Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  The knifing pain in his head surged till he thought he might vomit. The Viles were all around him, sucking away his air, suffocating him with their gibbering jabber. “Get away from me!”

  Distracted by the pain in his skull, he had allowed Sister Pía to come too close. She seized him by the shoulders and shook him, her golden eyes ablaze with zeal. “Will you not heed the truth even when your soul exhorts you to do so?”

  He felt a fire of his own kindling in his belly. No one had the right to lay hands upon him. Even if she was really very pretty. Anger brought the world into crystal clear focus despite the invisible spear in his head.

  “Take your hands off me,” he growled.

  “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,” the Viles chanted again and again. Sister Pía’s hands went from his shoulders to his face, her fingernails digging into his cheeks as she pulled him close enough to kiss. She shouted, spraying him with sweet-smelling spittle, “Give your soul to the Prophet! Give your soul to the Prophet! Give your soul—”

  He slammed the tip of Sunderbones into her slipper-shod foot. She shrieked in pain, her fingers clawing rows through his face as she drew back. He kicked her in the torso, just below the breasts, knocking her into the others. Her eyes went wide with shock.

  “Pía!” the old woman called.

  Sister Pía seemed mostly unhurt. She quickly found her feet, though she would limp for a while. The Viles’ insanity went from zesty zealotry to foamy-mouthed frenzy. Hurling insults, they seemed ready to tear him apart with their bare hands. He took up a defensive stance, Sunderbones at the ready. Headache or no, the first Vile to advance would get his or her head cracked open.

  Sister Pía calmed her fellows with one hand as she clutched her sore stomach with the other. “Leave him be. I am unhurt and he is just a frightened boy. Leave him be.”

  The other Viles did not seem happy about it, but they backed away, staring at Paladin with murder in their eyes. He quickly ran to the back of the alley and used Sunderbones to vault up the wall. He grabbed the overhang and pulled himself up onto the roof.

  The old woman screamed at him, “Wicked half-breed! Evil little híbrido! Only the wicked may hear the words of the Prophet and turn away!”

  Paladin flipped his middle finger at the old woman and fled west across the rooftops, pain stabbing through his head, excitement hammering through his heart. He had faced down a whole gang of Viles and had the battle scars to prove it. He couldn’t wait to tell Drud! He touched the place on his cheek where Sister Pía had raked him and hissed through his teeth at the sting. His fingers were damp with crimson. Drud would be impressed.

  He climbed higher and higher up the multi-tiered pagodas of Eastgate, leaping from one roof to the next, grinning. It was exhilarating amongst the rooftops. Here was an unpopulated, foreign land, a sprawl of wood and stone rises, arches and domes of manmade symmetry that would take him as far as the city’s center before he had to climb down and join his fellow humans. For now, he enjoyed the solitary travel. There were no monks on the rooftops to castigate him for his blended martial system, no dog-faced Nords, ignorant turistas, or rabid Viles. There was only the sound of his feet bounding off wood and the sight of the Phoenix-Rising Amphitheater looming closer.

  Chapter Four

  The Circle of Triumph

  “Well, at least you will have distinguished yourself, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said in his lispy Oestean drawl. “I do not think there is any disciple in any temple in the Thirteen who has served as Niñero de Zurullo for as long as you.”

  Jorge sniggered. “Sí. If nursemaiding turds were a Torneo trial, the name Fox the Runt would be renowned throughout the Thirteen Kingdoms.”

  Urbano and Jorge fell over each other chuckling, slapping each other’s backs and rudely jostling the folk around them.

  “Kuss mein arsch,” Fox the Runt grumbled, but neither Urbano nor Jorge heard him over their giggles and the tumult of excited tourists and Torneo contestants tromping through Círculo del Triunfo, the wide street encircling the arena. It was crowded with people, carts, and beasts traveling to and from the famous amphitheater.

  Urbano and Jorge were oblivious to those around them. They spoke in loud boorish voices, bumped into armed warriors and offered no apologies, knocked down a few tourists but took no notice.

