The Book Knights

by J. G. McKenney

  A ribbon of tobacco smoke hung in the warm, moist air. Through the wispy cloud, strings of incandescent lights dangled from rusty steel girders, bathing the canvas stage in a warm yellow glow, illuminating the faces of the restless audience crowded around it. There were so many people crammed into the warehouse that most found it difficult to move. A push or a shove often resulted in an elbow or a punch, brawls breaking out like bubbles in a boiling pot. Any prolonged wars over territory were extinguished by the bouncers, but occasionally, a particularly enthusiastic patron would receive a good clubbing before being dragged to the door and tossed into the street. The stench and heat only added to the throng’s discomfort and aggression. Arti wondered how many of the angry outbursts were the result of men reaching into their pockets, only to discover that their money was gone—now in the possession of the two girls sprawled on the platform high above them.

  A bell rang, and the restless crowd answered it with a deafening roar of approval. Bodies ebbed and flowed like waves washing against the sides of the raised ring. A tall, gangly referee with grey stubble on his head and chin stepped through the ropes onto the canvas stage, escorting the first pair of combatants.

  They were small, wiry men about Arti’s size. One was fair-skinned, the other a shade darker than Gal. Barefoot and dressed only in baggy shorts that hung to their knees, they bounced up and down, swinging their arms back and forth, faces frozen in steely determination, animal ferocity burning in their eyes. The crowd became quiet as the referee pointed to the fair-skinned fighter, his raspy voice rising above the din of the crowd.

  “In this corner, from Crent, with ten wins and one loss, Mori ‘Little Tiger’ Igumi!”

  Half of the spectators screamed their approval, apparently backing the slender easterner.

  “And in this corner, from the Astengan port of Valeeza, with twenty-six wins and two losses, Neeka ‘The Viper’ Cominell!”

  A second explosion of cheers erupted from the Astengan’s supporters. More pushing and shoving ensued, and another small riot next the ring was beaten down by the bouncers.

  With a signal from the referee the bell sounded again, and the tiny gladiators flew at each other. Arti couldn’t believe how fast the two men moved. Flurries of kicks, chops, and punches came in lightning flashes. The combat carried them back and forth across the ring; first one was the aggressor, then the other. Each man had his own style. The Little Tiger employed a formal martial art—balanced kicks and punches—while the Viper spun, bent, and cartwheeled around his opponent, delivering strikes from all angles. The action continued for a few minutes without pause, and no quarter was offered by either combatant.

  “Who do you think’s gonna win?” asked Gal, without lifting her eyes from the ring below.

  Arti was so absorbed in the action that it took her a moment to acknowledge the question. “I…I don’t know. They’re both so fast.”

  Just then, the fighter from Crent kicked the Astengan square in the jaw, sending him sprawling on the mat. The crowd roared again, and Arti immediately amended her statement.

  “He is. The Little Tiger.”

  Gal turned to Arti. “Wanna bet?”

  Arti looked at Gal, puzzled by the challenge. Couldn’t she see what was happening? The Viper was down, and he would have to concede the match or risk further injury. Ignoring the little voice in her head that warned of another Gal trick, Arti accepted the gamble.

  “Okay. What’s the wager?”

  “The loser’s gotta fill the bucket for the crapper the next three times,” replied Gal. She held out her hand, waiting for Arti to accept.

  Arti almost laughed out loud. If there was one chore she hated, it was lugging the bucket full of water all the way from the canal to the school.

  “Fine,” she said, shaking Gal’s hand. But as soon as the contract was sealed, a devious smile appeared on her young friend’s face.

  After a celebratory lap of the ring, arms raised in triumph, the Little Tiger moved in to finish off his injured adversary, leaning over the Astengan’s prone body, slowly raising a leg above the helpless man’s head, playing to the crowd. Arti covered her face with her hands, not wishing to witness the strike, but curiosity got the best of her, and she peeked through her fingers. A chant was now echoing through the warehouse: Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!

