Venture Untamed (The Venture Books)

by Russell, R. H.

  “We’re going to try again, and this time everyone’s going to do push-ups like that. From the beginning.”

  “One!” Parker said.

  Lance lowered his body. His arms trembled. He glared at Venture.

  When they were done, the trainers lined them up at the end of the mat for sprints. Fisher blew the whistle faster and faster, so there was less and less time to rest between each sprint to the wall. They barely got back in their lines before it was their turn to go again.

  Nick was in the line beside Venture, and when he reached the end two full strides behind him, Parker grabbed Nick by the arm. “Why are you so blasted slow? Huh?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m just—”

  “You’re just too slow.” Parker shoved him roughly back in line. Nick exchanged a look with Lance, in line behind him, but neither of them would look at Venture.

  It had to be mid-day by now, and still there’d been no meal, but Fisher blew the whistle and announced their first water break, their first rest. Venture leaned forward, head against the weathered wood plank wall, and tried to convince his stomach that it didn’t want to empty itself. He wanted a drink so bad, but he was afraid it would come right back up.

  Lance held out his empty water flask. “Excuse me, Parker? Where’s the pump?”

  Parker swatted the flask out of his hand. “Right there.” He pointed at half a dozen rusty buckets.

  Lance bent to pick up his flask, but Parker kicked him right behind the knees.

  “Hey!” Venture stepped between them, but Parker just turned his back and smirked over his shoulder. “Lance,” Venture said, “You all right?”

  He stumbled to his feet. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Everybody back on the mat!” Parker called. “Thanks to these guys.” He nodded at Venture and Lance.

  A couple of the others shoved Venture as he walked by, back onto the mat. But Parker was watching him. All he could do was glare back at them.

  Lance looked like he wanted to give him a good shove, too, or worse, but he just shook his head and said, “Thanks a lot, Vent.”

  “What’s going on?” Fisher asked Parker.

  “These guys aren’t thirsty enough.”

  “Well then,” Fisher said with a crooked smile. “let’s make them thirsty.”

  Venture removed his boots and steeled himself to get back on the mat. His stomach rumbled. He’d burned through the little bowl of lukewarm goo he’d had for lunch before he even made it back to the training room.

  There was a rumble of boots and laughter and the training room door clattered open. Fisher entered, followed by a couple dozen older fighters. “I have a surprise for you boys. A chance to fight.”

  Venture flexed his fingers. Those guys looked fresh and strong and eager to give them a good beating, but it would be a break from drills, and this was what he’d come here for, to fight bigger, better guys.

  A tall young man, not bulky like Fisher, but long-limbed and well-built, stepped onto the mat right next to Venture. His hands were wrapped in the gloves many of the fighters preferred—lightweight, leather, covering only part of the fingers to allow for dexterity, while offering some protection to the knuckles. A fine pair, supple, and a custom fit. Venture’s hands would like a pair of those.

  Something about the way he moved, that shaggy sandy hair, cut short enough to show his ears, oversized and misshapen from repeated breaking and swelling, looked familiar. Then he turned his head and Venture recognized him. Dasher Starson. The Dasher Starson, who’d just beaten Will Fisher for the title this past summer. The current Champion of All Richland.

  “So this is where you’ve been hiding, Will.”

  “I have a job to do, Starson.”

  “Tough job.” He surveyed the exhausted boys. “Come on. You promised me a round today.”

  “Didn’t you get enough of a beating yesterday?”

  Starson didn’t blink, but Venture thought he saw his face harden for a flash before he smiled again. His Championship win had been a narrow one, and the two of them had been taking turns at first place in competition ever since.

  “I left my nice, warm training room and came to this dump to find you. The least you can do is put your gloves on.” He picked up Fisher’s gloves from the matside shelf and tossed them to him. Fisher caught them, but then hurled them into the corner and turned his back on Starson.

  Starson just smiled and shook his head, as though he’d expected exactly that response.