  Had Fox the Runt been possessed of more delicate sensibilities, his ears would have been singed by the hot obscenities hurled at the thoughtless rich boys. There were several folk, some of whom were serious warriors, who were more than ready to throw punches as well as curses until they saw the totem sewn over the breast of Urbano’s coat. The bumblebee on a field of orange marked Urbano as the heir of House Próspero, one of the most powerful Patriarchies in the Reinos del Oeste. Jorge was of House Odalis, an influential Patriarchy in its own right, but it was House Próspero that instilled the most fear.

  Few people knew of Urbano’s current feud with his father, Don Efraín the Spicebringer, but everyone knew what a powerful and vindictive man the don was. He would not take kindly to anyone throwing anything at Urbano, whether he deserved it not.

  “Do not look so glum,” Urbano said. “It is not every day a pauper like you gets a chance to compete in Torneo. Perhaps you will perform well enough to earn a name.”

  That was true enough. Without Urbano’s patronage, Fox the Runt would never be able to pay the Torneo entrance fee. And he certainly liked the idea of petitioning for his own surname. He would call himself something elegant, understated, and classy. He would avoid the trap many folk fell into of choosing names that were flamboyant to the point of being ridiculous, like the butcher Señor Cleto the Tastybacon, who provided the temple with meat on the one or two times a year when the stingy monks would pay for it.

  Had there ever been a name as stupid as Tastybacon? Although, he had to admit, the man’s bacon had been very tasty. But could he not have imagined a less silly name?

  Even the mongrel’s mongrel parents’ surnames spoke of their inflated egos: the Darkdragón and the Cruelarrow. Fox the Runt rolled his eyes and shook his head just thinking about it. Seisakusha’s Tail, but it was obnoxious! No, he would avoid such false grandiosity. His name would speak to his strengths without being ostentatious or tawdry.…

  “Zwergfuchs the Ragingblades!” he declared. “What do you think of that name, Urbano?”

  “For the Niñero de Zurullo?” Urbano chuckled. “I was thinking of something more like Zwergfuchs the Stinkyfingers.”

  “Or,” Jorge said, “Zwergfuchs the Turdtender.”

  Urbano and Jorge were seized by a fit of laughter once more. Fox the Runt took deep breaths to control his building anger. He did not want to say anything to his friend that he might regret later. Urbano could be vexing, but he was also a trusted companion. It was rare for a noble of such a powerful House to befriend a poor foreign-born commoner like Fox the Runt. Urbano would be taking on debt to pay the Torneo entrance fee, charging Fox the Runt only a nominal rate of interest. Though Urbano came from a wealthy House, he had little money himself. His father had seen to that.

  The quarrel between Urbano and his father concerned Urbano’s handling of money. Don Efraín thought his son was careless and extravagant, an opinion Fox the Runt shared, though he would never say so to Urbano. The don had ended Urbano’s weekly stipend and insisted the boy take a job in the arena’s stables, a punishment designed to teach him budgetary responsibility. Urbano had taken an advance on his salary to pay the entrance fee for Fox the Runt. It was hard to be angry with Urbano after such a selfless act of friendship.

  “Burning Balls, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We are only jesting. The year will pass before you know it, and the only piss pot you will have to clean will be your own.”

  “Sí,” Jorge said, chuckling, “and there is always the possibility you will be killed during Torneo. Mi padre says there are no chamber pots in The After. Unless you go to hell. Then I suppose—”
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br />   “Mind your tongue!” Urbano snapped. “If he is killed in the games, I will lose my investment. Besides, have you not seen him fight? There is no warrior in the Thirteen that can best him, certainly no youngling.”

  “What about the híbrido, Del Darkdragón?” Jorge said. “Did he not break his nose …?”

  “That mongrel is a stinking cheat!” Fox the Runt barked. “And he only bloodied my nose. He did not break it!”

  “Calm down, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said. “Even if the mongrel could beat you—”

  “He cannot!”

  “I know that, amigo.” Urbano sighed. “But it does not matter one way or the other. The híbrido’s father will never allow him to compete in Torneo.”

  Fox the Runt wished the mongrel’s father would let him compete so he could prove once and for all which of them was the better fighter. He considered saying so to Urbano, but a couple of roughhousing boys rushed out of the crowd, chasing one another in a game of tag. Oblivious, they slammed into him. “Be careful, fools! You almost knocked me down!”

