Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Ungläubigen

  Fox chuckled at the absurd clumsiness of the charging boy’s attack. The brute was thrice his size, brandishing a heavy cudgel and wooden shield, but he was slow, lumbering, and, the instant he came within Fox’s striking range, unconscious. With two moves Fox knocked the boy’s helmet from his head and left him lying in the dirt, face split open like a burst melon.

  “Dead!” the Caller yelled, and then, “Hold! We have an injury.”

  The combatants broke away from one another and the Red Cloaks came quickly to aid the big Nordling lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. Fox and the rest of his King’s Dozen watched the scene with pitiless satisfaction. Fox’s teammates were all small-framed natives of Eisesland. Like him, they had fled their homes to study Ashi-Kobushi in Santuario del Guerrero or the other large cities throughout the Thirteen. In the history of Torneo, there had never been so many Nord competitors of a single discipline other than Eisenfaust. He even knew a few of his teammates from Temple Seisakusha. And though it was good to see his old comrades, he pitied them. They still worshipped the sham goddess of the Higashi Shima. When Torneo was over, he would approach each of his old disciple-mates individually, and attest to the truth of the One God. This was his primary duty as a Santosian disciple, and besides, some of their souls might be worth saving. Assuming, of course, they survived the war that would begin in a few hours, if he won the Black Spear.

  Or in a few days, if he lost.

  “Ungläubigen!” the other Nords, both in the stands and on the game field, screamed at Fox and his King’s Dozen. “Filthy, faithless Ungläubigen!”

  Fox and his teammates laughed off the taunts and slurs of their countrymen. Nords recognized and gave prayers to all the gods, but they held Schöpfer and her martial gift of Eisenfaust as superior. Nords forgave the lesser people of the Thirteen their worship of the secondary gods, but a Reinblut who put any god before Schöpfer or practiced a martial system other than Eisenfaust was a blood-traitor and an Ungläubige, a word so filthy there was no Alltongue translation for it.

  Except for Fox, the Ungläubigen were garbed similarly in bushi-style armor, colorful metal plates, soft wood, and mail. They carried bokken modeled after the katana and wakizashi, slightly curved long and short swords. Fox’s bokken were of the bushi style as well, but he had no bushi armor. He could not borrow armor from Temple Seisakusha and would not have done so anyway. Señor Don Efraín the Spicebringer had found some old caballero-style mail for him to wear, which he preferred. He may not fight in the style of a Santosian warrior, but he could look like one.

  He had not gone looking for other Seisakushans to join with initially. Fox’s King’s Dozen had come together because no one else would have them. The other Eisesland youth were hateful separatists with disgust in their pale eyes. They had mocked and spat upon the Ungläubigen.

  But that was before the fighting had begun.

  After the Ungläubigen’s first charge, those taunting tongues had been stilled. There had been pain, frustration, and surprise in the voices of the larger, stronger Eisenfaust younglings; there had been disbelief that a group of Ungläubigen zwergs could wreak such brutality against devout Schöpferites, but the mocking had ended.

  One of the fundamental theories of Ashi-Kobushi was that an opponent’s size and strength could be used against him or her. Today, the Ungläubigen had proven that theory before the eyes of thousands, and Fox gloried in the carnage. Nord blood proved a potent salve for his pride, devastated by years of abuse in Kalteströme. The Schöpferites were clumsy oafs, and the Ungläubigen punished them for it.

  The Healers went to work, muttering magic words and waving witch-sticks over the downed Nordling until he stirred. The Ungläubigen watched the moaning boy escorted from the game field with satisfaction.

  Wigburg von Hillkeeper, a girl from Temple Seisakusha, nodded at the injured boy. “He is Seppel von Wolfslayer. From Schildkrötezehe Valley, my home village. Seppel and his freunden beat me nearly every day until I fled to Santuario del Guerrero to worship Seisakusha and study Ashi-Kobushi. I wish you had killed him, Fox. Or I had. It grieves me to see him live.”

  An Ungläubige boy nearly as short as Fox said, “This Seppel may live, but I think his brain was permanently damaged. He has paid a high price for his cruelty.”

  “As have many of our thickheaded countrymen,” Fox said, grinning.

