Swain snorted. “Be more creative with your insults, Hakim. Unless you’re too stupid to think of anything better than mocking our names.”
Hakim scowled. “Always the life of the party, Swain.” His eyes roamed the rest of Swain’s crew and stopped when they fell on Evren. “I see you’ve brought fresh meat to my grinder. Have we already beaten the rest of your boys bloody?” He cracked his knuckles loudly.
“Maybe,” Swain said with a careless shrug. “I came to talk, but if we can’t reach an agreement, I’m willing to settle things the street way.”
“The only thing I’ll agree to is keeping control of the Prime Bazaar.” Hakim grinned. “So long as you keep your grubby Claws out of my prime spots, I won’t have to turn any more of your boys into swine-food.”
“You know the Prime Bazaar is our territory,” Swain said with a shake of his head. “We’ve been running it since the Wardens swept up the last of the Crooked Hands two years ago. You Pincers took over the Court of Judgement, and the Talons have the kaffehouses.”
Hakim shrugged. “Perhaps, but now we’re looking to expand our operations. We’re twice your size, which means we get twice the turf. The Prime Bazaar’s just right for us. Unless you can stop us, we’re taking it.”
Swain cocked an eyebrow. “And leaving us with…?”
“Wherever the hell else you can scrape together a few coins.” Hakim gave a dismissive wave. “I’m sure there are some pockets you can pick along Leper’s Lane. Or maybe you can set up shop outside the North Gate and lighten the purses of the rich noblemen heading out to find the Lost City. If we haven’t already lightened their purses for them, that is.”
“Well, that just doesn’t work for me,” Swain said. “Prime Bazaar’s ours and that’s final.”
“Then, I guess we’re doing this the fun way.” Hakim shrugged out of his bright red tunic and handed it to one of his companions. The boy had solid chest, shoulder, and midriff muscles, with nearly a dozen knife scars marring his deep gold skin. “You and me, boss against boss. Winner takes the turf. Or are you still refusing to face me yourself?”
Swain shot the boy a mocking grin. “You’re not worth the effort.” He turned and clapped Evren on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet even the newbie can turn you inside out without breaking a sweat.”
Hakim scowled. “Sending someone else to do your dirty work? They should call you the Yellow Belly, Swain.”
Swain said nothing, but anger flashed in his eyes as he turned to Evren. “Tomaz told me how quickly you took him and his crew apart, which is the only reason I let you into the Claws. Time for you to prove him right.”
Evren raised an eyebrow. “You’re expecting me to fight him for you?”
“Not just fight,” Swain growled. “Win. Prime Bazaar belongs to the Claws, and the only way the Pincers’ll back off is if you pound their boss to a pulp. Lose the fight, we lose the turf. If that happens, I won’t just make you pay.” His expression turned hard, cruel. “Tomaz will suffer. And your little brother.”
Evren went cold inside as he saw Tomaz’ pale face. From the boy’s expression, he had no doubt Swain would keep his word.
“I’ll fight,” he said, “but not for free.”
Swain’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Evren fixed Swain with a hard glare. “I win this fight, you never touch Daver again. Ever.”
For a moment, Swain remained silent. “That’s it?” he asked, snorting. “No better room, no higher status? No coins or clothes? That’s all you want?”
“Yes.” Evren nodded. “Those are my terms.” The same terms he’d reached with Rhyris, Dracat, and all of the other ninth-years organizing the fights in the Master’s Temple. His willingness to fight had kept Daver out of the ring. He’d fight again if it meant keeping Daver safe from Swain’s ruthlessness.
“Done.” Swain shook his head and threw up his hands. “And here I was expecting a big ask.”
Evren sized up his opponent as he strode around Swain. Hakim was easily a hand and a half taller than him, his shoulders broader, his arms longer. The scars on his hands, forearms, and chest spoke of surviving numerous knife and fist-fights. He stood in the stance of an experienced fighter: feet spread slightly, right foot back, knees bent in a crouch, shoulders squared, chin tucked low. Despite his mocking smile, his eyes remained fixed on Evren and a hint of wary tension lined his face.
“You know the rules?” Hakim asked.
Evren shook his head.
