Full-Blood Half-Breed (25 page)

Behind his silent grin, Fox’s thoughts were all praise for The One God. The pagan’s fall was too brutal even for him to watch. He cringed and averted his eyes, tossing his gaze up into the stands. There he found something more entertaining than the pagan’s humiliating downfall. He stood on the tips of his toes and peered over the wall of the Nords’ dragón’s den. In the stands to the west, the pagan’s mother, the Cruelarrow, bleated like a bludgeoned sheep.

He was captivated, happy to play audience to the Cruelarrow’s extemporaneous performance of the new tragedy he had tentatively titled
Fall of the Filthy Pagan
. Unfortunately, the woman seemed determined to overplay her part. He had thought Don Efraín and Urbano were hamming their affections at the sanctification, but their show was bland and rigid compared to the Cruelarrow’s exaggerated pathos. Could she not see the Red Cloaks were already tending the pagan with Healing magic? The pagan was hurt, certainly, but would be well shortly. After a good night of rest, he would no doubt be fine. If the Cruelarrow wanted to wring her hands and caterwaul, let her do so on the morrow, during Melee, when Fox would give her pagan son the punishment he truly deserved.

The Cruelarrow shouldered her way through the gawkers in the stands and leapt over the arena wall, easily clearing the roof of the dragón’s den below her. She dropped thirteen feet to the game field, landing with impressive agility for a woman of her years, and ran so fast she seemed to be flying, sobbing with every stride like the world was coming to an end. What did she hope to gain by such histrionics? Schneeflocke may have been a coldhearted bitch, but at least she would never have indulged in such an appalling display of fake, weepy concern. But, he had to admit, as overblown as the Cruelarrow’s performance was, her wails were sweet music to his ears. He chuckled.

She joined the huddle of Red Cloaks surrounding the pagan, and for a moment Fox thought she might come to blows with Doña Teófila the Mender. The Cruelarrow pushed the
Santosian Red Cloak away, almost knocking her to the ground. He howled with laughter. This was damn good theater.

But when the pagan did not move after several minutes, he felt a twinge of fear. Was the pagan too hurt to fight in the Melee? The longer Del Darkdragón lay still, the more he feared Golanv the Death Raven had come for the filthy boy’s soul. A shiver of trepidation tickled the back of his neck. He wanted the pleasure of beating the pagan with his own hands, and if he was to kill him, let it not be through treachery. He dropped to his knees and folded his hands before him.

Please, Creador
, he prayed silently.
Please do not let the pagan die this day, not like this. I know I have but recently come to you, and I have done nothing to deserve this boon, or any of the blessings you have already bestowed upon me, but I beg you to let the pagan live that I might have my vengeance against him. In the name of the Prophet and The One God, let it be so
.

He signed the holy symbol before his heart and rose, sweat dripping from his hands as the minutes crawled by. An old Kusini Watu man and a shriveled Shimabito woman joined the Red Cloaks and the Cruelarrow. They all hunched over Del Darkdragón.

At length, Fox’s faith in The One God was rewarded. The pagan pushed himself to his feet and threw his fist up, seeming well enough to compete on the morrow. Fox began to say a prayer of thanks to The One God.

But he felt the Cruelarrow staring at him.

She stood next to her son’s horse, the hatred in her eyes blazing clearly enough to be seen from his faraway seat. Though he couldn’t see what she held in her hand, he knew what it was. He had given the cloven arrowhead to Urbano personally, along with instruction in just how to place it beneath the pagan’s saddle. He felt not a bit of fear that she had discovered the arrowhead. He had assumed someone would. He chuckled again and waved.

The bitch could prove nothing, and if she could, who would care? The hand that had set the arrowhead belonged to Urbano Del Spicebringer, and Urbano Del Spicebringer belonged to House Próspero, as powerful a Patriarchy as any in the Reinos del Oeste. The Cruelarrow, the Darkdragón, and their brat were just a bunch of dirty pagans. So let her look. Let her know with unprovable, absolute certainty that it was he who did this thing to her son. She could do nothing. The Cruelarrow should simply take a bow and exit the stage. Her little performance was over, and the ending—at least as far as Fox was concerned—was a happy one.

Fingers poked and prodded Paladin, nudging him away from the comfort and shelter of unconsciousness. He opened his senses to a hazy blur of hovering faces and a buzz of incomprehensible voices. It took him a moment to remember where he was and what had happened. He could recall snatches of things, but details were muddy. Had Tufani thrown him? He didn’t see the horse at first. There were too many people in his face, so close he could smell the coffee on their breaths. Mbarika was nearby as well. He could hear the bird croaking, “Does the boy stir?
Ahora?
Yes?”

“How do you feel, youngling?” the Caller asked, her expression grave.

“I’m fine,” Paladin said, though his body was a throbbing collection of hurts. He could see nothing but Red Cloak faces, and pulled away from the hovering Healers. Though she appeared as a blurry silhouette, he recognized his mamá, standing next to Tufani a few feet away. He willed his vision back into focus and met her gaze.

Blood and Thunder. She had aged years in the last few minutes. She was not herself. Walküre the Cruelarrow was usually as steady as stone, but now she trembled from nervousness. Worry pulled at her features. Her eyes were rimmed red and wet. She had been crying hard. Perhaps it was good that Rebelde had not come to Torneo. Walküre kept her emotions on a tighter leash than hounds held by a cruel master. If she was so upset, the gods only knew how distressed Rebelde would be, especially after his dire predictions of injuries and death.

