Venture Untamed (The Venture Books)

by Russell, R. H.

  “Don’t worry,” Venture said with his own quiet fury. “I’ll fight.” That was all he wanted to do. It was the only job he’d ever wanted to have. To be a fighter.

  Venture tried to shut out the increasing noise of the crowd, spilling off the stands along the sides of the tent, almost onto the edge of the mat. His name was announced, and finally, he could step onto the mat. Once he was on the mat, whatever else was going on, whatever had been in his head before, either faded away or was funneled into the fight. He prayed that today would be no different.

  Earnest slapped his hand and he walked to his line. Venture’s eyes met the official’s, narrowed in scrutiny, and his stomach flopped. He’d always dreamed of hearing his name announced in competition; now he hated the practice. His name was that of a bondsman, and every official here knew it today.

  “Vent,” Earnest said, “Focus.”

  The whistle blew, signaling the start of his first match in the striking competition, and he shut out all but the two voices that mattered. Beamer. Earnest.

  “Hands up, quick feet. Keep the pressure on.”

  Venture nodded in response to Beamer’s coaching, but kept his eyes where they belonged, on his opponent, a boy named Falcon, whom he’d never fought before.

  The match went scoreless for the first two minutes. Venture was tempted to throw everything he had at Falcon, but Beamer, who’d seen what Falcon could do before, had cautioned him to pace himself and wait for the right opportunity with this opponent.

  “He’s tired.” From the matside, Earnest funneled his whisper through his hands so that only Venture could hear. “You’ve got him. He’s heavier, but you’ve got more fight in you. You can do this.”

  Venture gave Falcon a kick just below the knee, feeling him out. Then he jabbed, making contact once, twice, three times. Falcon’s fists drooped. His jaw hung slack as he gulped for air. Venture followed up with a powerful right hook to Falcon’s jaw. Falcon’s head rolled sideways and he staggered, so that Venture had the urge to reach out and steady him. The official moved between them and blew his whistle. Time was up.

  Officials didn’t look favorably on knockouts in point tournaments. He was going to get penalized; they were going to give Falcon the match and then kick him out of here. He was an idiot. Beamer had been yelling something to him, but he hadn’t listened. He’d been so absorbed in the exchange, he had no idea what his coach had even said. Probably that he should go for the gut, not the head.

  Venture looked desperately at Beamer. He was quiet now, and so was Earnest. A hush fell over the whole tent as Falcon wobbled, then managed to find his feet. The official looked grimly at Venture for a few seconds, then motioned the boys back to their lines. He stood between them, and raised his hand—not to penalize Venture and expel him, but to award the match in Venture’s favor.

  He let out a breath of relief and shook his still-dazed opponent’s hand. One match down. He was still in.

  But his next match was against Nick, a superior striker. The only surprise about that match was that Venture only lost by one point. A loss wasn’t good so early on, but at the same time, getting within a point of Nick, who was bigger and usually the better striker, gave Venture hope that he might finish well in the striking competition.

  Venture began his next match feeling confident and strong, but soon enough those feelings turned to frustration, not because he couldn’t get a kick or a punch in, but because he’d landed several, and still he had no points.

  Venture let loose a flurry of strikes, but this time his opponent dodged them. It was no wonder he hadn’t gotten hit this time, since he was practically running away. He was about to tackle the guy, hold him down, and make him fight, rules or no rules, when Earnest motioned for him to calm down.

  Venture took a deep breath and advanced slowly, methodically. He landed a side kick with a nice smack right in his opponent’s kidney, and the guy back-stepped out of bounds. The official moved them back to the middle of the mat, and Venture waited for his score and his opponent’s penalty for stepping out of bounds to be awarded, but instead the official just restarted the match. Still no score. Was he blind and deaf?

  “Do it again, Delving,” Beamer said steadily.

  Venture gave him a short nod. He did it again. No score.

  “Again,” Beamer said, more heatedly. “Just keep doing it, no matter how many times it takes him to notice.”