“Last man standing’s the victor.” Hakim rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck loudly. “Try and give me a decent fight, eh? Make it a little fun at least.”
Evren stopped just out of the boy’s reach and squared off without a word. Loud mouths never won fights.
“You got this, Hakim!” cried one of the Pincers behind Evren’s opponent.
“Take him down!” called Tomaz.
Evren turned to glance over his right shoulder and shoot a thumbs-up to his crew. He heard a sharp intake of Hakim’s breath and the scrape of booted feet on the ground.
Just as he’d hoped, Hakim had taken the bait.
Instead of turning back—no doubt to meet the powerful punch aimed at his face or midsection—Evren continued spinning to the right, twisted his hips, and drove his right heel back in a mule kick. Hakim’s punch slid over his dropping left shoulder, and his kick caught the Pincer’s leader in the gut. The boy’s breath exploded from his lungs and he staggered backward.
Evren regained his balance in an instant and pursued Hakim, throwing quick jabs to knock him off-guard and set up a powerful right cross that again struck the larger boy in the gut, right below the ribs. He ducked Hakim’s wild swing, but the boy’s spinning backfist caught him in the side of the face. The blow rocked him for an instant, and Hakim waded in with both fists. Evren had to give ground to avoid the powerful, uncontrolled punches.
Hakim’s blows slowed as he tired quickly, and Evren seized the opportunity to bring his left fist up into Hakim’s liver. The larger boy hunched over his right side, and Evren snapped off a low kick that caught Hakim in the left knee. Hakim’s leg wobbled and he stumbled off-balance. Evren’s body shot struck him in the gut a third time.
Vomit exploded from Hakim’s mouth, spewing across the muddy alley. Hakim fell to his hands and knees, gasping and retching. Evren didn’t give him a chance to recover but brought his knee around into the side of Hakim’s head. The blow sent the larger boy to his face in the mud. Evren finished him off with a sharp kick to his face, and Hakim lay still, unconscious. Blood trickled from his broken nose and split lip to mingle with the vomit and muck covering the ground.
When Evren looked up, he found the five remaining Pincers staring at him and their fallen leader open-mouthed. For a moment, utter silence filled the alleyway.
“Hah!” Swain’s laughter shattered the calm. “How do you like that, Hakim?”
Evren glanced back in time to see Swain walking the five steps to where the larger boy lay unconscious. He snorted loudly and spat a gob of phlegm onto Hakim’s prone form.
“Champion!” Swain clapped Evren on the back. “Anyone else want to take a run at him?”
None of the Pincers seemed inclined to answer.
“Then, the outcome is final,” Swain said in a cold voice. “Prime Bazaar is ours, and if I hear any of you pricks are angling or lifting on our turf, I’m going to send my champion here to hunt you down. Is that clear?”
“Y-Yes,” stammered one of the Pincers.
“Good.” Swain sneered. “Now, get your boss out of here before he drowns in his own vomit.”
The five boys raced to gather up the unconscious Hakim and haul him back down the alley.
Swain remained unmoving, watching the retreating Pincers with a cold scowl. Once the boys had disappeared, he turned to Evren and wrapped a hand around his shoulder. “You did good, newbie. Where in the Keeper’s name did you learn to fight like that?”
“Hell,” Evren said in a
low voice. He had more than fifty fights under his belt— both hard-won victories and bone-shattering defeats. Hakim hadn’t come close to being his toughest battle.
Swain cocked an eyebrow. “Fine,” he said. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s your right. But the fact remains that you fight like a bloody demon. You and me, we’re going far together.”
Evren shrugged out of Swain’s grip. “Only if you hold up your end of our deal.”
“Our deal?” Swain gave a dismissive wave. “Keeper’s teeth, you keep dropping opponents like that, you can ask for whatever you want!” He clapped Evren’s shoulder. “Starting with a drink of the finest wine you’ve ever tasted. On me!”
The mercurial shift in Swain’s personality sent a shudder down Evren’s spine. He’d fought opponents like Swain before, and they were dangerous in their unpredictability. He couldn’t abandon Daver to go with Kaltris; now that Swain knew what he could do, there was no way the Claws’ leader would let him leave. Deal or no, Daver would suffer if Evren fled.
