Elf Puncher

by Simon Archer

  The half-elf toppled off the bar and to his knees, blood pooling on the ground in front of him. He looked up at me in horror, his eyes shaking in their sockets. The blood trickled down into his teeth as his terror transformed into a sneer.

  Before I could offer a witty retort or even punch him again, his cohorts were on me. The half-orc punched me in the side, while the half-demon and half-reptilian tried to hold my arms down. I elbowed each of them off me and surged out of their grip. I spun on the balls of my feet and held up my fists, ready for more.

  Adrenaline surged through me, but I grounded myself to the earth. I was determined to hold my ground, which consequently ended up right in front of my regular seat. I ended up guarding the spot unintentionally.

  The half-elf still nursed his wound on the ground while the other three sought revenge in his name. The half-orc mimicked my stance, but I could tell he didn’t quite have his balance right. I lowered myself and shuffled forward with a quick series of punches to his right side.

  It only took three, the final blow being the hardest, before the half-orc tumbled into the bar and cradled his side with a moan.

  The other two tried to come at me from opposite directions. I ducked down and took a single step forward. Their momentum got the better of them, and they collided head-first into each other.

  Satisfied with my work, I straightened up only to be met with a blow to my own face. Caught unawares, my head whipped to the side with a loud crack from my neck and smack from skin on skin. A sharp sting pounded across my cheekbone, making my teeth rattle.

  I looked up to see the half-elf recovered from his weeping and was on his feet. He spat a glob of saliva and blood down by me and snarled.

  “You wight!” he shouted, calling me that dirty word again like it gave him some kind of power.

  I scoffed and hunkered down once more. The half went in for another punch, but I lifted my forearms to block. He swung from the other side with more of a windup this time, so I leaned back, letting him swipe empty air. I took the opportunity to hit him in his stomach, which he wasn’t protecting or ready for.

  The half-elf grunted but stayed upright, much to my dismay. He scurried forward, jabbing wildly. I managed to dodge each of his strikes, hopefully wearing him out from the extra effort he put into each of his blows.

  Finally, I saw it. I seized the opening without a second thought and brought my right fist up through the half-elf’s wide arms and socked him. The uppercut to the jaw threw his head back and forced his eyes closed. Lights out.

  The half crumpled to the floor, and I sniffed down in disgust. What a foolish dragon’s ass. Because I was gloating over my opponent on the floor, I barely heard the click. My head snapped up in reaction to the sound and saw the half-orc I thought I had disposed of. He stood with a crossbow aimed right for my chest.

  The flick of the string echoed across the room, and I zipped to the side, flattening myself against the bar. The bolt whizzed past and smacked into the wall next to me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a red-faced half-elf, a dragon ready to release his fire.

  We met eyes for the briefest of seconds, and I could see the anger rising behind his pupils. While he had unfairly changed the course of the fight, there was no way I was going to give in. I bent at my waist, uncomfortable but low, and roared. I charged the half-orc when suddenly, an ear-splitting crash rang throughout the room. A shower of brown glass surrounded the half’s head like a halo before his body flopped over like a cloth doll.

  The older elf from earlier stood with a broken ale bottle in hand. I altered my speed and came up short, inches from the elf. Straightening back up, I shuffled my feet together to contain my remaining momentum. I towered over the elf who was on the shorter side for his race, so I took a step back to give us both some breathing room.

  “Thank you,” I grumbled to the older creature, a little out of breath.

  “Everyone knows you don’t bring a crossbow to a fistfight,” the elf replied. “It’s unsportsmanlike.”

  I couldn’t think of a response to that statement but was saved the trouble by an outcry from the kitchen door. Both the elf and I glanced over to find the source of the noise. Herc’s arms were splayed across the doorway in order to hold open the swinging door. His jaw dropped as his eyes wandered the main bar area with four unconscious bodies splayed about, the elf and I still standing at the center of it all.