  The official shot Beamer a glare that would have withered a weaker man. Beamer glared right back.

  The whistle blew. Time was up. It was all Venture could do to make himself stay there on his line and wait for the match to be awarded. The match was scoreless, so it was up to the official to decide the winner. It was no surprise when the decision went to his opponent. There were cries of confusion and outrage from the crowd, but it made no difference. They didn’t know what was going on, and likely neither did the so-called victor of the match, but the official knew exactly what he was doing. Venture studied his face, determined never to forget it.

  He wasn’t going to shake his opponent’s hand, but when the guy said breathlessly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know . . .” Venture accepted his extended hand. He swallowed down the bitterness and walked off the mat.

  Beamer pressed a towel to his sweating face, then slapped it on the bench as he rose. “How many times did he score?” he hissed to Earnest. How many times?”

  “Twelve, Coach.”

  Beamer shook his head. When he saw Venture watching him, he made himself relax a bit. He shook his head apologetically.

  “I fought my match, Coach.”

  “You fought a good match. You did your job. I tried to do mine.”

  Venture forced a shrug, for Beamer’s sake. “You had to press him some. You had to try.”

  “I just hope it didn’t cost you that match.”

  “Everybody knows what cost me that match.”

  Beamer squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. “That’s going to change, Delving. And you’re going to be a part of it.”

  Venture didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to be a part of any such thing. He just wanted to fight. Just wanted to win, just wanted to show people—to show himself—what he could do. He wanted to be all of who he was, that was all.

  He was out of the striking competition now, so he tried to forget about what had happened and cheer for Lance, who was working his way through what Earnest called the back door after a bitter loss to Colt early on. The match had been close, the scoring questionable, though not blatantly biased as it had been in Venture’s case.

  But Lance’s next match ended in another loss, and he finished fourth, right behind Nick. Predictably, Colt came out in first place. Venture and Lance had done well, Beamer and Earnest both said so. But Venture had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back that he’d done nothing. Nothing that would get him into Champions Center, and that was what mattered, because that would get him one step closer to becoming Champion of All Richland, and he had to take that step before it was pulled out from underneath him.

  “We’ve got this afternoon still,” Earnest reminded him.

  “I know. I’m a better grappler than I am a striker.”

  Earnest shook his head. “It’s not just that. You don’t have to rely on the officials so much this afternoon. On their scores. You tap everybody out, and there’ll be nothing they can do about it.”

  “He’s right, Vent.” Lance spoke up. He hadn’t had a lot to say to Venture on this trip. But he nodded at Colt, who was gloating in the distance. “Let’s tap him out or pass him out. Whoever gets to him first. Then there’ll be no denying it. Not for him or for anyone else.”

  Venture slapped him on the back. “You got it.”

  Venture had worked his way through five successive wins in the grappling competition, every one of them by tap-out, but now it was time for the tough part. Fighting Lance. Venture had no size or strength advantage over him, as he had with some of the others. Th
ey’d fought each other in five smaller tournaments, and Venture had won the last two. But this was no local tournament, and Lance was a far more experienced tournament fighter.

  Lance gave him a nod, respectful but confident, and Venture tried his best to match it. Beamer and Earnest were silent, for they refused to coach one of their own against another, especially when the stakes were so high, when their dreams were on the line. When the whistle blew, Venture and Lance started out exchanging their usual back-and-forth. But a couple of minutes into the match, Venture made a dangerous slip-up. He exposed his back to Lance while they were grappling on the ground, and Lance’s quick hands slipped under his jawline, to the side of his neck.

  Venture tried to fight those hands, but they were digging deeper and he was slipping. Those little sparkles of darkness on his peripheral vision that meant it was time to tap kept coming. Venture pulled at one of Lance’s hands with both of his and pushed his own chin down hard.