  The boys’ dirty faces were flush from hard play, and Fox the Runt could tell at once they were not of Santuario del Guerrero. Their clothes of shabby homespun and shaved heads marked them as rustics, probably farmers. Green-eyed and olive-skinned, they were Oestean. But they reminded him of himself when he had first come to the city: wide-eyed, dirty, and ignorant.

  He disliked them instantly.

  The younger boy, perhaps ten, backed away, watching Fox the Runt with fear in his dark eyes. His brother was a few years older and too excited or too stupid to be afraid. His gap-toothed bumpkin’s grin was a dazzle of naked sincerity, charming to the point of endearment. It made Fox the Runt want to slap him.

  “Perdón, señores,” the older boy said. “It is our first time in Santuario del Guerrero. We have come for Torneo!”

  Urbano strode forth and wrapped an arm around Fox the Runt’s shoulder. He spoke to the boys with the same exaggerated affectations as the pitchmen outside the brothels and churches on Calle de la Iglesia. “If you have come to see the warriors of Torneo, then look no further, campesino. This is Fox the Ru—this is Señor Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead, the next Youngling Black Spear, and the greatest young fighter the Thirteen has ever known. For a copper I will allow you the honor of shaking his hand.”

  The boy looked at Fox the Runt dubiously, frowned, and then met his brother’s gaze. Both boys burst into laughter. “We may be farmers, señor, but we are not stupid.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Fox the Runt demanded.

  “You are an enano,” the boy managed through his laughter, “a dwarf! You are no warrior!”

  Fox the Runt’s face heated with indignation. He was furious enough to strike the boy, but too mortified to bring any more attention to the galling spectacle. Urbano held no such reservations. He raised the back of his hand, hissing, “You filthy little dogs! How dare you insult my friend?”

  Before the blow could fall, a woman’s voice shouted, “Please, señores! Stop! Do not harm my niños!”

  There was some jostling amongst the crowd to make way for the crude old wagon pulled by a single, decrepit-looking burro. The young mother of the two boys sat in the front of the wagon clutching a mewling babe to her breast. Next to her sat a pock-faced man—the father of the boys, judging from the resemblance.

  “Por favor,” she whined, “do not harm my niños. They mean no offense.”

  Her pock-faced husband calmed her by gently patting her shoulder. “All will be well, Jacinta. Let me speak with the young señores.”

  The foot traffic flowed around them like a forking river as Pock-Face, hat in hand, climbed down from the wagon and dipped his head respectfully to Urbano. “Por favor, señor, forgive my boys. They are young and intend no harm.”

  “I am not the one owed an apology,” Urbano lisped, “nor is it you who owe it.”

  Fox the Runt took little satisfaction in the servile apologies of Pock-Face and his boys. He would rather have forgotten the whole incident, but Urbano insisted the bumpkins make amends for their offense. When they had done groveling, he said, “Fine. Fine. You are forgiven. Now please, just let us be on our way.”

  The farmers climbed into their shambles of a wagon and rode toward the arena, the same direction as everyone else in Círculo del Triunfo. The farm boys peeked over the back of the wagon, grinning their crooked-toothed, bumpkin grins. Fox the Runt tried not to look at them. Instead, he allowed his gaze to take in the Phoenix-Rising Amphitheater, the legendary arena where he would, if the goddess were generous, win the Youngling Black Spear. At 150 feet tall, 615 feet long, and 500 feet wide, the elliptical amphitheater was the largest structure in the city, perhaps even the world. There was certainly nothing to rival its majesty in the Nordländer.

  He had only just begun to imagine the honors he would win within its stone and marble walls when his feet skidded through something slippery and he fell to his hands and knees. Urbano and Jorge collapsed into gales of laughter. Fox the Runt gaped at the sludgy, stinking mess on his pants and hands, unable to believe his eyes.

  “Shit,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  The filthy farmers had gotten the last laugh on him after all, or at least their burro had. The beast’s droppings smeared one leg of his breeches, his leather tabi socks, and sandals. His hands, too, were covered in the pungent muck. He looked up to see the farm boys laughing at him from the back of their wagon as it pulled into the arena.

