“I know, and neither will I.”
“It’s been a year.”
Vinny sighed. “It might seem like a long time to you, but people are still scared. You’ve seen how they react to black-eyed Zecorrans on the street. Even some Morrin are given a wide berth. It’s going to be years before we could look at arranging fights elsewhere, or bringing in champions from abroad.”
“All right, then what about moving it out of the shadows? What about a proper arena?”
Vinny offered a rare smile. “Don’t get too excited, but Dońa Jarrow has been charming all sorts of people. A few have said they’ll come to a fight.”
“What sort of people?”
“People with money, but more importantly, influence. Those who can whisper in the right ears. Maybe even get a whisper into the palace.”
Choss felt his chest swell. It’s what he’d always hoped would happen. Some people thought fighters were just butchers and thugs, pounding each other until they were bloody. They weren’t interested in talk of skill and stamina, the years of training and dedication, the sacrifices made. They thought the fights were low entertainment and should be kept in the shadows. But at every fight he’d see people from all areas of the city. The rich rubbing shoulders with the poor, and once or twice people in hoods surrounded by soldiers out of uniform. The Prince had also been semi-regular, maybe five or six times a year, until the war. Until they cut off his balls, to punish Queen Morganse for her rebellion.
Sometimes women sought out the fighters because they wanted to touch them and be part of it, if only for a moment. The touching sometimes led to more, but it was freely given. Others just wanted to give them gifts, money or their favour, usually a piece of cloth to wear during the fight. There were many deals to be made, under the table and above. All they needed to take the fights further was a chance.
“Just imagine if we could get one big sponsor. Someone with a name in the city,” said Choss.
“Feet on the ground, Choss,” said Vinny with a hint of reproach. “We’re not there yet.”
“Fair enough.”
“We just need to keep it clean. That’s another reason I sent Lostram away. He’d been using venthe to numb himself before a fight.”
Choss grimaced. “I’ll check on the other lads and look for the signs.” Using drugs to cheat wasn’t new, but Vinny had managed to keep the business clean for years.
“Send anyone you suspect my way. I’ll get to the truth.” Vinny drained the last of his tea, swallowing the little bits at the bottom with a grimace. Even so, the lines of pain on his face eased a little. “Speaking of clean, will you have a word with Gorrax? He won’t listen to anyone else.”
“I’ll do it now,” said Choss, heading out the door.
He crossed the hall and entered the changing room. Several large, well-built men were preparing for their fights, having a wash or getting dressed. Choss received more smiles of camaraderie from the fighters, as it wasn’t that long ago he’d been one of them. One or two called him champion or gave him a brief salute of respect, touching their heart with a fist. He wasn’t really a champion, since they’d not hosted fights from other countries yet, but he remained undefeated in Yerskania and they used the title just for him.
The room wasn’t big, but all of the fighters stayed away from the figure sat at the far end of the room. As Choss approached Gorrax, the green-skinned Vorga stood up, putting them at eye level. Gorrax was the average height for a green Vorga, at just under six and a half feet. Although there were faster men in the room, few could match the Vorga’s raw power and instincts in the ring.
“Good to see you,” said Gorrax, opening his mouth wide and giving Choss a clear view of his sharp teeth. It had taken Choss a while to realise it wasn’t a yawn or a smile. The Vorga had tried to explain it, but couldn’t find the right words. Choss had gathered that it was a sign of respect and a form of greeting between equals. It was also something the Vorga never did with anyone but him. Although it felt peculiar, Choss did the same, showing Gorrax his teeth.
“And you, my friend. Are you ready for your fight?”
Gorrax looked himself up and down, flexing his massive hands then shifting his neck left and right, making it crack. A network of pale scars covered his face and arms, chunks were missing from one wide ear and a few of the bony nodules around his jaw had been broken off. It meant nothing to him. Like scratches on the face of a blade. Vorga were born knowing how to fight and nothing short of death would stop Gorrax.
Dressed in a knee-length leather kilt and a loose vest over his bulky torso, Gorrax had everything he needed. His hands were his most dangerous weapons.