  The dark spots and the flecks of light went away, but he was still in trouble. He rolled a bit to the side, and with his hand, worked loose Lance’s leg, which had been keeping his body trapped in place. With everything he had, Venture stood up, and in an explosion of power, he threw Lance off the top of him, onto the mat. The armlock was there, just waiting for him to take it. Venture seized it with precision and power, and Lance had no choice but to tap.

  The relief and satisfaction of his win, the realization that he’d just secured a spot at Champions and a chance to fight for first place, had hardly begun to replace his desperation to survive the match when another reality sunk in. This win for him was a loss for Lance. Now Lance had just one more match. One more chance to fight his way into Champions center.

  Lance shook Venture’s hand dutifully, but turned away and went off by himself as soon as he could, sooner than was even polite. Venture couldn’t blame him. He’d expected to win this thing—though Venture could beat Lance, as a grappler Lance was a better match-up against Colt—and now there was a chance he wouldn’t even place. Lance had to get past his disappointment and focus on winning his next match.

  And Venture had to focus on his next match, too—against another teammate, one he would much rather fight, much rather beat. Colt. Venture’s focus shifted from making it into Champions, to what he and Lance had vowed one or the other of them would do—beat Colt. If he’d had to beat Lance, at least he could tap Colt out for him. For both of them.

  Venture’s match with Colt went scoreless for the first four minutes. Then Venture ducked his head under Colt’s arm and pulled it down with one hand. His other hand shot up through Colt’s legs and guided him over his shoulders, onto the mat. Colt fought it in the air and landed on his side, but it was still a score for Venture, who then held him down. But Colt escaped in seconds. Two more times Venture took him down and nearly had him on the ground, but lost control. He was ahead now, though. If Beamer were coaching him, he’d be telling him to protect his lead. Play it safe. But Venture was still looking for the tap-out. The undeniable win, the fulfillment of his promise.

  Colt went all-out, attack after attack, hoping to gain on him. They were on their feet and Venture had his hand cupped around Colt’s neck and was starting to pull him in for another takedown, when out of nowhere Colt grabbed that arm and, from a standing position, threw one leg across Venture’s body, the other over his head, extending Venture’s arm in between as he rolled him to the ground, tightening the armlock. Venture wasn’t going to tap, was going to roll with the surprise move, get out of it somehow, but Colt pressed his knees together and lifted his hips, and he was done. Venture tapped.

  Colt turned his back on him without offering to shake hands first. Venture left the mat and sank down on a bench nearby, and Earnest followed him. He didn’t say anything, just pressed a towel full of ice to his elbow.

  Beamer gave Colt, now the Youth Champion of the Western Quarter in both striking and grappling, a congratulatory handshake, then paused in front of Venture. “Don’t see many flying armlocks. How’s the elbow?”

  Venture didn’t say anything, didn’t look up. He didn’t care about his elbow. He should’ve let Colt rip it apart and kept fighting. There were only seconds left in the match.

  “A little swollen,” Earnest said for him. “But I think it’ll be all right.”

  Beamer nodded. “Delving,” he said sternly.

  Venture had to look at him. His tone gave him no choice.

  “Always protect your lead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You want me to congratulate you on your second-place finish?”

  Venture shook his head.

  Beamer smiled grimly. “I didn’t think so. But you qualified for Champions. And you looked good today, for the most part.”

  Venture clenched the edge of the bench with his good hand. “Not when it counted.”

  He’d wanted a win against Colt. A decisive win. An undeniable statement that he was the best fighter here. That he deserved everyone’s respect.

  “Everybody gets caught sometime.” Beamer gave him a smack on the back and left him alone.

  Earnest got up. “I’d better go talk to Lance.” He gestured at a figure huddled nearby. “At least you’re not sitting in the corner, crying about it.”

  Venture had missed Lance’s final match, as it had been scheduled immediately before his, and he’d been busy planning what to do against Colt. All he knew was that Lance had lost.

  “What happened?”

  “Got his leg tangled up with his opponent’s. Twisted his ankle the wrong way. He got slammed, and with the injury, he couldn’t get his lead back after that.”

