by Mike Miller
“Hey, you blackguard, where do you think you are heading?” While shouting after Chiksai and gang, Douglas took time to grab Sek by the neck of his coat to drag him into the conversation. “Tell him to halt and pay up,” Douglas demanded of the confused translator.
Sek started to explain the situation to the departing men when Chiksai turned around angrily, shoving a finger into Douglas’ intruding face accompanied by his own angry tirade.
“He says your man is cheater,” Sek explained. “That the bet is not honoured for cheating.”
“Not cheating, my friend,” said Conrad. “Deception. There’s a distinct difference.”
Chiksai turned to now jam his angry finger to within an inch from the bridge of Conrad’s nose. The two men were face to face, though Conrad maintained a relaxed composure while Chiksai screamed in opposition.
Suddenly a blade swung down through the air and lopped off Chiksai’s accusatory finger. Holding the bloody blade was an irritated Douglas, who said, “I told you we’ll have to kill them.”
Chapter XII
The Brawl in the Bar
As the detached digit toppled down to the ground, a thin trickle of blood spurted outwards with concentrated velocity. As the hand’s positioning remained undisturbed during the abrupt removal of its index finger, the fist was still aimed squarely at Conrad. The stream of blood splashed into Conrad’s startled eyes as if the hand were urinating upon its target.
But then the hand balled even tighter together, quickly swinging over into Douglas’ face in a backhanded punch. The scoundrel stumbled backwards from the blow, his lanky blonde hair and face splattered with Chiksai’s plasma.
As Chiksai lurched over to finish off Douglas, one of his comrades leapfrogged over towards Conrad with a dagger intent upon his heart. Conrad instinctively caught the man’s wrists, but stumbled back to the floor from his assailant’s momentum. With lungs still wheezing in recovery from the recent contest’s athletics, the corporal still wrestled the thug aside to crush his noggin against the rocky floor.
The victory was fleeting as another opponent instantly ambushed Conrad as a replacement.
Within the blink of Douglas’ attack, the entire premises broke into bedlam. The skirmish started with just the two white men against Chiksai and his posse. Soon Baxter and Molor leapt to assistance to help even the teams, but the opposition’s reinforcements were over thrice in number. Soon, the nearest bystanders to the fray were swept into the melee as if infected with the pugilism. Glasses smashed while tables and stools clattered against stone and bone. The fighters became silent but for grunts of exertion and pain. The spectators rushed backwards and outwards to the walls like escaping an onrushing flood. But while people’s bodies ran away, their faces entranced forwards towards the brawl.
Baxter’s first instinct was to pry the attacker off of Conrad. But when a row of ugly and angry men rushed to intercept him like a rugby wedge, Baxter had little choice but to lower his head and fling his entire mass into their midsections. As a seasoned veteran of various field sports, he knew that the lowest player would dictate the outcome of the collision. Given his advantage in size and experience, particularly including the arena of bar-room pugilism, Baxter ground the men back into their teammates like they were being squeezed for their juice. It was a successful opening salvo for the skirmish.
Molor was quick with the blade. With two swift swings, he dispatched three separate foes, one of them losing their right hand in the process. The crowd oohed at the gore as the hand slapped across the stone floor. But a chair smashed over Molor’s head from a vengeful opponent, and the Indian stumbled aside. He staggered but stood, though his sharp mind struggled for clarity following the blow.
Ricocheting back from his introductory tackle, Baxter turned to see a ruffian beginning to arc a club towards Molor’s dazed skull. So Baxter used his backwards momentum to pivot and fall onto the assailant from the side. With one hand Baxter caught the man’s wrist, his other hand clutched the hair at the base of the skull. Baxter angled his size and weight to drive the man’s upper teeth down into the stone floor where they crunched into his jaw like a string of Chinese firecrackers.
Molor nodded an appreciative thanks for the rescue.