  “As will many more,” Wigburg promised, her face twisted by bitter hatred of Seppel von Wolfslayer and all those like him. Seppel was the twelfth Eisesland youngling taken off the field. That many critical injuries this early in the youngling Melee trial was unheard of.

  Every known safety precaution was taken to keep the young fighters from grievous hurt. Armor was a requirement. Weapons were made of blunted wood, and every Red Cloak was an accomplished Healer. Torneo, after all, was just a game. Defeated combatants were “called” dead after having been touched by an opponent’s weapon in a vital area of their body. Customarily, there was a profound level of respect amongst the combatants, and great care was taken to win without giving too much pain.

  Of course, in the heat of competition there would be injuries, and occasionally grudges were settled during competition, but the spirit of the games was one of camaraderie and sport. No one wanted to be hurt. Champions wanted to be alive and well to enjoy their winnings. That was not the case today amongst the younglings of Eisesland.

  The Ungläubigen rampaged.

  When Seppel von Wolfslayer was gone from the game field, the competition resumed, and the Ungläubigen continued their bloody onslaught, gorging themselves on sweet, succulent revenge against the youth of Eisesland. They left many of the brawny Eisesland youth with scars and wounds they would take to their graves, along with the memory of the Ungläubigen’s unquenchable thirst for Nord blood. They fought and won until they were the last King’s Dozen of Eisesland left. Though they cheered each other, they received no such acclaim from their fellow Nords. They were jeered and spat at and cursed.

  Yet only one of the Ungläubigen could represent Eisesland as paladín and fight for the Black Spear. When the time came for them to fight among themselves, Fox tore into his fellows. He took no mercy upon those who had been his comrades just moments before. They were, after all, worshippers of a false goddess. He turned upon them the same savagery he had wreaked upon the Schöpferites, sending still more younglings to the Healing ministrations of the Red Cloaks until he alone was left, the youngling paladín of Eisesland.

  He stood with straight-backed pride, his chin held high, and accepted his pronouncement as paladín. He wondered if his parents had come to this season’s Torneo. Had they borne witness to his victory? He hoped so. It would shame Schneeflocke and Gairovald that he had become an Ungläubige.

  He would be the first youngling Ungläubige to be named Eisesland’s paladín since Torneo began two thousand years before. And shortly, he would become the first Santosian Black Spear. He adjusted the scarf around his neck and smiled. He had proven the inferiority of both Schöpfer and her martial gift of Eisenfaust. But more importantly, he had proven the supremacy of The One God. For though he fought with Ashi-Kobushi, an inferior martial system, he fought with The One God’s blessing, and thus could know no defeat. He longed to declare his faith to the world, but that joy would come in time.

  The Caller grabbed his wrist and raised it high. “The winner and youngling paladín from Eisesland, Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line!”

  The Eisesland spectators hissed and jeered, appalled that an Ungläubige represented their kingdom in the fight for the Black Spear—a smug, runty Ungläubige at that.

  Pía sat in the northern quad, along with many of Fox’s new brothers and sisters from Templo Santos, all of them cheering. They too kept their faith hidden. For now. When he won the Black Spear, they would wave banners blazoned with the Santosian Ira de Dios. The people would see an army of Santosians standing w
ith their champion. And then the people would join that army. Or they would die. He felt light enough to float, blessed enough to fly, holy enough to soar amongst the clouds, buoyed by the hot breath of his god.

  He descended into the dragón’s den to rest and wait. The other Nordlings shot him dirty looks, but were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. They gave him a wide berth in the narrow pit, and he moved to the westernmost edge of the den to watch the last of the fighters from Prosperidad face off. The pagan’s King’s Dozen had defeated the rest of the Prosperidad younglings. And the battle to decide who would represent the kingdom in the fight for the Black Spear had dwindled down to three competitors, all blended pagans: Del Darkdragón, his swinish friend Von Wildboar, and a dark-skinned, half–Kusini Watu girl. He didn’t doubt for a moment who would win. It was The One God’s will that he finish the pagan, once and for all time.

  Once the fear of reprisal had passed, he had revisited the highborns’ attack on him in his mind. Again and again he had imagined Bernadita’s face, the exact moment when she realized she was dead. Oh, but it was a pleasant memory. Still, that pleasure would be a bland draught compared to the sweet ambrosia of spilled pagan blood.