  “Mr. Starson?” Venture said. “I’ll go a round.”

  “Venture Delving,” said Lance as he walked by, “you’re out of your mind.”

  Fisher stormed over and smacked Venture hard on the back of the head, not the friendly sort of swat that Earnest, his friend and trainer back at Beamer’s might’ve given him if he’d done something really stupid, but a wallop that left his head ringing. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Will,” Starson said sternly.

  Fisher grabbed Venture’s arm. “Your name!”

  Venture twisted away and glared at him, his lips determined not to open. Don’t answer him, his gut said, both his pride and a sense of warning.

  “Will!” Starson took Venture by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of Fisher’s grasp, but Venture didn’t resist his firm grasp as he had Fisher’s. “We don’t have time to play around. You promised me another round. Let’s go. Give these boys a break so we can have the mat.”

  “Tell me your name,” Fisher insisted.

  “What does it matter? He’s with that group from—?”

  “Beamer’s,” Venture said.

  “From Twin Rivers? You sure?”

  “You from Twin Rivers, kid?” said Starson, releasing his grip on Venture.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There you go. Just another kid from Beamer’s. Who cares?”

  Fisher shrugged. “Thought he was someone else,” he mumbled. “All right, Starson. We’ll go, after these guys finish up.”

  Starson shrugged. “I’ll wait right here. They look pretty close to finished to me.”

  The rest of the boys were lining up with the older guys for sparing partners, so Venture hurried out there. One of the guys gave him a nod and shoved him in front of him just as the whistle blew.

  “You’re the bondsman, right?”

  Venture struggled to hide his surprise. “Right.” Who had told him that? Would Nick or Lance go so far as to tell this guy that now?

  The fighter said nothing more about it, just began one attack after another, fast and hard. His jabs kept hitting their mark, not full strength, but much too hard for practice. Each takedown made Venture never want to get up again. But he got up, every time. He fought back, fiercer than he had in all his years on the mat, holding nothing back.

  Venture’s knuckles made contact with the other fighter’s nose, and blood gushed down over his mouth. Venture pulled back, considered an apology, but a heavy fist bashed right into his ear—right through his head, it seemed. He felt himself go out for a split second but he kept his feet, brought his hands back up, focused back on his opponent. The other guy wiped the back of his hand across his bloody face, then the hand on his shirt. Fear flooded through Venture’s fuzzy-headedness, a kind of fear he’d never felt on the mat.

  Venture kept his hands up, his guard up, waiting for someone to intervene, but no one did. That feeling he’d gotten in his gut when he first saw Fisher tightened up into an even bigger knot. This guy could beat him senseless, right here, and no one would care. Venture swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth, and he made a decision. A decision he’d never made before. A decision he hated. He wouldn’t push this opponent anymore. He would survive this round, even if it meant holding back in order not to anger him.

  It was forever before they stopped. No three-minute timers here. Fisher finally blew the whistle and offered them water.

  Venture’s opponent grabbed him by the chin. “You think anyone’s going to mi
ss you after we’re done with you?”

  Venture pulled free.

  “Your master ought to find some other way to dump his bonded trash. But I guess this way we can have a little fun helping him get rid of you.”

  He laughed and turned away and Venture limped toward the edge of the mat, for a vicious leg kick had set a knot already forming on his calf. He put his hand to his throbbing ear. It felt hot.

  When he stumbled, Parker laughed and shoved him. Venture’s usual leaping flames of outrage were nothing but dying coals underneath his desire to get off this mat and never get on it again. Maybe Able was wrong, and Earnest too. He wasn’t meant to be here. And he’d just learned how to give up even while he kept getting up. How long would it be before he stopped getting up, too?

  Someone said, “Here,” and tossed him a towel. Venture fumbled to catch it and looked up, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. Dasher Starson.

  “You have quick feet. Quick hands. I’ll bet they’re really something when you’re not spent. Your timing needs work, though.”