  “What in Walden’s name happened in here?” he yelled. The bartender came out from behind his sanctuary and walked towards us, his feet fumbling over one another in shock. I’d never seen Herc drunk, but he could have passed for it with the way he toppled about. He clutched to barstools as he made his way over to us. “Did you do this, Rico?”

  “He sure did,” the elf answered for me with something like pride in his voice. “Was quite the fight. You should’ve been here.”

  “They started it,” I defended, sounding like an insolent child.

  The bartender rubbed his hand over his mouth and pulled his bottom lip as he contemplated. “This is bad, Rico. This is real bad.”

  “You’re not gonna report me, are you, Herc?” I asked. Now, I was rightfully worried. I didn’t need trouble with the authorities, but if Herc said anything, they would be banging down my door for sure.

  “No, no, I won’t do that,” the older man said as he ran a hand through his head. “But we can’t exactly cover this up. They’re going to wake up soon.”

  “Might take that one longer,” I said as I pointed to the half-elf. “I clocked him pretty good.”

  “I don’t need to be hearing that, Rico.” Herc waved at hand at me as if his gesture would stop the words from reaching his ears. “You gotta get out of here. Both of you. I’ll pretend I didn’t see you, and even if they report it, I’ll steer them clear of your place.”

  “Thanks, Herc,” I started, but the bartender waved his hand at me again, telling me to shut up.

  “Don’t thank me for nothing,” he snapped. “You can’t be doing this. Especially not in my establishment, you hear?”

  I nodded, shame choking my throat.

  “Now, I’ll clean this up, but I suggest you head home and lie low,” the bartender whispered.

  “They can’t hear you,” the elf commented, indicating the unconscious halves.

  Herc growled, but the elf didn’t back down. He simply offered a shrug and started for the door, stepping over one of the bodies as he went.

  When I didn’t follow after him, Herc jerked his chin out at me. “Go on. Get going, Rico. I don’t want to see you around here for a while, got it?”

  A pang of sadness hit me in the chest, harder than the half had ever managed to. The consequences of my actions fell down like a rainstorm when I realized I wouldn’t get to watch the fights for a while. The Blue Water Inn was the only place for miles with projection magic, and here I had gone and ruined my best option at watching the matches.

  Not only that, but I had left an old friend with a mess. When I was throwing jabs at these ignorant halves, I hadn’t even considered the mess I was making. I only focused on the punches. Now, I realized that each knockout had cost both me and Herc something.

  “I’m sorry, Herc,” I mumbled, knowing the apology was not nearly what I owed him.

  “Forget about it, Rico,” the old man said as he righted a chair. He released a large breath of air. “Just promise me that you’ll stay away from my bar for a bit. Not forever, just enough time for this to blow over.”

  He didn’t even look at me as I walked towards the door. I paused in the doorway and let Herc’s words wash over me. I clutched the handle with white knuckles and spoke my vow to the floor, rather than to Herc himself.

  “I promise.”

  6

  When I left the Blue Water Inn, I noticed the elf was only a few feet ahead of me. I hurried after him, and we continued on through the dim streets, only illuminated by the moonlight. Dirt roads snaked out through the fields, leading away from the little hub
of buildings near the Blue Water Inn. It was late in the evening, so most torches creatures kept on their porches were long snuffed out.

  If I didn’t know these roads by heart, having grown up in this small village, I would have been tripping over my own feet. However, being an elf meant that the male ahead of me could see in the dark. He had no trouble running along the pathway and away from the inn, so I called after him, trying to get his attention.

  “Hey, wait up!”

  This time, deeming us far enough away, the elf stopped. He stood still in the dark, the moonlight giving me the first good look of his face I had all night. Like most elves, he was tall, nearly matching me in height. However, he had little to no muscle on him. His cloak and garments hung off him like a child wearing clothes too big for him. He had a long face, with a chin that culminated into a perfect point, though the whole bottom half of his face was coated in a dusting of white from his lengthy beard. It reached to his navel and seemed to make him look older than I would have guessed.