  “Praise the Prophet, Voice of The One God,” he whispered to himself when the pagan vanquished the last two Prosperidad fighters. “Death to evil.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Vindication

  Paladin couldn’t help but notice the pained expression on Drud’s face as he helped him to his feet. “Did I hurt you, vato?”

  “Only my pride,” Drud said. “But I think I have done permanent injury to Isooba.”

  Paladin thought so as well. They both looked back to the dragón’s den, where two healers tended Isooba’s leg. Isooba had found a team of mostly poor, blended younglings to fight with. Paladin knew some of them, and doubted they would have accepted Isooba had they known he was a Vile. Then again, so many people were turning Vile these days. When the two teams clashed, Isooba had tried to attack Paladin from behind. Drud had intervened and crushed Isooba’s knee. The Red Cloaks were not sure if it would ever heal properly.

  Paladin sympathized with Drud, who had the great skill and instinct of a warrior, but not the disposition. Drud was kindhearted by nature, and Paladin doubted he would ever have the stomach for true bloodshed. If he ever had to kill someone in battle, Paladin feared the guilt of it might destroy him.

  “Fret not over Isooba,” Paladin said. “He will be fine. He has Esmeralda and ‘The One God’ looking out for him.”

  That brought a weak smile to Drud’s face.

  Drud clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Gracias, vato. I appreciate you saving me for last! I knew you’d be the Prosperidad paladín. Your parents named you well.”

  “I was lucky to beat you.” If luck did play a hand in this season’s Melee, then it was bad—for everyone standing between him and Fox the Runt. From the moment they had met at Temple Seisakusha more than a year ago, there had been instant, visceral enmity between them. And after the Runt and Urbano sabotaged Tufani, Schöpfer’s justice demanded the Nordling be punished. Paladin’s anger demanded revenge.

  “Buena suerte,” Drud said. He smiled, nodded, and then trotted off to join the rest of the defeated Prosperidad younglings seated in the dragón’s den. Paladin ran strategies through his mind, ignoring Maga Cabróna as she drifted past, hissing just loud enough for him to hear, “I hope the Nordling kills you, híbrido.”

  He would not allow Maga Cabróna’s insults to incite him or weaken his resolve. His focus was locked. Even the cheering spectators failed to stir him one way or another. His mind and heart were pledged to the solemn goal of spilling the Nordling’s blood. True, they only fought with wooden weapons, but a blow to the head was a blow to the head, and Sunderbones could crack open a skull quite effectively.

  The Red Cloaks called all the paladíns to the center of the game field, and the Caller rang her bell, signaling for the crowd’s attention. “People of the Thirteen Kingdoms, I give you your paladíns!”

  The thirteen young paladíns raised their wooden weapons high in salute to the crowd. The champions cheered for themselves, their fellow paladins, and the spectators, all of them filled with the joy of victory.

  All but Paladin and the Runt.

  Paladin fingered the cloven arrowhead at his throat and glared at his Nordling rival. The Runt responded with his hallmark sneer.

  The Caller rang her bell, bidding the crowd to silence. “Hail the youngling champions! Hail the youngling paladíns!”

  For long moments the spectators stood and applauded the young fighters. Zacarías the Bard created illusory sparking lights in the colors of each paladín’s nation. The lights swirled around as the bardlings serenaded them with drum and horn.

  The Caller, after quieting the crowd again, announced, “These younglings are the best our kingdoms have to offer! It is now time to decide who amongst them is the best of the best! Paladíns to arms! The fight for the Black Spear begins!”

  The young champions moved into fighting stances. Paladin spared a single glance for the Runt and then sized up the other eleven champions. He had watched some of them compete already, and knew they were formidable. He could no longer hide behind Ashi-Kobushi. If he hoped to win, he would give it his all, unleash the blended system, consequences be damned. The Red Cloaks rang their bells. The spectators roared. And the most talented young warriors in the Thirteen Kingdoms assailed each other.

  Paladin relaxed, giving his body over to the forms he had spent his short life studying, mastering, and melding into one graceful and deadly dance, uniquely his own. He and the Runt did not attack one another. Instead, they worked together against the other fighters, that they could face each other in the end without distraction. They had never planned it. They had not needed to. In this, and this alone, they were of one mind.

