Dherran was simmering. And it didn’t bode well for the beginning of this fight. Four bouts into the final men’s rounds, and he was strung tighter than ever. His first four fights of the Vennet Midsummer Festival had gone well these past few days, yielding only a fat lip, a bruised cheekbone, and a few purpling areas over his ribs and torso. He was sweeping the men’s finals in Vennet. And for the first time, Dherran strode bare-chested to the field of spears with cheering in his ears, people eager to see him fight once more. That energy fed him like a meltwater flood, only making his frustrations with Khenria’s bitchiness these past few days deepen.
She’d been teasing him, mercilessly, ever since their fight after her win. Flaunting herself with other men. Sitting in their laps at suppertime. Disappearing for hours at night without mention of her whereabouts, smirking when she returned. And her cruelty was punishing, distracting Dherran from his focus, as it was doing today.
But now he faced his true opponent. Arvale den’Whestin, the reigning free-hand champion in this region and a local of Vennet, he was a featherweight, wiry but made like well-tempered steel. Shifting from foot to wrapped foot upon the dry earth, his feet and ankles were wrapped better than his hands, taking Dherran’s measure. The man was a kick-fighter in the old Praoughian style. His thighs were corded muscle, his calves the same. The bell sounded for the fight to begin, and Dherran paced slowly, guard up, trying to think only of his opponent and not of Khenria.
Dherran allowed his back heel to square to the dirt, not his usual agile stance. He needed this man to think he was too thick, too slow, his footwork too heavy. He heard the crowd settle into a hush. The lean rooster bounced, getting his feet beneath him, then tried an experimental set of punches at Dherran’s face. Dherran flowed out of the way with tiny movements, not moving his feet. The man then tried a set of kicks. Dherran swiveled his hips, keeping his frame aligned, each kick passing him by, again not moving his feet.
The bantam rooster scowled, bouncing from foot to foot. At last, the man came at him for real, and they began to engage. Dherran kept to a small space, using his alignment, throwing falsely heavy punches, which the smaller man avoided. High kicks came. Dherran crouched, dodged, slipped past. The rooster was getting angry, his face red and his scowl deep, batting at his heavier, immutable opponent.
Finally, the punch came that Dherran was waiting for. The rooster faked. Dherran slipped sideways so the punch came at his face, as he had intended. He faked being caught off-guard, throwing his right hand up to defend, leaving his right flank unprotected. The rooster crowed, whirling into a kick with the full force of his steel-lithe body. But the kick came straight to Dherran’s inner elbow. Which he used to absorb the kick, folding it inward to his torso and taking the man’s foot with it. Spiraling his right arm up and in, twisting his hips with agile speed, Dherran had the man’s leg pinned. And as he turned, it sent the man into a flying twist, meant to either dislocate his hip or spin him horizontal to the ground and smash him into the dust, a blow to end the match.
It fact, it did neither.
With a vicious crack that rent the air, the man’s femur broke in a spiral, his leg turning into the twist, but his body not following through. He hit the ground like a sack of rocks, screaming. His leg was riven, twisted unnaturally. Dherran released his leg, shock flooding his body. Dizziness took Dherran, surprised by what had just happened. He had been distracted and had twisted too efficiently, too true to the killing nature of his Kingsman training, training meant to break a man upon the battlefield.
He had been thinking of Khenria, and this was the outcome.
Screams filled Dherran’s ears, unnatural, the shrieks of a mauled animal. The man reached for his leg, hands hovering and splayed, not daring to touch it. The scorekeeper rushed to the ring. The fight-medic stepped in between them. Dherran stepped back, breathing hard, unable to hear, unable to see anything but that mangled flesh. The medic reached out to touch the man’s leg. He screamed, feral, then snarled with murderous hate at Dherran.
“Fucking whoresbane! You’ve ruined me!” He broke into sobs, rent with gasping as the medic tried to assess the extent of the break. Silence filled the square beyond the spears, the faces of the crowd shocked. Arvale den’Whestin had been favored to win. The scorekeeper was muttering low to den’Whestin. The medic touched his leg and he screamed again. Finally, he gave a curt nod.