As other gladiators won and lost their individual melees within the sprawling battle, Douglas remained completely occupied with the mighty Chiksai. Despite missing one finger, the oaf’s other nine digits were more than capable of strangling the breath from Douglas’ thin, crane neck. The oaf’s rank breath was another weapon in his arsenal, as any gasp from Douglas only swallowed a vile poison that made his throat burn. Blood from the severed knuckle also poured into Douglas mouth as another nauseating sight and taste with which to contend.
Finally, Douglas summoned enough savvy to determine a route to victory. He flung his knee up with maximum velocity, crushing Chiksai’s groin with as much force as he could muster within a few inches of travel. The impact didn’t seem to register upon Chiksai’s rugged features since his face still furled in a homicidal sneer. Douglas took several more thwacks at his attacker’s crotch with both legs now dancing upon the area.
The rough and calloused fingers of the Asian relented, softening their grip from Douglas’ neck as Chiksai toppled over to the side. Douglas gasped a grateful breath of air, sitting up to assess the warring chaos about him which he had catalysed.
Conrad was still weakened from the contest and could barely fend off his attacker any longer. Despite Conrad’s struggling resistance, the wild madman slowly sunk the tip of his blade lower towards the pupil of Conrad’s right eye. With a quick shrug and spin to his side, Conrad skilfully utilised the downward force of the blade to spin the knife back into its master’s belly. The man’s malevolent glee melted into the horrifying stupor that he had just stabbed himself in his own stomach.
Conrad could only take a scant moment to appreciate the sweet strategy of dispatching this foe before a new wall of enemies rose to avenge their loss. The sight of the rabid men surrounding him sent an exhilarating tingle through Conrad’s nervous system, before finally rolling through his limbs and ending in his balled fists. It was the familiar narcotic that fuelled himself during particularly impossible situations. This was the drug that made sturdy the muscles and focused the mind for survival throughout death. The sensation always made Conrad happy.
With a fury of skilled lefts and rights, overhands, crosses, hooks and uppercuts, every swing connected perfectly with somebody’s chin, jaw, stomach or throat to incapacitate them. To Conrad the pugilism recalled the young joy of a schoolyard brawl. Though danger loomed with each slashing blade or swinging club, there was an undeniable thrill to the recklessness of battle, the insanity and the order. With so much recent time spent thinking, scheming and feeling, so much draining of emotion and wit, this was a blissful experience, the fight. In many ways for the old soldier, it was akin to making love.
Conrad’s skilled military acumen was unmatched by the swarm of untrained, drunken louts. They always missed while he never did.
When Conrad realised that he was limiting his pummelling to only old-fashioned boxing strikes, he included a forward heel kick to punctuate his blows, a playful move he learned from an Asian martial artist recently. His foot struck a man under the ribs, emptying the air out of the sap if not breaking the poor soul’s spine.
In the midst of the clash, Baxter too was being consumed by bloodlust. But while the others were comfortable with the fray, if not enjoying it, Baxter hated to fight. Despite the countless skirmishes he had experienced in his life, every encounter always made him queasy and uncomfortable. No matter how much a wild melee could cleanse his mind of distractions, there always existed the distinct fear that this would be his last fight, the one he would not survive. Spinning and watching every enemy, he could stop one but maybe there was another behind him. He knew it was the attack he never saw that would end him.
And death was not something Baxter feared explicitly in and of
itself. It was the idea that he would not return to his beloved, and thus never be able to see her or save her. The cold oblivion or the punishment of the afterlife, neither frightened him more than failing to return to his wife.
If lethal adrenaline and glee empowered Conrad, Baxter’s love likewise filled him with extraordinary power in the face of death.
A man rushed towards Baxter with a dagger. In one graceful swoop, Baxter ducked under the foe, caught him with his shoulder, and then stood to flip the bewildered rival through the air. The flailing man bounced off a wall before falling unconscious to the floor.
Baxter roared with fire. His nerves crackled, his veins swollen with ferocity. For every man he dispatched, two seemed to fill his place like the heads of the hydra. The enraged manner in which Baxter dispatched the surrounding army of natives even alarmed the equally intimidating Molor.
Growing more berserk with every crunching bone and trickle of blood he spilled, Baxter grew wilder. His close-cut hair frayed like the mane of a black lion. His dark skin glistened with sweat, saliva and blood, though not all his own.
Baxter twirled about ready to club the next man to cross his path when he suddenly braced himself. The next victim would be a young boy, perhaps in his late teens like Private Gregory. He stood besides Baxter as if he had been there all along throughout the entire fistfight.
From the lad’s smooth, boyish skin and the blank apathy behind the eyes, Baxter remembered the boy from previously in the evening. This was the same out-of-place wraith lurking along the peripheries earlier in the evening. But now the young man had wandered into the epicentre of the fray as if to challenge Baxter. The black-cloaked stranger now looked like the very spectre of death, with his piercing eyes, sour expression and grave demeanour.
Standing silently and inches away in rote observation, the boy was completely unfazed by Baxter’s impending violence. The large fist poised to strike him was no more daunting a threat than the limb of a tree.
Though the African easily outclassed the Asian in age, size and strength, it was the older soldier who shrank with diminutive meekness. “Sorry,” he apologised shamefully.
But the boy continued his merciless staring like a disinterested spectator at a bad performance. Baxter would have assumed the boy would be thrilled by the theatrical display of battle like everyone else in attendance. But now he wondered if the youth was maybe afflicted with dumbness, considering the unresponsive and unabashed gawking.
A hand clapped down on Baxter’s shoulder, which wheeled the warrior about from his distraction. Ready to resume the rumble, Baxter found out it was but Conrad now ambushing him. “Easy now,” Conrad said. “It’s over.”
Baxter cursed himself for being so lost and uncontrollable as to almost strike his friend. Conrad could see the zest of battle still rattling Baxter, so he clamped a friendly arm over his mate’s shoulder in reassurance.
The two surveyed their carnage. While the hall had been filled with a boisterous clamour, there was now a silence that pervaded the atmosphere except for the low groans and wheezes of the wounded. Unconscious bodies carpeted the floor while abstract swaths of blood painted them in dark red lines. Any furniture that had inhabited the space was splintered to pieces, though a significant number of seats were thrown to the outskirts of the ring as if an explosion had occurred.
“Spectacular work, boys,” Douglas said, wiping some meat from his face with the back of his hand like a butcher at day’s end. When he looked over at Baxter, Douglas’ scarred and bloody face leered in disgust as if he had just smelt foul rubbish.
Though Baxter’s pulse had just begun to slow, his blood began to boil anew at the show of contempt. “If you hadn’t given that bloody--”
“Okay, Bax,” said Conrad, his arm raised to restrain Baxter to intercept another outbreak of violence.
“Now where were we?” Douglas muttered while looking about him. When he finally located the enemy gang’s leader amidst the human debris, he stooped over to reach into Chiksai’s vest pocket. The brute was groaning groggily while struggling to raise himself from the floor, powerless to object to Douglas retrieving the object of their conquest: the map. Douglas patted the lumpy brown sheet as if burping a baby. “Back to Daddy,” he said dearly.
Then Douglas unsheathed his sword and raised it high over his head, vengefully staring down at Chiksai who was still gurgling with pain and unaware of his pending demise.
Baxter leapt forward to shove Douglas backwards, causing the man to stumble over the arm of another fallen foe. Upon righting himself, the wretched killer now stared menacingly at the African for the rude disruption. “How dare you, monkey?” he growled while now pointing his weapon at the double-crossing ally. The sharp edge twinkled as it bobbed in the tavern’s torchlight.
“It’s over,” Baxter announced plainly. “We won. There is no need for murder.”
“You say that like you know this hairless gentleman won’t ride after us in a heartbeat,” Douglas responded. “All of these boys are ten times the mountain men any of us are. They’ll find us and slaughter us while we sleep. Not unless we strike first.”
Conrad listened to the argument, though Molor’s unsheathed sword seemed to agree with Douglas. The Indian spoke, “You cannot start a fight and not end it.”