  “Timing,” Venture repeated through cracked lips. He’d meant to say thanks. But it was too late to correct himself. Starson was already striding away from him, across the mat.

  “Hurry up!” Parker said. “Before the water’s gone.”

  Venture staggered over to a bucket. Someone had thrown up in it. He shoved it away before his own stomach could add to it, and grabbed another one. He scooped the last handfuls of water up and sucked it down, but it wasn’t enough. It felt like there would never be enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Venture held his shirt in one hand and probed gingerly at his bare ribs with the other, at the place he’d been injured years ago. His sixth day at Champions had finally come to an end, and it pained him to move, everywhere. It hurt to the touch, everywhere. But there, that place on his ribs, the pain was especially sharp. Were they broken again? It was the sort of thing his trainer ought to look at. He laughed silently, humorlessly at the thought of that. Parker would enjoy giving him a good jab right there.

  Venture’s aching, fight-swollen fingers fumbled with his clothes. He shuddered as he peeled off his shorts and tugged on his long underwear. Even with all of them packed in here close, it was still so cold. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this weak. The back of his throat felt thick and sore, and he was certain he’d be sicker soon.

  As he tucked his sweat-wet clothes between the mattress and the edge of the bunk above his, hoping they’d dry out some by morning, he bumped his arm on the bunk and winced. His forearms were covered with bruises from holding them protectively against his head. By the time the older fighters had come to beat up on them today, he hadn’t had the speed of thought or motion left in him to avoid the punches that came flying at him.

  On the bunk across from his, Lance sat, arms limp at his sides, too tired even to try to hide the tears forming in his eyes. Venture hesitated, took a step closer to him, but Lance jerked away and lay down on his side with his back to him.

  Venture turned back to his own bunk, pulled his knit hat on, wrapped the rough woolen blankets around him as tight as he could, and lay down and prayed that sleep would take him soon, that everything would get better, soon.

  Venture jolted upright and rammed his sweaty head on the wooden frame of the bunk above him. But that bump was nothing compared to the painful squeeze of his dream. He felt as though he’d taken a punch in the gut. He couldn’t breathe. In spite of the cold, the blankets were suffocating him. He flung them off, got out of bed, and began to pace the creaking narrow strip of floor between the bunks, arms crossed behind his head, chest heaving, talking silently to himself about what was real and what was not, what was now, and what was in the past, trying to loosen the clench of horror, to explain to the terrified part of himself that the pulsing darkness was just the stuff of dreams.

  “What’s the matter with you, Vent?” Nick muttered sleepily.

  Every one of his roommates was not only awake, but each one was staring at him from his own shallow bunk. Their breath puffed toward him in clouds of steam against the frigid air.

  “You should’ve heard him, yelling for his mother!”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah, I heard him, too,” said one of the boys from Frost’s. “What’s the matter, Vent, never been away from your mama?”

  Oh, no. How much of what he dreamed had been out loud?

  “Everybody shut up and get back to sleep!” Parker barked at them. “We’re running an hour before daybreak.”

  There was a rustle of blankets and a creaking of the wooden boards beneath them as the other boys lay back down on their straw mattresses. Venture continued to pace. He needed to feel the floor under his feet a little longer, smell the cold mustiness of all of the guys and their many-times-sweated-in clothes all packed together. You’re here. You’re at Champions. But it had seemed so real. It was real.

  “Everybody! That means you, Delving!”

  He just needed to be awake a little longer, a little longer so he knew for sure, so it didn’t come back. If he lay down now, it would come back; he knew it.

  “Delving!”

  Venture jerked his head in the direction of Parker’s bunk, and in that instant, he was fully awake, fully aware, and fully humiliated. He turned away from Parker and looked at the smirking faces on either side of him. Venture shot a look of hot contempt along the bunk rows on each side of the room as he strode to the door. He opened it, then slammed it shut behind him. Parker ought to understand that he just needed a minute. A minute to himself. Just one minute without people watching him, picking him apart.