  Venture felt a sharp pang of regret. Lance hadn’t placed. He’d be staying in Twin Rivers at least another year.

  “Give him a break, Earnest.”

  Earnest shook his head. “He’s got to come back here stronger next year, and face some of these same guys again. Letting them see him fall apart now won’t give him any breaks then.” Earnest left and went to talk some pride back into Lance.

  A few minutes later, Nick came up to Venture with his hands on his hips. “Nice job, Vent. You eliminate Lance and then lose to Colt.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Lance could’ve handled him. Now we get to hear Colt gloat about taking first in both competitions and Lance gets left behind so you can go a year ahead.”

  Venture rose from the bench and threw the towel full of ice down. “What do you want me to do? Apologize for losing? Or for being better than Lance?”

  “Nice.”

  Lance. Right behind him. Venture turned around and faced him. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Lance gave him a hard stare with his tear-reddened eyes, then limped away.

  Venture’s shoulders sagged. Half of him wanted to go after Lance and apologize—for what he’d just said, if for nothing else—and the other half never wanted to speak to any of these guys again. He’d finished second in the Quarter, and he was going to Champions Center, but thanks to them, there was nothing to celebrate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Venture jogged to Beamer’s, his leather bag held tight to his side with one arm. His breath puffed out white in the semi-dark, and the rising sun sent scatters of color reflecting off the icy river. Earnest had cancelled their run—a sort of good-bye present, he’d said. But Venture knew that Earnest really wanted him to be fully rested for Champions Center. Tomorrow he’d be leaving; today was his last day at Beamer’s, his last full day with Earnest. It was his last day to work out with some of his friends, at least for another year, maybe ever—though he wondered lately if he had friends anymore. He spent half the time trying to figure out what he could say to Lance, the other half wondering if he really wanted to say anything at all.

  His face was near numb with cold, but he was sweating a bit under his collar and inside his gloves by the time he cut across the dormitory lawn behind Beamer’s.

  “What do you think you’re
doing, going to Champions with us?”

  Venture started at the sound of Colt’s voice. Colt was never around this early, and now he was standing there, under one of the oak trees at the edge of the lawn, with Border, as though they’d been waiting for him.

  “You think you can just go, and everyone will act like you aren’t who you are?” Border said.

  Venture stopped and shifted his bag. “I’m going to Champions Center because that’s what I’m going to be—a Champion.”

  “You think you’re going to be a Champion?” Colt stepped closer, sneering. “What for? To make some money for Grant Fieldstone? Like a dog in a race?”

  Venture stood up tall. He glanced intentionally at the center, making it clear that he was in a hurry, that he had better places to be. “Grant Fieldstone is a good man. He—”

  “He lets you pretend you can do whatever you want because you lick his boots,” Border said.

  That force within, the one he’d been holding back with a wall of calm, raged up inside him.

  Border swung at him and Venture blocked it, grabbing his wrist. He wouldn’t have thought Border had the nerve. He knew he was no match for Venture anymore. What was he doing? He was going to pay for this. Then it hit him. Getting him into trouble, that’s what he was doing. Trying to get his last chance with Beamer spent on his last day here, getting Beamer’s support withdrawn, his recommendation to Champions Center revoked, so that this would be his last day as a fighter, anywhere. Venture dropped Border’s wrist and backed away.

  “Bonded boot-licker,” Colt said.

  A picture flashed through Venture’s imagination, of fists flying, of Colt bleeding and taking it back. Venture willed his hands to unclench, forced himself to breathe, nice and even. “You can call me whatever you want now,” he said, “but someday you’ll be calling me Champion of All Richland,” and he walked away.

  Border hated him for stepping over the lines that had been drawn for his class, and Colt just hated the idea that Venture would eventually be able to beat him. He saw it in his eyes every time they sparred—antagonism that stunk of fear. Colt didn’t want him at Champions. He saw himself as the star fighter from Beamer’s, and he wanted it to stay that way.