Once again, he was trapped with no way out. He’d exchanged his prison at the Master’s Temple for another on the streets.
Chapter Seven
Swain’s offer of drinks had turned into a full-blown mid-morning meal in the quiet back room of The House of Wisdom, an inn famous for its stuffed grape leaves. In the comfort of the private dining chamber, Evren forgot all about his worries for a few minutes as he dug into the generously-spiced mixture of rice, meat, and vegetables swimming in rich ox-tail broth. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days and had no idea when he’d get another. He’d enjoy Swain’s generous mood while it lasted.
Yet, once he’d eaten his fill, he found himself worrying about Daver. As Swain kept ordering more goblets of the delicious Nyslian red wine, Evren couldn’t stop wondering what the smaller apprentice was doing. Had he gone back to Kaltris to earn a few more coins, or was he waiting back at their Warren for him to return?
Thoughts of Kaltris soured Evren’s mood. If the merchant couldn’t take him and Daver both, he’d have to reject his kind offer. Even if Kaltris agreed to accept both of them, he wasn’t certain he could leave the street gang anyway. Now that Swain knew what he could do, the Claws’ leader would want to keep him close.
“Drink up, newbie!” Swain clapped him on the back and nudged his goblet closer. “It’s a great day to be a Claw. We got our turf back from those Pincer pricks, and Hakim’s going to think twice before trying to take it from us again. Hell, all the other gangs are going to.”
The Claw leader leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You didn’t just beat Hakim. You destroyed him. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Pincers have a new leader before nightfall.”
Evren hid a wince. Back in the alley, his survival instincts had kicked in and he’d fought for his life. He hadn’t meant to trounce Hakim, but he’d faced so many larger, stronger, and heavier opponents in the Master’s Temple that he’d battled the Pincer leader the way he’d planned to fight Engerack. Dracat, Rhyris, and the other ninth-years always stopped the fight before one of the fighters ended up dead, but they always let it continue until one of them was beaten bloody and senseless.
But that was the way of life, wasn’t it? No one else would fight for him. No one would protect him from people like Swain or the Lecterns.
Swain’s face grew suddenly serious. “But we’re not just here to celebrate.” He glanced toward the closed door that shut their tastefully-decorated back room off from The House of Wisdom’s common room. “We’re here to talk, you and me.”
“About?” Evren raised an eyebrow.
“About the Lecterns.” Swain drew something from within his robes and placed it on the table.
Ice slithered down Evren’s spine as his gaze rested on the platinum crescent moon pendant Swain had taken from him. He tried to conceal his anxiety with a nonchalant question. “What about them?”
Swain scratched his chin. “Well, about why exactly you and your brother have their pendants.” He held up a hand before Evren could respond. “Don’t bother trying to deny it. I went to a friend of mine to see about melting it down, and when he refused to so much as touch it, I found myself growing curious. Imagine my surprise when I hear the tale of two apprentices fleeing the Master’s Temple two nights ago. Then I think to myself, ‘I know two lads who might just fit the bill’.”
“Do you really believe that Daver and I—" Evren began.
“Damn right I do!” Swain’s quiet tone held a dangerous, menacing edge. “This pendant is all the proof I need. That, and the fact that you two show up on my turf the morning after two apprentices around your age escape the Lecterns.”
Evren’s gut clenched. He studied Swain’s face for any indication of what he’d say next. He had no doubt the Claws’ leader would hand him over to the Lecterns if it got him what he wanted. The question now was what the bloody hell did Swain want?
“Rest easy, newbie.” Swain gave him a hollow smile. “I’m not going to turn you in.”
Something about the way he said it made Evren uneasy.
“See, when I hear about two apprentices escaping the temple, it gets me thinking.” Swain tapped a filthy fingernail against his now-empty goblet, filling the small room with a repetitive clinking. “If apprentices can get out, maybe it means there’s a way for someone to get in.”
Evren’s stomach tightened, and the wine threatened to come back up. Swain couldn’t be so foolish as to think—
The Red Grinner grinned. “You and me, we’re going to rob the Master’s Temple.”