“Two arms, two legs, one head. Ready to fight,” said the Vorga. Choss smiled, knowing it was Gorrax’s attempt at humour. “What about you? Will you fight again?”
He always asked the same question. No one else had ever beaten the Vorga in the ring. Not since Choss had retired two years ago.
To lose, for a normal Vorga, went beyond shame, beyond embarrassment. Gorrax had once told him they didn’t have a word for defeat in his language. Vorga fought to win and the alternative was death. Fighting for money or the entertainment of others were alien ideas. But that was one of the things which made Gorrax an outcast from his people.
Choss didn’t know why the Vorga had come to Perizzi, but he was glad. No one had challenged him or fought as hard as Gorrax.
“Maybe one day, but not tonight.”
“I will be ready for you when the day comes,” promised Gorrax.
“Hear me,” said Choss, choosing his words carefully. “I need you to repeat the promise you made.”
Gorrax hissed through his teeth, the equivalent of a wince. “I do not need to say it.”
“Please Gorrax. For me.”
Gorrax remained silent for several long breaths before speaking. “Only for you,” he said, staring Choss in the eye. He maintained eye contact, knowing it mattered to the Vorga. “I promise I will not kill my opponent.”
“If you do, you won’t get paid.” The moment he said it Choss regretted the poor choice of words. Gorrax clacked his teeth and shook his head.
“Money doesn’t matter.”
“If you kill him, they’ll put you in a cold cell.”
“Cold is fine for me,” said Gorrax with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “No lock or door can hold me.”
“A cell in the east then, in the desert. Many long days far away from the sea, or even a river. Somewhere with no water.”
Gorrax hissed so loudly all other conversation stopped. Choss ignored the other fighters, keeping his eyes locked on Gorrax’s face. Being so far away from water horrified green Vorga. All of their cities, towns and villages were built along the coast and on the banks of the wide rivers that criss-crossed the west of their country. Only the blue Vorga wouldn’t care, as they came from the mountains, but they were least respected and smallest of the clans. As far as threats went it was the worst he could conjure up for Gorrax.
“I will not kill him,” spat Gorrax, looking away first and bowing his head. Guilt burned in Choss’s stomach, but it was the only way he knew. He laid a hand on Gorrax’s shoulder and after a moment the Vorga put one of his big hands on top, giving it a squeeze. Many times Choss had wondered why Gorrax had been cast out. Living in Perizzi couldn’t be easy for him. Surrounded by humans and Morrin. Being seen as the monster from children’s stories. Being feared by everyone and hated for what his people had done during the war.
“Thank you, Gorrax.”
“Yes, yes. Enough talk and touching,” said Gorrax, lifting his head. “More of this and I will think you want to sex me.”
Choss tried not to wince at the idea. Instead he laughed and withdrew his hand. Gorrax didn’t laugh but he did show his teeth again and Choss mirrored the gesture.
As he headed towards the door Choss noticed one of the fighters, Brokk, wiping his nose and sniffing. As Choss walked past, their eyes met and Brokk quickly turned
away. Choss crossed the hall and mentioned his suspicions to Vinny.
“Maker’s balls,” cursed Vinny. “Sounds like he’s on venthe. He’s next in the ring as well with Gorrax.”
“Do you want me to pull him from the fight?”
Vinny sighed. “No. We don’t have anyone else to take his place. I’ll speak to him after.”
“Are you sure?”
“It took me weeks to persuade him to fight the Vorga. It’s getting harder every time, but the crowds love it.” Vinny shook his head. “He’s a good kid, lots of potential. It’s a shame this’ll be his last fight for us.”
“We’re not turning away a lot of new fighters. Maybe we should give him a second chance?”
“We’ll see. Send him to my office after the bout,” said Vinny, getting to his feet. Choss followed his partner along the narrow corridors towards the ring and then up a set of stairs to the viewing platform.
The noise from the crowd started to build. A chorus of boos and hisses meant Gorrax had just stepped into the ring. As Choss walked onto the raised area above the crowd, people began to cheer as Brokk stepped between the ropes. He waved and blew kisses to women, flexed and danced about. Normally he wasn’t a showman and didn’t like to show off. Vinny had spotted it too and shook his head.