  There were other voices below the clamor, warning the Little Tiger that he was leaving himself open for attack, that his overconfidence was a mistake. The caution went unheeded, and just before the Crentian could answer his fans and deliver the final blow, the Viper rolled backward into a somersault, kicking out his legs in a scissor movement, ratcheting them around the Little Tiger’s neck. With a sudden jerk, the Crentian was hurled to the mat, his back hitting the floor so hard the slap of skin against canvas could be heard by everyone in the building. He remained motionless as the Viper sprung to his feet, raising his hands in victory. The referee, kneeling next the unconscious man, concurred, pointing to the Astengan. A new chant reverberated through the warehouse, so loud it seemed as if the roof might collapse on top of Arti and Gal: Viper! Viper! Viper!

  “Will he be okay?” asked Arti, above the din.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Gal, nonchalantly. Under the care of the referee, the Crentian was now stirring, confused and disoriented. “See, he just got his bell rung.”

  Arti turned on Gal. “You knew it was trick. Didn’t you?”

  Gal started laughing. “The Viper did the same thing to a Verinese fighter a year ago. Can’t believe the Crenchy fell for it.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested Arti. “You cheated!”

  “I didn’t cheat,” replied Gal, shrugging off the accusation. “I just did what you always tell me to do. I made an…etchacated guess.”

  Arti smiled and rolled her eyes. “Call it what you want, but I’m not filling the pail the next three times.”

  “Twice then,” offered Gal. “I wasn’t sure the Viper was fakin’.”

  Arti relented. “Okay, twice. But I’m going to get you back.” She narrowed her eyes at Gal. “When you least expect it.”

  The following two fights, although not nearly so dramatic as that of the lightweight match, were even more brutal. One featured two North Verinese middleweights exchanging heavy blows for a full twenty minutes before the bell sounded, and the referee declared the fight a draw. The warriors staggered from the ring on the arms of supporters, each vowing loudly to finish the fight—inside or outside the ring. The next bout, a heavyweight grudge match between two Isle dockers, was conceded when one of the fighters received a bone crushing knee to his ribs that resulted in a punctured lung. The loser was lifted from the ring spitting mouthfuls of blood and gasping for air, causing the final match to be delayed while the crimson puddles were mopped away. Arti was sickened by the sight and had to avert her eyes and breathe slowly to quell her nausea. When she recovered enough to speak, she pleaded with Gal to leave, but her protests fell on deaf ears. The next match was the big event, the one Gal heard the dockers talking about. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  On the thick arms of two rough looking brutes, a round, stunted man was lifted to the ring, bending awkwardly between the ropes.

  “That’s him,” hissed Gal. “That’s Big Billy.”

  Billy Johnson, the undisputed boss of Isle and proprietor of the Cauldron, waddled to the center of the canvas stage and lifted a stubby arm. A hush fell over the crowd.

  “It’s time for the main event, friends!” he shouted in his heavy North Verinese accent. The pitch of the little man’s voice rose as he spoke, the last word ending on a high note that soared up through the rafters where Arti and Gal were sitting. “And I promise you won’t soon forget it.” A smile crossed the little man’s face, and his eyes sparkled with delight. “Even the Cauldron has yet to see two throwers the likes o’ these.”

  He pointed to one side of the ring. “In this corner, from the highlands of Parmell, with a record of fifty-three wins and no losses, all by
knockout, ‘The Canvas Scourge’, Rangal ‘The Mountain’ Rogan!”

  A man of unbelievable proportions squeezed through the ropes. Even those onlookers too drunk to string three coherent words together were suddenly sobered by the sight of the giant from the East. With arms the size of tree trunks and a barrel chest rippling with muscles, he towered over Big Billy like an oak tree next a shrub. The Mountain’s face was covered in scars, and the crooked remnant of a nose divided a pair of heavy lidded eyes. At first, he smiled, displaying a mouth devoid of teeth. Then he roared—for that was surely what it sounded like—as he flexed his muscles for the astonished crowd.

  Big Billy pointed to the corner opposite The Mountain’s, waiting for the crowd to quiet down.

  “And in this corner, a newcomer to the ring, from the Ferencian island of Maren,” Billy’s eyes lit up with joyous anticipation. “The Poet!”