“Not a bloody chance!” Evren clenched his fists. “There’s no way I’m going back in there and much less to steal from the Lecterns.”
Swain’s smile froze, and his eyes turned icy. “Did I make it sound like I was asking?” He leaned forward. “I’m telling you we’re doing it.”
“And I’m telling you trying to get into the Master’s Temple is the stupidest, most suicidal thing you could do,” Evren retorted. “Between the Wardens guarding the front and all the apprentices and Lecterns inside, there’s no way we can get in and out unnoticed.”
“You and your brother managed just fine.”
“We got lucky!” Evren slammed his palm onto the table. “We escaped because all of the Lecterns were trying to get a look at the Caliph during the midnight service. It was only by the Mistress’ luck that all the apprentices were locked away in their cells. There’s no way we’ll get lucky twice.”
“Sure there is.” A smug grin spread Swain’s face. “You’ll find a way, because if you don’t, I’m going to beat your brother to death right in front of you.” His hand dropped to his dagger. “After that, I’ll cut off your hands and feet, then move on to your tiny prick and shove it down your throat. Imagine a death like that, choking on your own manhood.”
Across the table, Tomaz’ face had gone pale. Even two of the larger boys who served as Swain’s bodyguards seemed stunned by the threat. Only the third, the largest of the lot, showed no surprise. His hand also hovered by the rusted knife at his belt, and he watched Evren with wary eyes.
For a moment, Evren contemplated drawing his own blade and trying to kill Swain. He’d never taken a life before, but he’d come mighty close during his fights in the temple. To save Daver’s life, he’d seriously consider it.
“I’ll give you a chance to think about it.” Swain’s congenial smile returned. “Let’s say, sunset tonight? If I haven’t gotten an answer, I’ll have Herond here bring Daver to me then I’ll send every other Claw to bring you in. You fight well, but you’ll be just one against the rest of us.” He said all this without losing his broad grin. “And, for every bruise you inflict, I’ll give Daver two. For every cut or bloody nose, I’ll double it on your brother. Is that clear?”
A fist of iron squeezed Evren’s heart, and acid surged in the back of his throat.
“You’re welcome to try and run,” Swain said, taking a sip of his wine. “The desert sands are always thirsty
for more corpses. But know that I’ve got people keeping an eye on your brother right now. If you do try to flee, I’ll know, and I’ll send the Lecterns after you. You won’t get far.” He set the goblet down on the table and held up the pendant before Evren’s eyes. “Trust me when I say it’s in your best interest to give me what I want.”
The Claws’ leader slung the pendant around his neck, pushed back his chair, and strode from the back room with his three bodyguards in tow. Tomaz hesitated only long enough to shoot a remorseful gaze at Evren before he followed.
Evren sat in stunned silence. His stomach churned in time with his racing thoughts. What could he do? He had no doubt Swain would follow through on his threat. His only hope lay in finding Daver, losing the boys following the apprentice, and convincing Kaltris to take them both with him. They could hide among the crates piled on the merchant’s wagon until they had left Vothmot far behind. He had no idea what Mountainfall had to offer, but he ought to be able to find some way to earn coins there. They could start a new life away from Vothmot, the Master’s Temple, and Swain.
He had to find Daver. Now.
The thought snapped him into action. He knocked over his chair in his hurry to race out of the back room and stumbled into a wobbling drunk, sending the man crashing into a wooden table. Angry shouts of protest followed him out into the street.
The food and wine sloshed in his belly as he ran, but he swallowed the surge of vomit before it came up. The Summer Market was only ten or fifteen streets away. He’d start the search for Daver there. If the apprentice wasn’t with Kaltris or begging on the same corner, he’d head back to the Warren and see what he could find. Someone had to know where Daver was—someone who wasn’t working for Swain.
He slowed to a walk as he caught sight of a patrol of Wardens. Sunlight glinted off their mirrored plate armor and the naked scimitars in their hands. Evren ducked out of the street before they caught sight of him and cut through an alleyway that led toward the marketplace.
A sense of urgency pounded in the back of his mind. He glanced up at the sky and found the sun just passing midday. He had until sundown to find Daver and escape Swain. Would he have enough time?
Defiant Guardians Anthology Page 22