“This might be more serious than we thought,” Choss shouted over the noise of the crowd.
Gorrax didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe. He ignored the crowd and the noise. Choss could see his eyes on Brokk, following him as he played to the crowd. The referee brought them together in the centre of the ring, but neither man was really paying attention. Brokk seemed unable to stand still whereas Gorrax resembled a statue. The referee made a show of checking the wrappings on the hands of both opponents, but the real checks had been done earlier.
The referee gave up trying to engage them, quickly ran through the rules and then gestured to the side. As the bell rang, the crowd fell silent, waiting for the first punch.
Much to Choss’s surprise, Brokk attacked, laying into Gorrax with a series of jabs to the face. Maybe the venthe had given him a dose of courage. It wouldn’t last, especially against such an implacable opponent. Gorrax soaked up the blows like they were nothing, then retaliated with a cross that sent Brokk reeling. The crowd went wild, shouting and calling out a hundred insults and curses at the Vorga.
The cross had opened a cut above Brokk’s left eye. He angrily wiped at it then came forward again. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t take a moment to study his opponent. He just charged, lashing out with a blurring combination.
“Something’s wrong,” said Choss, but the noise swallowed his voice and Vinny didn’t hear.
Gorrax didn’t seem to feel any of the punches as he barely covered up. He took several on the chin, even a sharp uppercut from Brokk’s heavy right. The Vorga’s feet didn’t move and his head barely lifted. Instead of pulling back or working the body, Brokk went berserk, pounding the Vorga’s face as if he wanted to knock him down. Blood began to soak through the coverings on Brokk’s hands as his skin split on the Vorga’s bony face.
Gorrax let it continue for another minute without retaliating, then he responded, sending Brokk across the ring and against the ropes.
Before it could devolve any further the bell rang and the two fighters reluctantly separated, going to their corners.
Choss pulled Vinny close so he didn’t have to shout. “There’s something wrong with Brokk. He’s not just being reckless, he’s angry.”
Vinny’s eyes were wide. “It’s like he’s forgotten all his training.”
“I’m going down there,” said Choss, racing down the stairs. Vinny called something after him, but he didn’t hear. He had to do something. Speak to Brokk, maybe even stop the fight.
Brokk didn’t understand Gorrax and the Vorga. They were born to fight. It was in their blood and in their bones, going back hundreds of generations. Trying to bully Gorrax wouldn’t work. The only way to beat him wasn’t to match his strength but to outsmart him. To take him apart, like a butcher breaking down a carcass into different cuts of meat. It wasn’t that easy. It required giving something more, but Choss shied away from the thought. Away from what he’d done to win on that day two years ago.
The crowd began cheering and stomping their feet as he ran down one of the aisles towards the ring. It was getting worse. Brokk came out of his corner punching wild and reckless, going for dangerous shots, illegal low blows and even an elbow. The referee got up onto the edge of the ring to object but Brokk sent him tumbling away with the back of his hand. The crowd loved it. They seemed to think it was part of the show and not something to worry about.
By the time Choss had reached ringside Gorrax was under attack again. Brokk laid into his body, pounding him over and over again, trying to crack a rib or wind him. More blood had seeped through the wrappings on his hands. He left red splashes which stood out against the green of the Vorga’s skin. Gorrax clicked his tongue and Brokk misunderstood the sound. Choss remembered but even as he opened his mouth to warn Brokk it was too late.
It didn’t mean pain. It meant Gorrax was finally ready for battle. He had warmed up and would now get into the fight. Two lefts and a right sent Brokk back and three jabs cracked his nose. Gorrax pressed his advantage, dodged around a clumsy swing and drove two hard jabs into Brokk’s side. He gasped and stumbled, barely holding himself up, only managing it by resting a hand on the ropes. To his credit Gorrax stepped back.
The bell rang, marking the end of the second round, but Brokk ignored it. Instead he charged at Gorrax, lashing out wildly, catching the Vorga on the side of the face, finally splitting the skin.