  There was a confused murmur from the spectators as a lean young man stepped nimbly into the ring, shirtless beneath a black leather jacket. As handsome as any linkshow actor, he had slicked back brown hair and smiling blue eyes that regarded the audience with a mix of curiosity and humor.

  “Gotta be some kinda joke,” said Gal, glancing at Arti. “He’s gonna get pounded.”

  Arti didn’t know much about fighting, but it was obvious how mismatched the two were. No one in his right mind would believe the young Ferencian had a chance against an opponent as massive and powerful as The Mountain. She knew she should leave rather than witness the slaughter but couldn’t lift her eyes from the ring.

  The Poet slid the leather jacket from his arms and laid it carefully over the ring’s thick iron corner post. His tan skin glowed under the lights, and a large tattoo glistened on his back. From Arti’s vantage point high above the ring, she could see it was some kind of cup covered in swirling black lines. The young man ran through his warm-up routine, odd stretching movements that drew laughter and insults from the belligerent crowd.

  “This ain’t no ballet, boy!” yelled one onlooker.

  “Rogan’s gonna have fun with you, kid!” bellowed another. “Better run home to your momma!”

  The bell rang, and the young man walked toward the center of the ring as calmly as one might stroll through a park. The Mountain was waiting for him there, a sadistic grin etched on his mutilated face.

  “Yer a real priddy boy, arn ya?” said Rogan. A deep, rumbling avalanche of laughter spilled from The Mountain’s lips. “Ya wone be priddy when I’m dun wid ya.”

  The Poet answered the threat in verse, a translation of Old Ferencian, the words strangely melodic and gentle: “Into the eyes of evil, a knight must peer. Holding fast to his honor, shedding all fear.”

  Arti couldn’t hear what the young man said to the Parmelese giant, but whatever it was, she could tell it enraged him. He lunged at The Poet, but the young man evaded him with an impossibly quick sideways movement. When the referee tried to intervene, The Mountain flung him out of the way with a sweep of his massive arm. Landing in a tangled heap against the ropes, the official started to rise, but a murderous look from Rogan made him decide that it wasn’t a good idea. With a curt shake of his head, the referee signaled Big Billy that he would not return, and a roar from the crowd supported his decision. This would be a fight without authority, without rules, without mercy.

  The Mountain lumbered after The Poet, fists raised in front of him like battering rams. The young man mouthed something and spun away from the charge, landing a powerful kick to the giant’s knee. Rogan staggered for an instant, more inconvenienced than hurt by the strike. He growled at The Poet and, with surprising speed for a man so massive, swung around at him with a backhand blow that narrowly missed its mark. The young man arched his back, dropping below the strike. Then he rolled across the floor, rising again with arms crossed, a contemplative smile on his handsome young face. The ensuing laughter from the crowd only made The Mountain angrier.

  Rogan moved in on his quarry again, this time ensuring that escape was impossible. The Poet cautiously backed away from the giant and was soon out of canvas, his tattooed back pressed against the ropes. There wasn’t one person watching who thought he had any chance of surviving the avalanche of Parmelese flesh that now loomed over him. The cheers and taunts that had filled the warehouse faded away in anticipation of the young Ferencian’s demise. For Arti, this was even worse than seeing the blood spilled in previous matches. She was sure the handsome fighter was going to die in front of her.

  Then she saw his lips move again.

  Although their vantage point was the same, Arti and Gal would argue over what happened next. Gal was sure the young Ferencian used a weapon against The Mountain, something carefully concealed in his fist. Arti disagreed; she saw something else, something much stranger and harder to explain. It happened very fast, but she was sure she saw a faint aura envelope the young man, a cloak of energy barely noticeable against the backdrop of the cream-colored canvas. Somehow, The Poet focused it through his fist into the broad chest of his opponent, throwing the huge man backward across the ring, following the punch with a spinning kick so powerful it drove Rogan through the ropes, leveling the first three rows of spectators.

  “That’s crazy,” barked Gal, sliding the door closed behind her, quieting the raucous cries still echoing through the Cauldron. She replaced the dummy lock and waited for Arti to start down the ladder. It was not yet dark, and having checked that the alley was clear, the girls were eager to get home and count their coin.

  “I’m just telling you what I saw,” said Arti, carefully placing her hands and feet on the rungs as she descended. “I know it sounds weird.”