The scorekeeper stood, facing the crowd, hands high. “Dherran den’Lhust, for the win!”
But the moment was rent by the cursing man on the hard-packed dirt. “How can you call yourself a Kingsman?! You’ll pay for this, you… you brute!” He gathered his saliva, and spat into the dirt.
And that was all it took. Dherran’s rage gathered, an unstoppable torrent. It had been bad today because of Khenria, but now it was like a demon unleashed. He strode to the man on the ground, a mountain in swift avalanche, and seized him by his hair, shaking his head roughly.
“What did you think was going to happen, kick-fighting against someone with my training?!” He bellowed. “You see these Inkings?! Look at them!! Do you remember the Battle of Gheirn? A hundred Kingsmen held back a force of three thousand Valenghian Longriders, protecting this valley for two days until the King’s army could get here! Two days! Without sleep, without food… protecting Vennet! That was only thirteen years ago!”
Dherran thrust the man’s head to the dirt with a growl and he yelped, and then Dherran’s hot rage was turned on the crowd. “Most of you were alive then! My father and mother both fought for Vennet! How dare you forget them!!”
Dherran was winding up, his vision bleeding into a red haze. People had shrunk back from the ring of spears. He could see mouths muttering, but only a buzzing like seething hornets filled his ears. A light hand fell on his arm, suddenly.
Suchinne.
But when he turned, he saw Khenria, her face frightened. “Come away, Dherran. You’ve won. These people aren’t your enemy.”
Dherran shook his head. Her words didn’t make sense. His head was stuffed with burning steel wool. Somehow, his fingers wound up in her hand. Somehow, he was walking towards the ready-tent. Muttering turned to an angry susurration behind him. He shook his head again as he stumbled into the tent.
“Dherran.” Her dark grey eyes were worried, frightened, as she seized his face in both hands. “Dherran! Can you hear me?” He shook his head, everything red, everything burning. She took up the water pitcher, doused him with it. Cold water shocked his senses, and awareness began to return at last. Dherran took a few quick drinks, listening to the crowd outside. He finally noticed that Grump was absent from the tent, and Khenria had Dherran's winnings purse, set aside upon the wooden bench.
“Mob?” Khenria whispered.
“Not yet, but they’re pissed. Where’s Grump?” Dharran gasped breath to calm himself, currying cold water through his hair.
She shook her head. “I saw him doing his rounds for the betting, but not since.”
“We gotta go. I broke their champion… we gotta leave town.” Dherran unwrapped his hands quickly, then donned his shirt and leather jerkin. “Get the horses, we’ll check the inn for Grump—”
“You both are two of a kind. Reckless.” The iron-hard voice made Dherran snarl. He turned fast, to find himself facing a tall, lean man in a handsome red leather jerkin, his pale blue eyes hard. There was nothing idle about the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir’s posture. His sword-honed frame might have been swathed in riches, but Dherran would have bet his right nut that the man had expert training in the arts of war. Some men just moved like liquid on fire, and he was one.
“What are you doing here?!” Dherran snarled, ready to hit the man. “What the fuck is he doing here? Did you invite him?” He shouted at Khenria.
“She has nothing to do with this.” The Vicoute’s pale blue eyes were keen, flat with anger. “This is between you and me.”
“Get out of my way!” Dherran barked, lifting his saddlebags up
onto one shoulder from the rough wooden bench, surging past. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“But I do, Kingsman. I know quite a lot, actually.” The greying Vicoute murmured, pinning Dherran with those icy eyes, though he didn’t make any motion to stop Dherran. “I know you’re going to have a mob in about five minutes, and you need somewhere to go. I know every inn for ten miles is full-up from of the festival. And I know, that you are going to accept my invitation to sup for dinner, and to stay the week at my manor.”
“And why’s that?” Dherran snarled rudely, level with the man now at the tent-flap.