  The thing that surprised me the most about him was the wrinkles. I couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, I had seen an elf with wrinkles. They were natural, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. The forehead ones were the most prominent, deep creases in his skin.

  “Thank you for your help back there,” I said, catching my breath.

  Despite being relatively fit, a jaunt through weaving paths and up and down hillsides was not in my daily routine. My lungs wanted more air than I could give them at that moment, so my chest heaved heavily. The elf, on the other hand, seemed completely unphased by our journey through the countryside.

  While sweat trickled down my spine, I was fiercely reminded of how much I resented magical creatures and the perks their species offered them. Like not having to sweat. Ever.

  “You had decent form,” the elf said unexpectedly.

  I cocked my head to one side and grunted. “What?”

  “Your form.” The elf held up his fists like he was getting ready to fight me.

  “Oh,” I said, realizing what he meant. “Thank you?”

  He dropped his arms and pushed his shoulders back. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Fight?” I asked for clarification.

  The elf responded with a deliberate nod, but no words.

  “I taught myself,” I answered honestly.

  “Just by watching the fights?” the elf continued the interrogation.

  Since the topic was fighting, I didn’t mind answering all of the elf’s questions though a little voice in the back of my head reminded me to be cautious. I didn’t know this male, and his interest in my fighting could be less favorable than I hoped it would be. While he had obviously helped me back at the Blue Water Inn, he could easily turn me into the authorities. I had thrown the first blow after all, and while fighting was a popular sport, it was still considered a felony outside of the ring.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I just watch the fights.”

  “You’ve never had anyone train you?” the elf checked.

  “No,” I said, deciding that one-word answers were probably the best strategy right now.

  “What is your name?” the elf wondered as he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “What’s yours?” I countered, sick of being the one replying to his questions. I had some of my own.

  “Barth,” the elf said weirdly like his own name was a curse.

  “Is that your real name?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, part of it.” Barth gave me a shrug with one shoulder like he had done with the halves. Seeing that gesture made me think of the group of four, hopefully still nursing the wounds I had given them. Not that they hadn’t deserved it.

  “Why did you help me back there?” I wanted to know this more than anything else and finally felt it was appropriate to pose the question.

  “I have a thing for underdogs,” Barth replied, and for the first time in the conversation, I felt he was one hundred percent honest with me. It was something about the way the words rolled off his tongue, how he didn’t have to think about them. Even more than his name, I knew that this elf, whoever he was, did indeed have a thing for underdogs.

  “Is that why you were willing to bet on Cranston against Warpin? Even though all of the stats and records were in his favor?” I asked, also wanting to know about this creature’s relationships with the fights.

  “You shouldn’t always rely on the stats or figures,” Barth said sagely. “There’s always a chance they’re wrong.”

  “But that’s why we do the statistics,” I argued, “so that we are more accurate in our predictions.”

  “Doesn’t that take the fun out of it for you?” Barth asked as he stepped closer to me, hands still stiff behind his back. “Knowing who’s most likely to win?”

  “I like to know everything I can about the fights,” I answered unthinkingly. “Each one is different in spite of the statistics. No fight is like the other one, and you’re right, there are those where the stats are wrong. Sometimes, you even hope they are wrong.”

  “Makes for a better show that way,” Barth said. He reached up and brushed his nose with his finger like he had to sneeze. When he didn’t, I felt safe to continue.

  “Not necessarily,” I said as the thoughts came to me. “I know that’s what the elves want, a good show, but there’s something about rooting for a fighter when the odds are stacked against them. It makes you feel like you can do it too.”

  “I bet you could,” Barth said. He reached into his cloak and revealed a silver, square flask. He popped the lid off it in a single move and took a swig.

  I didn’t understand his words, so I asked him about it. “What do you mean?”