  “You’re just sayin’ that cuz you thought he was good lookin’,” teased Gal. “I saw how you stared at him.”

  Arti felt her face flush and was glad Gal couldn’t see her embarrassment. “You thought so, too,” she said, covering for herself. “Admit it.”

  “He was alright,” said Gal, “but not my type.”

  “And what type is that?” laughed Arti, arriving at the ground.

  Gal landed like a cat beside her. “Rich,” she said.

  Arti lifted her hood and walked with Gal toward the front of the warehouse, wading into the river of people that flowed out from the main doors of the building. They arrived at the sidewalk with the departing crowd, one stream of patrons crossing Water Street south toward the Docks, the other heading east and west. Carried along in the human current, the girls moved in the direction of the setting sun toward Hill Street and home.

  As they neared the corner, Arti noticed a tall, slender figure standing on the raised step of a tackle shop studying the passing mob. Strands of blonde hair poked out from beneath his flattened cap. He wore a loose grey jacket, ill-fitting pants, and a pair of polished black leather boots that shone in the twilight. The man’s eyes moved back and forth, scanning each face as it passed. They were eyes Arti had seen before—once on the West Bridge over a month before and numerous times since in the dark recesses of her dreams.

  Arti stopped suddenly, grabbing Gal’s arm. “It’s him,” she hissed. “The Flame!”

  As one man grumbled at them for blocking the sidewalk and another cursed and pushed them aside, Gal took over, leading Arti back the way they had come, weaving through the crowd, guiding her into a darkened doorway sheltered from the street.

  “Flames ain’t supposed to be on this side of the canal,” declared Gal. “Big Billy don’t allow it.”

  “Well, he’s here,” objected Arti. “And he’s looking for someone.”

  “Who?” asked Gal.

  Arti collapsed against the door with a fearful sigh. “Me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Floating like an angel in front of the glowing green screen, the pretty young woman smiled and reached out, pretending to pluck something from the air, extending her hand toward the camera.

  “A picture is worth a thousand words. Show, don’t tell. You are the Corporation.”

 
The red light went out, and the director skipped across the granite floor, fists raised in triumph. “You nailed it, Gwen. You are a star, baby!”

  She resisted the urge to laugh at the chubby little man in his ridiculous cap and scarf. What’s so impressive about saying the same stupid lines for the millionth time? But she held her smile and swallowed her pride. As much as she detested her celebrity image, she knew it was a part she must play.

  “We’ll break for lunch,” announced the director in a high-pitched squeal. “I want everyone back in half an hour. We have the Eyes on the Prize promo to shoot this afternoon, so I expect everyone to be their best.” He winked at Gwen, making it clear his pep talk wasn’t directed at her. Victor Herrat may have been eccentric, but he wasn’t stupid; he would never risk offending his star performer. Like Gwen’s parents, he used every opportunity to capitalize on her fame and better his own position. He softened his voice, “Will you join me for lunch, Gwen? I’ve had Reginald prepare something special.”

  “Thank you, Victor,” Gwen replied with as much arrogance as she could muster, “but I need a little time.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Herrat politely. “I understand completely.” He clapped his hands. “Out! Out! Let’s give Ms. Degan some peace.” Gwen smiled appreciatively at the director, perfectly masking her disdain.

  The entourage hurried to leave the studio, and when Gwen heard the clanging sound of the elevator doors closing, she grabbed her shoulder bag from her dressing room cupboard and made her way into the hall. There were three separate areas on the third floor of the old castle, a level below that of CEO Fay’s expansive tower suite. The studio was the one nearest the main building, and the Incendi laid claim to the other two, identified by the gold flame insignias painted on their inky-black doors.

  The larger of the spaces occupied by the Corporation’s secret police functioned as its headquarters, the nerve center that received decap and reader alerts, dispatching Incendi on raids and arrests. Black-clad troopers came and went at all hours by way of the tower’s spiraling stone staircase, original to the ancient structure. There were rumors that it led all the way down to a dungeon deep beneath the castle, a dark and damp place where the most dangerous readers and scribes were imprisoned—before they disappeared entirely.