what I have is what I do, if that makes sense. If it involves music, sounds, or movement of any kind, I can go inside my mind and do it over, and over, and over again, and again, and … well, you get my point. Anyway, when I concentrate and I do this, it feels as if I am actually doing it, real time.
What is really surreal about it all, is I can do it for hours, except it only takes a couple of minutes. Does that make any sense to you? I don’t go into another world, or anything, I don’t think, but time passes by in my mind when it seems to stand still for real. That is how I learned Edgarfield’s entire style in only six seeks. He could show me a move two, maybe three times, then do it to me so I could feel it, and that was all I needed. When he left my cell I would just sit on my cot and meditate on it.
Hoscoe once told me, “I do not know how you do it, but you have skill to sword and blade such as one with twenty times your years of practice.” That was when we had been training for two years. Then he would look at me with his coffee mug in hand and add, “With proper experience put to practiced skill, you could be the finest blades-man this world has ever seen.”
As a fighter in the pits and coliseum, I could not put his name to my lips for shame of my position. But often I imagined turning to find him within my cell asking, “What are you doing here, Wolf?”
I would stand there, not knowing how to answer.
He would say in that fatherly tone, “You are destined for better things. You have a purpose.”
“But what?” Hanging my head I would ask, “I don’t deserve---”
“What? What do you not deserve?”
A tear would run down my cheek.
“Wolf? Look at me. Do you not to lower your eyes.”
I would look up, but he would be gone.
I hated my imagination. It was a curse upon me.
They hung my requested bag in the middle of my cell and guards would sometimes come to watch me hit it. As I trained, however, I began to burn with something stuck in my mind. It wasn’t the eventual fight in the Primus, it was something else.
Edgarfield had told me, “Even with all of your fire, Gojai, all of your heart, I do not think you could beat her.” Those words rankled. It isn’t that I wanted to beat Lath. No, for her I had other ideas of which are none of your business. No, it was the implication that if Ginju Santoki Men’Choi, considered a master by Edgarfield, came close to beating her but didn’t, where did that put me?
Suddenly … I determined that whatever it was I did, I would be the best there was, or leave it alone. Resolution encased my mind. If I was going to fight, if I were going to become Coliseum Champion, I would be the best champion anyone had ever seen.
As I hit the bag I went over every fight I had been in, from my first real stab at the slave boy, Jaymes, to my fight with Stagus, the altercation with Daines and fellows in front of Baldwin’s, everything.
Whump … whump … whump … as I struck the canvas with focus and deliberation … get the movements perfect with timing, technique, rhythm, and power.
I studied the intricate description of Lath and Ginju’s fight, as told by Edgarfield. I imagined myself in Lath’s place, then Ginju. How would I do it better, or different, even?
Jab … jab … jab-jab … jab-jab-cross …jab-cross-knee-elbow … uppercut-switch-uppercut-switch-uppercut-uppercut-uppercut-CROSS!
With each strike the chain connecting the bag to the ceiling jangled. The guards just watched and muttered to themselves.
Jab … jab … cross …
I got my bowl of fruit, but not the extra meals … not right away, that is. Not until after my match with Jindowur.
Jindowur was not big, at least not bigger than me. Usually it seemed I was always fighting someone who looked like they could eat me for breakfast. He wasn’t big, but he was mean. A former bodyguard for unsavory folk in the hierarchy of Stafford, he fell out of favor … which is pretty bad when you fall out of favor with unfavorable folk, and you aren’t well liked to begin with.
He then put some time in as a highwayman on the Pihpikow Road. According to Edgarfield, he was a cold-blooded killer, rapist, and was trying to break into child trafficking. We weren’t friends, but Edgarfield always played it straight with me, I think. What I mean is, he didn’t tell me things to rile my blood and play my moods. He knew better, he knew I just didn’t care.
Edgarfield told this for a reason. A person put into prison was open game for many reasons. Often you were forced into a pecking order, unless you were really, really tough. I’ve seen big, rough men get taken down by a group and put to place. Most folk ignore it happens, but it does. No matter how bad you are, or think you are, sooner or later you have to sleep.
I was left alone. For one, I was almost never in with a group. For another, it was known I would kill without remorse. There were those who insisted I was insane because of the look in my eyes. I was also held in high regard due to my arena record. Even the six-foot-six guards with their swords and daggers preferred to not get within touch range. I didn’t mind, so long as they left me alone.
But Jindowur, he was a rapist and trafficked in children. In the prison system, as far as I know across the whole world, even
though you were likely to be raped by inmates, a rapist or abuser of children is usually first to go down. More often than not, they are quickly turned into living toilets if not outright killed. Jindowur had gone unscathed, and was now Coliseum Champion.
Edgarfield had coached me from the beginning, when Jindowur first won the title only two weeks after my fight with Challero. But when he came for our talk just before my big night, he briefed me again, “Keep this in mind, Gojai, he was a bodyguard for some of the top personalities in Stafford. You have been there, you know the kind of city it is.
“He is an inside fighter with a high degree of skill, and he is a master of the small blade; bodyguard, remember?
“Jindowur is of wiry physique and exceptional tone. And he has made conversion of his small blade techniques to his empty hands.
“His weakness is his perfection. When he secures a hold it has never failed. You are a superb outside fighter, but should he get inside and secure a lock, let him break the bone. In fact,” he looked at me, “let him get a lock, so that he can.”
I looked up at him from my side of the bars, a look of incredulity on my face, “You want me to do what?”
He passed a sardonic grin, “Once he makes the break, he will believe he has won. He will let down his guard, allowing you ease to make your play. And I know you can deal with the situation.”
Anger raised up within my belly, but I choked it down. I had made a major mistake, another one, I should say. He knew I could heal, at least to a point, and he was going to exploit the knowledge. I wondered what else would be in store in fights to come. Edgarfield was right there in front of me. All I had to do was reach …
Casually, Edgarfield stepped back and straightened his garment.
“He has had championship for just over eight weeks. Already he is growing soft in the syndrome.”
What he was referring to was Zumfordine Syndrome. It could be applied to many things, but among Dahruban Coliseum fighters, it referred to champions who suddenly get soft.