Den’Selthir gave a hard, emotionless smirk. “Because the lady hasn’t ever slept in a manor before, and she’s never dined with a Vicoute. And because it is my pleasure to entertain interesting people. And because you, Kingsman,” his gaze flicked to Dherran’s Inkings, visible at the cleft of his shirt, “owe me a fighter. That was my man you ruined. He was sworn to my service. And I demand restitution.”
The roar of the mob surged outside the tent. Dherran balked, listening. It would take five full minutes to ready the horses. By then, the mob would be all over them. This lord before him had steel and fire in his veins, Dherran was almost certain of it. But what Dherran didn't know was why he was so interested in a pair of young fighters, though he had the distinct impression he would soon find out. It was a risk either way. Put himself and Khenria the mercy of the mob, or at the mercy of a pissed Vicoute who had not yet lifted a hand to harm them.
“I have three saddled horses waiting outside.” The Vicoute raised an ash-blonde eyebrow. “Bring your winnings. Stuff your gear under the benches behind that hay bale and I will send my men back for it later. I’ll have one wait here for your servingman.”
Dherran glanced at Khenria. She lifted her narrow black brows. “Fine.” Dherran stuffed the saddlebags behind the hay bale, snatched up the winnings purse, and they were out the back tent-flap. Hot afternoon dust choked them. But the Vicoute was good as his word, a small knot of retainers on horseback facing off with the seething crowd, swords out. Three horses waited inside the mounted men. Khenria raced to a white gelding, up in a flash. Dherran took a sturdy roan, while the Vicoute mounted up on a black charger that was clearly his own.
The lord wheeled his charger to the front of the mob. “Populace of Vennet!” he roared, in a slicing bellow that would not have been out of place upon a battlefield. Men quieted all around in a slow wave, and Dherran blinked, realizing how much clout the man had here in town. The Vicoute wheeled his horse in a circle again, then spoke.
“You have seen a brutal fight today! My champion has been mangled, and I have demanded restitution from the fighter who broke him. Rest assured that until the debt is paid, he will answer to me! You have my word. But now is not the time for violence. We have seen too much already today. Go to your inns. Sup, drink. Your first ale of the night comes from my coffers from this disappointing spectacle today, for which I take full responsibility. Drink and let your evening be merriment rather than pain! And I will take care of the pain-giving.”
A vicious cheer went up from the crowd. Dherran felt himself simmer, but Khenria’s glance as she heeled her horse close forestalled him. It was better this way, leaving with protection. Though they had no inkling as to what would come next. And there was no more time to think about it. Kicking his charger hard, the Vicoute broke a path through the crowd, his riders flanking him. Dherran and Khenria had no choice but to follow, riding hard in a canter out from the dusty square, heeling hard through the market, and to the outskirts of the city. Following a dusty lane flanked by fig orchards and grape arbors, they kept pace for a number of miles, riding hard through the sweltering day. And only when they’d turned down a wide dirt lane past a long row of cypress trees did they slow to a walk to ease their horses.
Coming up over a rise, Dherran saw fields and orchards to every horizon. And there, at the end of the lane was an enormous manor made of white granite with marble pillars. Four stories, the massive house was more than grand, imposing and martial, keen in its simplicity yet lofty elegance. As they neared, a number of retainers paused in their duties about a stable and impressive barn large enough for forty cows. They rode straight to the colonnade steps of the main house, the Vicoute slinging down from his charger and handing its reins off to a stable boy, who took them with a bow. The others did the same. Dherran and Khenria dismounted, following suit. Without turning around, the Vicoute marched up his manor-steps, stopping in brief conversation with a liveried butler just inside the doors of an airy entrance hall of white marble. The butler nodded. The Vicoute strode on through the hall, but when Dherran made to follow, the cheeky butler suddenly stepped in his path.
“Sirrah. I am to show you and the lady to your suites. The Vicoute has invited you to dine with him tonight, but until then, you may rest and refresh yourself. If you would come with me?”
Dharran glanced at Khenria. She shrugged. Apparently, neither of them had any clue what was happening here. “We would love to refresh.” Khenria stepped in, managing the situation.
The butler nodded. With a sweep of his hand and a bow, he invited them onward.
CHAPTER 24 – GHRENNA
Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic Page 39