The crowd shouted and screamed, so loud it made Choss’s ears ring. It seemed as if this was why they had really come. Not for sport, but to see two men beat each other to death. He felt something in the air. A strange prickling against his skin. A desperate hunger flowing towards the ring from every raised voice. He remembered that feeling but didn’t want to. The last time was when he’d been in the ring with Gorrax. People screaming for blood, desperate to see him break the Vorga into pieces. Smash him into a pulp, hear him beg and cry out in pain.
It had gone far enough. Choss started to climb onto the edge of the ring to stop the fight, but someone grabbed him from behind. He shook them off and tried to move forward again, but more hands pulled him back. To his surprise the hands belonged to people in the crowd, half a dozen men and women. More put their hands on him, locking him in place, weighing him down until sheer numbers stopped him from moving.
“What are you doing?” he shouted but they didn’t respond, didn’t seem to hear him. Looking in their eyes his heart skipped a beat. They were open and blinking, but they looked straight through him, as if they weren’t seeing him at all. As if none of them knew where they were or what was happening.
Looking at the crowd Choss saw the same distant expression over and over, even on the faces of those cheering. In the ring Brokk had become desperate. Blood ran from his hands, his elbows and even his knees were red. There were a few cuts on Gorrax, but not many. Something metal landed in the middle of the ring, glinting in the light. Brokk scooped it up and slashed at Gorrax’s arm.
This time the clacking sound he made with his tongue was one of pain. For a few seconds both fighters stopped and just stared at each other. Gorrax looked at the knife in Brokk’s hand, then the green blood dripping to the floor.
Something started to push its way forward from the back of Choss’s mind. Strong emotions he’d buried and dark thoughts that he’d never dare mention to anyone. With them came a terrible rage and inside his chest his heart began to race. Calling out for blood, calling out for the feeling of something breaking beneath his power. A sacrifice to his might.
Closing his eyes Choss blotted out the noise and went down into himself. Into the cool and calm place he lived in during a fight. It was the only way to win. By staying calm and letting his instincts guide him. Anger would
only get you so far. It might even help you to win a few fights, until you met someone with more stamina. He’d come too far to go back to that. He wasn’t that boy any more, trying to provoke his dad to hit him so that no one else got hurt.
With a roar that was lost in the crowd, Choss thrashed about, shaking off many hands, but more grabbed him. Brokk had cut Gorrax in half a dozen places and finally the Vorga started to let go. He’d made a promise, but it wouldn’t hold him indefinitely. Choss was actually surprised he’d lasted this long. Gorrax grabbed Brokk by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground and bit into his shoulder. The crowd cheered wildly at the sight of more blood splashing across the ring. Women were shrieking so much they sounded like birds and the men were growling like wild animals. As Choss’s heart thumped in his chest he heard a louder echo flowing around the arena. Something bigger and primal, like he’d rested his head against the chest of a ragged horse. A monstrous heartbeat filled the arena. A drumbeat so deep he felt it in his bones.
Brokk continued to slash at Gorrax and he retaliated in kind, biting chunks of flesh, ripping muscle and then finally snapping bone. One of Brokk’s arms came off, torn away at the shoulder, but he didn’t fall and blue foam bubbled from his mouth like a rabid dog. Brokk stabbed Gorrax in the stomach and with a shrill cry the Vorga grabbed his opponent by the neck and snapped it like a twig.
As the dead body hit the ring Choss heard a loud crack, like a tree breaking in a storm. But it was more than that. He felt it, as if someone had broken one of his bones deep inside, then snapped it back into place. The crowd fell silent. People began to shake, coming awake from a dark and terrible nightmare. A dream of blood and violence. A dream of slaughter.
Those holding Choss let go and stepped back, embarrassed and making apologies. No one seemed to know what they’d been doing or why. Everyone stared around the arena and finally all eyes came to rest on the ring. The bloody Vorga, splashed red all over, and the mangled, chewed body of Brokk on the floor.
People started screaming and panicking, pushing and shoving each other to get away from the ring. In a mad rush of feet the crowd scrambled to get out of the slaughterhouse. They didn’t want blood. They wanted to escape, to go back to their lives and forget what they’d seen. No matter how much he drank, or how hard he tried, Choss wasn’t sure he’d ever forget and he doubted they would too.
Bloodmage Page 3