Paladin tried to recall the moments before he had been knocked cold. He glanced around at the Red Cloaks and his grandparents, and read the truth of the situation in their faces. They had thought him killed. In only a few days, he had twice brought his mamá to tears. He counted the ache of guilt amongst his collection of pains.

Walküre looked him over. When she was done, she exhaled relief. Her entire deportment changed. The taut muscles in her neck and face went slack. Her back straightened. She looked
like she had just dumped a heavy burden. She was suddenly young again. Or at least younger. Her smile warmed him. It was filled with forgiveness. Whatever the future might bring, the enmity between them was past now. He had lost the trial for the Rings, but that was a small price to pay to have his mamá again. He started to return her smile, but the Red Cloaks and his grandparents crowded him again, staring into his eyes like there was treasure hidden inside his skull.

“It’s not my eyes that hurt,” he said. “It’s my ribs. And my arms. My legs. And back. And my head. Blood and Thunder, my eyes are the only things that don’t hurt. Why are you staring at me so?”

“Is he always so peevish?” the Caller asked.

Suki nodded. “He is sixteen.”

The Caller smiled. “That is an affliction only time may heal.”

His mind and senses sharpened. His memory cleared. His fall had been a bad one, and he began to panic. “The Melee! Will I be able to fight in the Melee?”

Suki narrowed her eyes. “Are you daft, boy? You are not Healed ten seconds before you are plotting to rupture yourself once more!”

Was
he
daft? Did she not understand what was at stake here? “It’s Melee, Obaasan. MELEE!”

Suki scowled and said, “Spoken like a thickheaded Nord if ever I heard one. There can be no doubt that the blood of Arik Sunderbones flows through your veins!”

Mbarika, perched on Jambiax’s shoulder, concentrated her blood-gem gaze at him and croaked, “Have all the younglings in the Thirteen gone crazy?
O solamente tú?
Well?”

“Your arm was broken,” the Caller said, “as were several ribs. I would advise against further competition.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. He was sore, but he felt well enough to compete. It couldn’t be over now. Not like this, not before he fought for the Black Spear and settled his feud with Fox the Runt.

“The Red Cloaks have Healed you, Mjukuu,” Jambiax said. “But this process is merely a tenuous binding of your injuries. It accelerates your body’s ability to repair itself, but is a precarious procedure and can be easily undermined if you are not careful. The bones you have broken will not be fully mended for days.”

Paladin frowned. Jambiax had chucked a confusing clutter of words at him, but he had not heard an answer in that muddle.

“Will I be able to fight in the Melee or not?” he demanded.

“It is more risk than I would take,” the Caller said. “But I am not a foolish youngling. I cannot stop you from competing. I do not know how skillful you are, but if you take care, you
may survive the Melee with no further hurts.”

He rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, punching his fist into the air. The arena spectators roared their approval.

“I do not understand this,” Jambiax said. “You are a good rider and Tufani is a good horse. What happened, Mjukuu?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Something was wrong with Tufani.”

Walküre held up a crimson-stained arrowhead. “Indeed. Something was very wrong with Tufani.” She stepped aside, allowing them all to inspect the twin gashes in Tufani’s flesh. The bifurcated arrowhead had been embedded deep, and left ugly little wounds.

“Gods be good,” Paladin gasped. “Poor Tufani.
Mi buen caballo
.” He wrapped his arms around Tufani’s neck and gently hugged, comforting him as best he could.

Mbarika flew in crazy circles above them, shrieking angrily.

“Treachery!” the Caller said. “I have never heard of anything like this during Torneo!” Mbarika cronked, “Who were the wicked, blackhearted villains?
Perros traidores?
Who?”

Paladin remained silent. Though he knew the truth in his heart, he could prove nothing. He had no idea how the Runt had managed his treachery, but if he ever found proof, he would feed him the arrowhead.

Right before he broke every bone in his wretched little body.

Paladin could barely take his eyes from the bloodstained arrowhead after Walküre placed it in his palm. It was of the Higashi Shima style called
kurimata
, a two-headed arrow tip, cloven so that it could inflict multiple wounds.

“This youngling appears fine,” Maga Cabróna complained. “Clear him off the game field. Torneo must continue.”

The Caller rolled her eyes at the woman. “A crime has been committed here, Maga Doña Mender. The trial may wait a moment more.” She turned back to Paladin. “Tell me, chico, who has done this?”

“I can prove nothing, Maga,” Paladin said.

“Proof may be found later if we know where to look for it. Surely you have suspicions. Think on it. It is important.” The Caller shouted to the stable-hands waiting by the underground tunnels. “Chico! This horse is hurt. Take it to Don Felipe. Pronto!”

Urbano ran over and grabbed Tufani’s reins. “Sí, Maga Doña Makewell.”

Paladin considered the possibility that someone other than the Runt might have committed the treachery. He had no proof it was the Nordling. It could have been anyone. Even Isooba might want to eliminate him from the trial. But no. Isooba was a braggart, a fool, and maybe even a Vile, but he was no cheat.

The arrowhead was in the Ashi-Kobushi style. The Runt had done this; Paladin knew it in his gut. But how in the name of the gods had he gotten the arrowhead beneath the saddle? The Nordling had never been anywhere near Tufani, nor would he have been allowed near the underground paddocks. They were off-limits to everyone but House Geraldo and the horse handlers they employed.

Horse handlers like Urbano Del Spicebringer
, he suddenly thought, and cursed out loud.

“What is it, chico?” the Caller said. “Do you know who did this?”