‘This, young Willem, is the fleapit. Overwhelmed, aren’t you?’ Haelward could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
From outside, it looked just like another of the town’s grubby taverns, a timber-framed building whose whitewashed walls had long since been sullied into a grimier brown by the elements.
Inside, it was equally unprepossessing – chairs, tables, a large roaring fire and a packed-earth floor strewn with loose straw. However, if one were to walk through the heavy door next to the
small bar, instead of descending the steep flight of steps into a beer cellar, one would instead walk into a small circular amphitheatre, concentric rings of descending height ending in a circular
floor of small, tightly packed cobbles some fifteen feet in diameter. Haelward and Willem were standing on the top tier, looking down, the only people there at the moment.
‘Tonight this place will be packed out,’ Haelward continued. ‘The gang leaders sit at the bottom circle – yes, they even have chairs brought out for them – and they
send their runners back and forth to the top circle where the gamblers hang out.’
‘And the fights take place in the circle at the bottom?’ asked Willem.
‘Yes, they cover the cobbles with sand from the beach; it mops up the blood, you see. Normally they just have cockfights here two or three times a week. The spike fights are rarer –
purely because of the risk to the participants; no gang leader wants his favourite fighter killed, after all.’
Willem started at this. ‘Killed? I thought these fights were only to first blood?’
Haelward turned to face the younger man, his tone was world weary. ‘Have you forgotten what Odo Kegertsa said to us? Shall I tell you exactly what a spike fight is?’
Willem nodded eagerly. ‘Please. I may not be that perceptive but I am guessing some sort of spike is involved.’
‘Very smart of you. Firstly, they are illegal; some grand duke outlawed them about a hundred years ago after some of his troops got their faces smashed in. Spike, I believe, is a
corruption of some Kudreyan word, for it is from them the entire thing has been stolen, hence its popularity in port cities over inland ones. I believe some inns in Zerannon had them going on, but
I had no interest in going to see one. I rather thought I had put all this behind me, to be honest. Anyhow, what they mean by a spike fight actually refers to a type of flail, a metal ball attached
to a chain attached to a wooden handle.’
‘And the ball has spikes on it?’
‘Yes, it is a Kudreyan fighting style, a flail and a buckler – that’s a small round shield. We whirl the chain around our heads, choosing the moment to direct it at the
opponent. First wound to draw blood on the torso or shoulders wins; no armour thicker than cotton or linen allowed.’
Willem swallowed. ‘Then how do people die?’
‘Ah, well you see it is far easier to smack it around someone’s head than their chest. If you are knocked out or unable to continue, you lose by default. The professional fighters
try to keep head attacks to a minimum; that way, the fights last longer and are more entertaining and also you don’t really want your skull caved in while just doing your job. But not all
fighters are professionals. Many are like me; they have debts to repay. Others just want to try it; if it goes well, they could earn a lot of money in a very short period of time. It beats farming,
or sailing – just as long as you don’t get killed that is.’
Willem digested what he was told. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. Perhaps we could get the barons of Osperitsan or Felmere to help us. We have connections, after
all.’
Haelward did not seem keen. ‘And how long would that take? Months probably. We have nothing to lose by trying this.’
‘Just your life,’ Willem said candidly.
‘Possibly,’ said Haelward. ‘Let me tell you this, though. I had an uncle, a soldier or rather a mercenary. Fought all over the place he did, for Chira, Fash and other places.
Made a pretty penny, too, bought a house in Edgecliff near Tanaren City, a big house. We used to visit him now and then and he would tell tales of great battles against enemies who painted their
faces or who wore studs embedded in their flesh. For a young lad it was captivating to listen to him. One day, though, he fell ill, a wasting illness. The last time I saw him he was half the size
of the man I remembered, white as a ghost, his skin drawn tightly over his skull and his eyes were enormous as his flesh had withered away. He told me then he had rather he had died at the end of a
sword, quickly and gloriously, than go the way he was now. He died but weeks after I last saw him but his words have stayed with me ever since. My opponent tonight sounds formidable, but I would
rather try and get Alys back this way than run around with my cap doffed begging for coin.’
‘Do you trust this Odo fellow?’
‘No, but there is not much I can do about it. Let us do the fight and see what happens next.’
They left the tavern, which was situated in a cul-de-sac at the end of one of the long streets running from Sea Street. It nestled right up against one of the city’s encircling hills,
located almost directly underneath one of the large estates atop them, the Kegertsa estate as Haelward was to tell him later. The next couple of hours were spent wandering the streets and perusing
the markets, Haelward purchased a black linen shirt for the duel that night. He kept up a constant chatter as they strolled around, mocking the mountebanks peddling their useless health tonics,
avoiding the street preachers and flagellants, and politely refusing the approaches of countless prostitutes, but Willem could see he was trying to mask his nervousness. It was the first time,
after all their adventures together, that Willem had seen him troubled by something. They retired to Marten’s inn where they rested up for a couple of hours. They tried to eat but Haelward in
particular had difficulty getting food down him. ‘I am not really hungry,’ he told the younger man.
But, inexorably time kept grinding its gears towards the appointed hour. Both men were fidgeting now and neither spoke to the other. Finally, noiselessly, they returned to the fleapit for their
appointment with destiny.
As Haelward had said, the fleapit was buzzing. Dozens of excited sweating men, maybe well over a hundred, were packed into its confines with barely a sheet of vellum to pass
between them. Upon arrival, Haelward had left Willem to find his own way around, vanishing into another room that must have been situated directly under the hill, the room where the fighters
practised. Gingerly, Willem managed to squeeze himself into a spot on the second row. