Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  Borrowing tricks from the other fighters he had witnessed engaged in combat during the earlier rounds, Maltroos lunged for Vandrume's genitals and then at the last minute diverted his sword to aim at his right hand. But Vandrume was on to that trick and not only got his hand out of the way, but lunged at Maltroos's belly.

  Maltroos barely got out of the way in time. Whirling as he dodged, he plunged his sword through the air, aiming at Vandrume's chest, but Vandrume deflected the oncoming sword with a swat of his left forearm against the side of the blade, causing it to veer ineffectively off to the side.

  Now Vandrume lunged at Maltroos's right hand, and although the blow he delivered barely nicked Maltroos's index finger, Maltroos reflexively dropped his sword. Vandrume closed in for the kill and lunged at Maltroos's chest, but Maltroos bent over just then to retrieve his dropped sword, and Vandrume's plunging sword missed its mark and went harmlessly into the air.

  This threw Vandrume momentarily off balance, and as Maltroos came back up, sword in hand, he aimed for Vandrume's thigh and struck a telling blow. As the blood gushed and Vandrume once again staggered, Maltroos aimed for Vandrume's abdomen and hoped to encounter his liver.

  The sword went deep. Now seriously wounded but not yet down, Vandrume marshaled his strength and thrust toward Maltroos's heart. Maltroos turned sideways, and once again his left arm was the recipient of the sword's piercing thrust. Angered that he had been injured in almost the same spot as before, he furiously struck out at Vandrume and, aiming for his throat, hit home. While Vandrume staggered, Maltroos delivered two more mighty thrusts to Vandrume's throat. Then an image of Vandrume standing beside Saxtry to be joined in marriage flooded Maltroos's mind.

  "Oh, no you don't!" he exclaimed and drove his sword through Vandrume's heart.

  His opponent was vanquished. Vandrume fell to his knees and then flat to the ground. As some of the crowd cried out, "Finish him! Finish him!" Maltroos sneaked a quick peek at Saxtry in the stands. The prince was beaming and looking very relieved.

  Maltroos ran his sword three times in quick succession through the supine Vandrume's chest till he heard the final gurgle and knew he had expired.

  The king's men once again came out into the center of the arena to carry off the loser while the palace physician followed to tend to Maltroos's wound. Maltroos took his four bows, one in each direction, before letting the man doctor his wound.

  Now King Fregou stood up in the stands and, raising his voice as loudly as he could, proclaimed, "I declare Maltroos the winner of the competition, and in accordance with my earlier proclamation, he may choose which of my two children he would like to be joined with in marriage. Maltroos?"

  "I choose Prince Saxtry, your Majesty."

  "Very good. We will be down in a moment," King Fregou said. Then he motioned to Saxtry to get up from his seat in the stands, and the king and the prince made their way down to the center of the arena.

  Maltroos was a little wobbly on his feet due to blood loss, but fortunately he hadn't lost as much this time as last time. Saxtry took his hand. The king stood facing them.

  "As ruler of Forstwick, I hereby declare that you two, Prince Saxtry and Maltroos, are hereby and forever joined in legal wedlock, mated for life, and irrevocably bound to each other. You may kiss."

  As they kissed, Saxtry murmured, "Your fighting days are over. Even a fight that isn't to the death can turn lethal."

  "I have seen that," Maltroos agreed.

  "I want you to withdraw from the pledgers. You are a prince's consort now."

  "I do not need to fight anymore. I have won all I ever wanted," Maltroos answered with a smile. Then they kissed again, long and deep, while the crowd went wild, cheering.

  "Come home to my royal chambers, my beloved husband," Saxtry said.

  "I will follow you anywhere and everywhere, my beloved husband," Maltroos replied.

  As they walked out of the arena, the somewhat weakened Maltroos leaning on Saxtry's arm, he caught sight of Cartimmar in the stands, raising his clasped hands in victory. Timmony was seated next to him, and Maltroos couldn't help but note that the expression on the young pledger's face was adoring. Was there another wedding in the offing?

  Right now, though, Maltroos could focus only on his own happiness.

  "How do you feel?" Saxtry asked him as they made their way slowly out of the arena.

  "Well enough to consummate the marriage, if that's what you're thinking," Maltroos answered.

  Saxtry stopped in his tracks and once again kissed Maltroos deeply. The crowd went wild, but Maltroos barely heard them cheering. All he heard was an echo of the king's words, "… mated for life, and irrevocably bound to each other."

  And so it was.

  ROUND SEVEN

  RULE BREAKER

  ARCHER KAY LEAH

  ONE

  This was where he wanted to be: staring at muscles so taut they looked like they could burst. The smell of sweat thickened the air despite the open windows and doors.

  Too bad it's a village celebration and not a job, Gren mused. Gulping his ale, his gaze remained on the two men in the fighting ring and their raised fists. He had money on the fight, and he would not miss even the slightest knuckle crack. His man, Jola, jabbed right, then left.

  Glass shattered on the floor somewhere in the crowd. As he flicked his eyes to look, a roar of approval sounded from the crowd and fists thrust out towards the ring. Gren snapped his head back to the fighters. Jola lay on the floor, his opponent's knee on his chest and hands at his throat.

  Slamming his tankard on the table, Gren yelled into the ring. In one clever distraction, Jola had been knocked down, losing Gren the bet. Men cheered, their elbows clipping his ear. Resisting the urge to rip their arms from their sockets, Gren slammed the tankard again with a yell of frustration. He had failed enough for one week without losing the fight, too.

  Too late, he realized when Jola raised his fist. Gren swatted his empty tankard aside as the crowd roared. He expected more from Jola the mercenary. As the men struggled to stand, Gren looked to the nearest barmaid. Flicking a hand, he waited for her to bring him another drink. The village insisted on honouring the dead Tract Steward, Korre Dahe, by feasting and fighting—he would not pass up the chance for free goods.

  Rule number one: get what you can get when you can get it. Why mess with a good rule now? When the barmaid slipped a full tankard into his hand, Gren smiled at her. Or did he sneer? Her twisted lips and annoyed expression when she turned away made him wonder if he had confused the two expressions.

  Apparently I'm drunk. When did that happen? Drinking deep, Gren listened to the men behind him banter about the last fight. When they mentioned the soldier's need for more training, he giggled against the lip of the tankard. When they made jeers about Jola, he bit his tongue and watched the crowd. Mercenaries were not inferior to soldiers or any other man. A lack of loyalty did not dictate ability.

  Resting the tankard on the table, Gren stood, wiping his lips on his leather brace. He would show them what mercenaries could do. Entering the empty ring, he spun slowly, raising both arms. The tavern quieted.

  Gren lowered his arms and searched the crowd, his grey gaze settling on a dark figure standing in the back—the village's best soldier. "You," he announced, pointing.

  The tavern erupted in another roar. Metal tankards pounded on the wood tables, the floorboards creaking under the weight of stomping feet. The soldier smirked and made his way through the crowd.

  Gren turned and pulled his shirt over his head, listening to the men around him chatter. They thought he fought to honour Korre, as if he cared about the politics in the Republic of Kattal. He was not drunk enough to tell them he just wanted to hit someone because he had lost a job and returned to Oly Valley empty-handed.

  Idiot, getting himself stabbed in the back. It's not supposed to be literal. Throwing his shirt over his empty chair, Gren tightened his arm braces. He couldn't wait until I got there. Had to run in and
do something stupid.

  As he cracked his knuckles, Gren eyed the scars on his opponent's naked chest. Willar, he reminded himself, a local hero and glorified son who served the Republic. So gallant, so brave, they say. So pompous and in need of an ass-kicking.

  He met Willar in the middle of the ring. Willar breathed loudly with a smug smile stretched across his face. Should he even bother strategizing? Gren wondered. Willar acted the prim and proper soldier, and Gren was already annoyed.

  "So, who do you think ought to start this little game?" Willar asked, rubbing his hands together. "I mean, I'm all for losers starting. Especially when they look like they're ready to throw a fit. Remind me: how much did you lose on the last fight?"

  Gren rolled his shoulders. He hated the useless chatter. Men talked too much. "You realize this is a fight, right? Isn't one of the rules keeping your mouth shut?"

  "I don't know—is that before or after the rule about not being able to kill each other?"

  Let's find out, Gren thought as they raised their fists. Taking his stance with his left side forward, he stared at Willar's face as they circled, recognizing the blood-shot gaze. He's not sober, either. Maybe I'll be lucky and it'll overpower his training. May as well take a shot and see if he can be fooled.

  He raised his right hand higher, waiting for Willar's gaze to follow. As Willar stared at the rising fist, Gren leaned back and pulled his elbow back slowly. One, two… Jumping forward onto his left foot, Gren struck out to slap Willar in the head with his left hand.

  His arm stopped short, held back by Willar's forearm. Willar's other hand slammed into Gren's stomach. With a grunt, Gren fell back and took his stance again. Willar was not drunk enough to be taken down so easily. The fight would take work.

  Willar stepped around the ring slowly, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. He jabbed from the left, and then the right. Gren dodged both fists, standing as Willar's foot lifted from the floor to kick at Gren's knee. Raising his leg, he caught Willar's foot before it made its intended target, barely stabilizing himself before Willar thrust a punch at his chest.

  Blocking the strike with his one arm, Gren struck out with his right fist. His knuckles grazed Willar's teeth.

  On instinct, he hunched low and missed Willar's fist as it passed over him.

  Jumping up, Gren pushed Willar's arms to the side before leaning down to ram his shoulder into Willar's ribs. Wrapping his arms above the back of Willar's knees, Gren pulled inwards, twisting his body to the side.

  Willar hit the floor with a yelp.

  Gren stumbled as he stood. For a moment, the floor seemed to spin, the dark crevices between the boards winding into each other before straightening again. Willar scrambled to his feet, his irritation splashed across his tightened face. As he flexed his jaws, Willar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked like he had things to say, but he remained quiet even as he approached Gren with his fists up, glaring through narrowed eyes.

  Now we're getting to the real fight.

  Willar moved to the left and then to the right, spitting in Gren's face before throwing a straight punch meant for Gren's eye. Ignoring the spit running down his cheek, Gren threw out his arm. Pushing the punch aside, he struck the edge of his flat hand into Willar's ribs and rammed his knee into Willar's thigh. After a slight push, he stepped back as Willar hit the floor with a groan.

  Are we done yet? Gren wanted to ask, watching Willar from the corner of his eye. Reminded of Willar's last attack, he tried to wipe the spit from his face with his arm brace. Through the din of the tavern, he heard a faint laugh which made him straighten. He heard it again, the sound counteracting his anger…

  Tracel.

  Gren stared over the heads of the patrons. She stood near the bar with her back to the crowd, but he would recognize her anywhere. Her thick blond hair tumbled in loose curls down her back, brightened by renegade red curls. As usual, she hid her slender body under a dark skirt and bright tunic, a shawl hanging low on her back. He could see light reflecting off the metal links of the belt around her waist, emphasizing the slight curve of her hips. She may have been born a man, but that's where it ends, no matter what these idiots say. I need to get out of this and see her before—

  He jolted back. An arm curled around his neck. The grip tightened as the crowd cheered.

  "Turned your back and look what happens." Willar chuckled in Gren's ear. "Running out of bright ideas, are we?"

  Hot breaths blew across Gren's shoulder, his sweaty back slipping across Willar's chest. He would have found the position arousing if he did not dislike soldiers as much as he did. Idiot. New rule: never let anyone behind you unless they're in your bed.

  Fighting to swallow, Gren gripped the slick leather brace and glanced at Tracel.

  She turned and he choked on what little breath he had. Her reddened lips curved into a small smile, the skin around her blue eyes crinkling the way they did whenever she saw him. The smile faded quickly, replaced by concern as she pointed to her neck. As she brushed a stray curl across her forehead, he wanted to abandon the fight and take her up the stairs. After all, he was paying for a room and had no money on the current fight. He had nothing to lose.

  Enough of this. Fight's getting old anyway.

  He stomped on Willar's foot as hard as he could before throwing his head back into Willar's face. As Willar fell back, Gren spun around. Gripping Willar's shoulders, he brought his knee up into Willar's groin. Slipping one foot behind Willar's leg, he pushed.

  Willar fell backward, grimacing when his head touched the floor.

  Heaving, Gren looked back, his brows furrowing. Tracel was gone. Disappointed to not see her in the crowd, he helped Willar stand and hid his annoyance when Willar wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

  "I don't know what we were fighting for, but it calls for a drink." Willar grinned and drew a hand across his lips before pointing to the tavern keeper. "Get him something, would you? On Korre's honour!" He yelled, slapping Gren's back before walking away.

  Forget that. Gren wiped the sweat and blood from his face and shooed away the cheering men before pulling on his shirt. Pushing through the crowd, he hurried out of the tavern and into the dark village. Tracel could not have gotten far. He squinted as he checked one way and then the other before moving towards the blacksmith's forge. Women laughed somewhere ahead and Gren slowed his steps, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight. The women stood by the carts in the middle of the road, one woman large with child. The second woman was too short, but the third…

  The women quieted as he neared. Tracel glanced at him, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. "You're back," she said before giving him a slight smile.

  Gren blinked. He never expected her to make a big display of welcoming him home, but the flattened tone of her voice was less than he had hoped for. Even worse, her smile seemed forced. Was she that displeased to see him? When Tracel turned back to the other women without another word, he wondered if he should return to the tavern.

  Tracel touched the pregnant woman's hand in farewell and then faced him. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon," Tracel murmured. Drawing him close, she pressed a light kiss to his jaw with a smile. When she pulled back, her nose lingered in the crook of his neck.

  Her touch made him shiver, and her breath tickled his cooling skin. "That's not a problem, is it?" Gren muttered, clearing his throat when her fingers gripped his wrist. He wished she were gripping him somewhere else. He could use the distraction.

  "Not a problem, just a surprise." Tracel shrugged, looking up through her lashes. "You told me you'd be gone for weeks, not a few days. I didn't think you'd be around for all of this. I know you don't care about the Tract Steward business." She pushed him to a stop. "And I also know you wouldn't bother honouring him, which makes me wonder why you were in that brawl."

  Gren took a sharp breath in. She knew him better than he expected, more than what felt comfortable. He considered telling one of several lies, but al
l he could manage was the truth.

  "It didn't happen," he grumbled. "The guy got killed by the same guys he wanted me to take out. Something about shooting his mouth off and leaving the door wide open."

  "So you came back here."

  Why does she sound surprised? Gren frowned, her tone wounding him. "Yeah, I did. It was the last place I was, and… you're here."

  Tracel smiled, her eyes brightening. Did she know something he did not? "Oh." Slipping her hand into his, she pulled him towards the tavern. "So you're just waiting for the next job, then you'll be off."

  "That was the plan, just like always." Gren faltered in his steps. The sound of the tavern drunkards yelling and singing was pouring into the quiet street. Taking Tracel into the tavern felt wrong. She was not a dainty woman, but taking her into a place full of sweaty, ugly men made little sense to him. Not when she smelled like a sweet coronni flower and looked like one of the Four Goddesses.

  He blinked when she brushed his black hair over his shoulder. Her fingertips glided across his skin, a touch so light he almost did not feel it. But feel it he did, especially the parts of him that had desired her since he'd left the village. A deep gnawing in his groin hardened him, his heart pounding in a misguided rhythm that scrambled his thoughts. Energy surged through his skin like a cold thread pulling everything tighter. One touch from her sparked an insatiable insanity.

  Pulling her close, his mouth crushed hers. Her lips returned his kiss, her softness drawing him closer. Tasting nothing but ale, his tongue sought hers, teasing the inside of her lips. She moaned, and the sound reverberated through him, making him harder.

  Drawing his mouth from hers, Gren pulled Tracel to the darkened space between the forge and the tavern, empty save for the rain barrels mere foot lengths away. Backing her against the wall of the tavern, he braced one hand behind her. Kissing her again, he groaned when her hands wrapped around his neck, grabbing tight and squeezing his aching muscles. Tracel moaned again, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, her hips moving to touch his. Slipping his knee between her legs, Gren cupped her breast, the shawl slipping down. Caressing her through her tunic, he felt the nipple harden beneath his thumb.