  He sagged against the wall, slid down it until he was sitting on the rough wooden floor. The heat deserted him and his sweaty body felt cold and wet. He shivered, then wrapped his arms around himself. It hurt his mat-burned elbows, but he hugged himself just the same. It was so cold.

  Now that those guys had seen his weakness, they were going to devour him. And the worst part of it was, he didn’t even know whether he cared anymore. Whether he could stay here, like this. What am I going to do now? Earnest, he tried to summon him with his thoughts, what should I do?

  The door to their room opened and Parker stepped out. He closed the door behind him with menacing deliberation, then stood before Venture with his arms crossed.

  “You disregarded a clear order, Delving. And then you slammed that door.”

  “Just give me a minute, all right?”

  “I hear you’re a bondsman. That true?”

  Venture stiffened. Did they all know now? “Yeah,” he said, “it’s true.”

  “Then you ought to know a thing or two about following orders. Maybe if you’re given sole responsibility for the privies, you’ll remember your place in this world.”

  “Is that what I deserve for how hard I’ve worked?”

  Parker laughed. “You don’t deserve to be here at all, you worthless bastard pile of waste! You’re not even worthy to be a point-fighter. I don’t know how you ended up here, but I can guess how you got to be bonded. Your whore mother abandon you?”

  “My mother’s dead. What did your mother do to you to make you like this?”

  Venture saw it coming—Parker’s foot, boots on—for what purpose other than this—aimed directly at his face. He reacted swiftly, instinctively, and caught Parker’s boot heel and scooped it toward him with such force that Parker was pulled up, his body horizontal to the floor. He landed hard, flat on his back. Venture had stood up as he pulled the threatening foot out from under Parker, and now he let it go and leaned over him, almost disbelieving what he’d done. He looked down on Parker, still silent, the wind knocked out of him. Now was Venture’s chance to speak.

  “What did you think, that I was just going to sit here and let you break my nose?” He was loud, and doors cracked open. Boys peered, blinking, into the narrow, shadowy hallway. “If you start something with me, you’d better be prepared to finish it. Do you understand, Parker? You
’re not my master. You’re paid to help me, to help all your boys. If you want some more, then get up and have at it.”

  He folded his arms and stared down at the still immobile Parker, who could only glare at him and cough.

  “Yuh.” He tried to speak, but his voice was weak, his breath still shallow.

  “That’s what I thought.” Venture’s words reverberated up and down the hallway.

  He turned back to his doorway. The boys stood there, gaping. They parted to let him through, and he climbed into his sweat-damp bunk, pulled the blankets up, and turned toward the cold, bare wall, feeling strangely calm. The others rushed back in after him and crowded around.

  “Vent, Vent, by the gods, what did you do?” Lance said.

  “Go to sleep,” Venture grumbled. Oh, my God, he thought, is there any help for me now?

  “He laid him out! He laid him flat out!” Nick laughed deliriously.

  Venture, still facing the wall, couldn’t help half a smile.

  “How’d you do it? Did you punch him in the face? Kick him where it counts?” someone said.

  Venture sat up. “I don’t want to talk about it. Now all of you get off my bed. Back off. I’m tired.”

  The boys took a couple of steps back, but kept staring at him. He knew it was ridiculous, the idea that he could just act like nothing happened, like the hallway wasn’t full of commotion, and turn around and go to sleep.

  “Oh, man, do you hear that?” Lance said.

  “What?” Nick tilted his head toward the door.

  “It’s Fisher! Fisher’s up!”

  “They went and got Fisher?”

  Venture threw his covers back and swung his legs over the side of his bunk. Whatever was going to happen to him wasn’t going to wait until morning. Fisher himself was coming for him. He couldn’t change what he’d done now. This could be his last night here, and he wasn’t sure anymore whether he wanted it to be his last or not.

  “It’s been nice knowing you, Vent,” said one of the boys from Frost’s.