Baxter’s frustrated glance to Conrad permitted final judgment to be the corporal’s. “I’ll be waiting outside, ready to ride,” he said as he exited.
Conrad appreciated Douglas’ level rationale and was tempted for an easy resolution to their woes. But Baxter’s noble demeanour clearly would not tolerate the cold-blooded massacre. He was not fond of wonton death either, slaying an already down combatant. “Leave him be,” Conrad urged on behalf of group unity. “We’ve lost enough time and energy before having to execute a dozen men. We need to regain lost time on the trip. Sek, I assume you can round up our men to depart.”
Sek clapped his hands and began shouting across the chamber at unknown affiliates. Various men responded to the commands, gathering themselves to leave the bar.
“You soft now too?” Douglas accused Conrad. “You will regret this, mates. This mountain is no place for soft men. It will either harden your spirit in war or your body in death.”
Fallen combatants began to stir in signs of vigour and recovery, while the triumphant men collected their stuffs.
“You want any voice in this, Molor?” asked Douglas bitterly. “I’m sure you want to see these bastards’ blood.”
“No,” decided Molor, holstering his weapons and walking for the exit. As Molor stepped out the door, he bumped into Private Gregory who was just entering the premises.
“Pardon me,” said Gregory, retreating to let the Indian pass first before passing through the egress. Once Molor exited, Gregory entered with rifle in hand, “It was getting rather boring out there. Can I be of any help?”
Chapter XIII
Fleeing into the Unknown
As the sun began to rise in the east, the pillar of smoke from the still-burning blaze in town became visible from the darkness. The dark black of night softened, revealing a tower of smoke turning deep lavender. While the rest of the sky eventually eroded into rose and marigold hues of morning, the column of ashen death remained steadfast, bubbling up into heaven like a broken fissure spewing hell from below.
While Baxter and the posse rode away from the town and its fire as quickly as possible, he found himself continuously glancing back behind himself towards the mess they left behind. Though the town itself eventually vanished behind the steep mountain hills they traversed, the plume of smoke only grew larger to loom even more ominously over their ride.
He was not sure how exactly the blaze started, though he had his suspicions. The exact culprit would be impossible to pinpoint, but the arsonist was certainly a member of his expedition.
The sight reminded Baxter of his youth, a childhood where strange men often visited his village only to leave his people’s homes burnt and ruined. Thoug
h the town was filled mostly with cutthroat villains and heartless marauders, Baxter couldn’t help but feel guilt of being complicit with these imperial forces that lay waste to the small, defenceless civilisations of the third world.
“You okay?” Conrad had asked his friend, seeing a lost look of concern twinkling in the familiar brown eyes.
“Yeah,” said Baxter with little conviction.
Baxter wondered when he had become the bad guy. He had played loose and indifferent for many years, crediting his diminished ethics with a sense of survival. But now the shame was devastating. His mind imagined the women and children weeping over the lost husbands and fathers that had died in the skirmish. The men he had killed, if not directly with bullet and blade, than through his awful contributions in assisting his associates’ massacre. Allowing the rest of the group to charge ahead of them, Baxter slowed his steed and Conrad followed suit, supposing that his companion wanted to privately chat.
“What is it?” Conrad said, knowing that something was definitely amiss with Baxter.
Baxter began to speak but stopped. He looked into Conrad’s soulful blue eyes, and instantly recognised his friend’s desire to help. The show of concern was all Baxter needed to avail his bewildered mind.
“It’s nothing,” Baxter said, lashing his horse to gallop ahead.
Chapter XIV
Upon These Mountains
Following the skirmish in town, the group rode continuously for hours into the day, forgoing a night’s sleep for sake of progress.
The climb was mundane and dreary, and the weather even a mite warm with a bright sun above in a cloudless sky. For a supposedly uncivilised portion of the world, the road was remarkably worn and wide, readily allowing for the caravan to even travel in three-wide combinations of riders.