  “I bet you could fight.” Barth lifted his flask to me almost as if to toast me. “I saw it back there. You’ve got the form. It’s sloppy but just under practiced. I mean, the sheer size of you helps. And you’re rather fearless, which is needed. That and a dash of crazy, which I think I also saw when you first socked that half in the face.”

  I pursed my lips together. “Fighting’s not crazy.”

  “It has to be!” Barth said, growing passionate. “To want to beat another creature to a pulp? There has to be crazy somewhere in there, or you wouldn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I responded, my defensiveness increasing.

  “No fighter does.” Barth took another swig from his flask.

  The conversation had grown stale, and I didn’t like where it was heading. The elf was obviously a drunk, having spent his day at the Blue Water Inn and even now, inhaling whatever was in that steel container. He had some odd, albeit interesting, thoughts on fighting and knew his stuff. Somewhat.

  But I had to get up early in the morning and go through my routine of feeding the animals. I knew Graham would also be waiting up for me. That damn dog never went to bed before I did.

  “Look,” I started, thinking of the most gentle way to get out of the conversation. “I appreciate your help again, but it’s late, and I’m going to go home. It was nice meeting you, Barth.”

  “But I didn’t meet you,” the elf argued, stepping forward again and reaching out for my hand. He held out his own in protest. “You never told me who you were.”

  I eyed Barth’s hand, deciding that this was the strangest elf I had ever met. He was the opposite of the clean-cut elegance elves showed off on the projections and in the rare times that they traveled through the countryside. It unnerved me, but there was no reason to end the whole ordeal on a sour note. He had saved me from a beating, after all.

  I took his hand. “Rico Jacek,” I responded, giving him my full name as a sign of good faith.

  Suddenly the elf yanked me forward with a surprising strength. He used his free hand to grip my arm while he held my hand captive. He measured my muscles with his fingers and moved up to my shoulder. Then, in an oddly intimate gesture, he reached up and touched the cut on my cheek. I hissed when his fingers m
ade contact.

  “You need to get that looked at,” Barth said as he tapped it once more as if he needed to double-check that it hurt.

  “I will be sure to do that when I get home,” I said, moving my head out of Barth’s reach. “Which I’ll be doing now.”

  “Does the name Bartholomew Cantori mean anything to you?” he whispered.

  It took me a minute to understand him clearly. The stench of alcohol, something stronger and more rancid than Herc’s homebrew, wafted between us, and I scrunched up my face unapologetically. The elf didn’t move. If anything, he drew up closer together when I didn’t respond right away.

  “Does it?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “He’s one of the premier trainers for the MFL. He trained some of the greats, like Kylis the Destroyer and Yanible the Carnivore. Most recently, he discovered and trained Warpin, but something happened, and he hasn’t made an appearance since Warpin lost to Gilbert the Rampant for last season’s title.”

  “What if I told you Barth was short for Bartholomew?” the elf said, his voice below a whisper, something like a light whistle in the wind.

  I looked Barth in his crystal blue eyes, almost translucent in the moonlight. Images of a lean elf with a narrow chin and white hair burst in my mind’s eye. I had watched him coach Warpin, giving him pep talks and calling out to him from his respective corner. He kept his beard straight and tailored then, to match his flat hair which always burned white with his crystal blue eyes.

  “Oh, Walden,” I exclaimed, my own voice as small at Barth’s. Then I repeated the sentiment, louder the second time. “Oh, Walden!” I pulled myself from Barth’s grip and stumbled back at him. “You’re Bartholomew Cantori. The Bartholomew Cantori. I can’t believe it.” I laced my fingers through my hair and tugged. “I have your trading card! How did I not see this before? I mean, well, how could I? Look at you. What… what the hell happened, Bartholomew?”

  “Please, call me Barth,” the elf said as he shook his hands at me like he was clearing the air of that name. “The MFL happened. I spent my life working and training the best of the best. But one day, they decide that you’re too radical and turn you out on your ass, after all you have done for them.”