  The other eleven paladíns seemed of one mind as well. Instead of turning on each other, they teamed together and rushed him and the Runt, and Paladin found himself in the fight of his life.

  Rebelde and Walküre had given him the name Paladin to honor the thirteen greatest warriors ever to have lived. He had done nothing to merit it. In his sixteen years of life, much had been made of so high a name. Names of this caliber were titles, bestowed by kings and gained through honor and valor. Today, embracing the martial gifts of the four gods and engaging his peers in a contest that would prove legend, he would earn it.

  The paladíns from Hatarimsitu and Simbadola flew at him. Both girls were tall and lean with silky dark skin and long staffs. Their lionlockes trailed behind them. The girl from Hatarimsitu swung at his legs. Simbadola’s paladín jabbed at his chest.

  Paladin leapt above the Hatarimsitu girl’s sweeping strike. He twisted in midair to parry the Simbadolan’s thrust with one end of Sunderbones, and then slammed the other end into her helmeted head. The Hatarimsitu girl charged him from behind, and as he landed, he shifted his weight to one side even as he thrust Sunderbones behind him, driving the tip into the Hatarimsitu girl’s mailed shirt, a “kill” strike to the heart.

  “Dead and dead!” the Red Cloaks called at the two competitors from the Nchi ya Kusini.

  While Winterewiger’s paladín confronted the Runt, Solbesado’s champion thrust his bokken short sword at Paladin, attacking from behind a wooden round-shield. But Paladin had the superior reach. He retreated a step and jammed the tip of Sunderbones into the Solbesado boy’s wrist, causing him to drop his weapon. Paladin smacked the boy’s shield low with Sunderbones and then touched the staff’s tip to the boy’s heart.

  “Dead!” the Red Cloaks yelled.

  The paladíns from Hama-Be, Tatsu-No, and Hana-Soshite-Mori surrounded Paladin, their katana and wakizashi bokken slashing and cutting at his vitals. He blocked, parried, and ducked the kill strokes, but the Shimabitos landed several kicks across his legs and torso. They were painful blows. They would leave many bruises, but weren’t solid enough to break b
one.

  Paladin responded with three strikes, delivered with surgical precision. He tapped the Hama-Be paladín’s helmet right between the eyes.

  “Dead!” a Red Cloak called.

  He parried a slash from the Hana-Soshite-Mori paladín’s katana and slammed his foot into her chest, launching her into the attacking paladín from Tatsu-No. The Shimabitos were only tangled for an instant, but it was long enough for Paladin to touch Sunderbones to the girl’s heart and the boy’s throat, ending them both.

  “Dead!” growled Maga Cabróna at Tatsu-No’s champion. She pointed to the paladín from Hana-Soshite-Mori, her voice thick with disappointment. “Dead!”

  Paladin turned to the Runt and saw that the fool had lost his concentration. He was paying more attention to the screaming crowd than he was to the fight, and the young champion from Raimei-Yama was positioned for a strike that would eliminate the Runt from competition. Paladin felt a moment of utter panic. His one chance at vengeance was slipping away. He screamed.

  Winterewiger’s youngling paladín swung her bludgeon hard enough to crush the vertebrae in Fox’s spine. He parried with his katana bokken, but her weapon smashed into his hand. He clenched his teeth through the pain and slashed her across the chest with his wakizashi.

  “Dead!” a Red Cloak called, and the girl slunk from the game field.

  The paladíns from Sombra del Montaña and Kavunchi came at him. He suffered a kick in the ribs and a punch in the eye before eliminating them. He took little joy in their defeats. He was too absorbed in the pleasure of something else.

  Vindication!

  The entire world bore witness to the pagan’s mad dance of desecration.

  Fox had told the monks at Temple Seisakusha that the pagan had cheated in kumite. He had told the other disciples that the pagan had not beaten him with Ashi-Kobushi. He had told anyone who would listen that the pagan had employed some bizarre, bastardized martial system. By Creador’s Burning Balls, he had told them all! But no, they had refused to listen. They had accused him of lying, of making excuses for his defeat, but now, The One God be praised, Fox was vindicated, and no one would ever accuse him of lying again! The arena spectators howled upon witnessing the pagan’s blasphemy.