  Everyone laughed at him: his friends, Torneo competitors, even ignorant tourists from villages so insignificant they could not be found on even the most meticulously rendered maps. He glanced toward the heavens and implored Seisakusha, Why? What offense had he offered the goddess that She would humiliate him so? Had he not been Her faithful servant? He was diligent in his prayers and tireless in his veneration. He had nearly memorized every passage of the Nyusu, and probably knew the holy book better than half the monks at Temple Seisakusha, so why would She bring him so low, and before the eyes of so many people? He wished he could become invisible.

  He climbed to his feet, too embarrassed to look at Urbano or Jorge, though their laughter was impossible to ignore. He watched the faces—black, white, brown, and yellow—of the folk traveling through Círculo del Triunfo, and searched his memory of Seisakushan holy text for a passage that might justify the goddess’s ill treatment of him. He could think of no sin he had committed to offend Seisakusha or incur Her wrath. Then his gaze found one mongrelly face shuffling through the crowds toward Westgate, and he remembered a section in the Nyusu on supplications: “Take care when entreating the goddess, for nothing is free and no haggler as shrewd as Seisakusha. She may grant your wish, but at a price you can ill afford.”

  The only boon he had ever wished from the goddess was revenge for the kumite treachery. In having the mongrel expelled from temple, Seisakusha had granted that prayer, but would he pay for it with eternal humiliation? Was Fox the Runt’s entire existence to be one big dung heap because he had entreated the goddess to right a grievous wrong done to him? And if this was the price, how in Schöpfer’s name was that just? He wanted to curse Seisakusha, but he would never commit such sacrilege. Instead he cursed the half-breed. Had it not been for the mongrel’s chicanery, he would not now be paying this loathsome cost for vengeance. The hibrido should be covered in dung, not him. Anger, cold and righteous, eclipsed his embarrassment.

  His hands were already covered in muck, and even had they not been, he would not have cared. The time had come to share his misery with the mongrel that had spawned it. He scooped up a large handful of the burro’s dung—Urbano and Jorge howled in disgust and bolted away from him—and packed it into a tight ball.

  The mongrel was oblivious. His head hung low. He looked almost as miserable as he was about to feel.

  “Paladin Del Darkdragón!” Fox the Runt yelled, and let fly.

  The mongrel looked up and a split second later, the dung ball bu
rst into his face. Urbano and Jorge stood dumbstruck, their eyes and mouths forming perfect circles of astonishment.

  “Bane’s-eye!” Fox the Runt said.

  Urbano and Jorge dropped to the street in a fit of hilarity so debilitating Fox the Runt was sure they would not have been able to move had a herd of wild horses stampeded down the street. He took one look at the mongrel’s feces-covered face and joined them. He and his companions rolled in the street, clutching their bellies, overcome.

  The mongrel glared down at him, his black eyes flickering with naked hatred, his thick bottom lip quivering like he was on the verge of sobbing. He growled, “Get up, Runt. Get up, cabrón!”

  Fox the Runt climbed to his feet, his body racked with giggles. Urbano and Jorge, and everyone else watching the scene, cackled at the sight. Before long, there was a near mob of folk pointing at the muck-covered mongrel and sniggering. Fox the Runt knew the halbrasse might attack him right there on the spot, and tried to master himself, but a duck-shaped dollop of dung perched precariously on the tip of the mongrel’s nose, and the sight of it yoked him to gales of savage laughter. He laughed till his ribs ached, till tears leaked from his eyes and he could not catch a breath.

  Then the mongrel hawked up a glob of slime and blasted it into his face.

  The laughter died in his throat.

  His muscles tensed, rejecting the ungainly slackness of mirth. Anger took control of his body, now as taut as a drawn bowstring. He met the mongrel’s heated gaze with cold-blooded murder in his eyes.

  “If only your mamá could see you now,” the mongrel said. “She would be so proud.”

  Fox the Runt cringed at the mention of his mother. Everyone at Temple Seisakusha knew how much he despised that coldhearted bitch. Merely mentioning Schneeflocke the Hammerhead was enough to rouse his ire. The filthy half-blood was trying to provoke him, and succeeding.

  “Urbano,” he said, “you and Jorge do nothing. The halbrasse’s blood is mine to spill.”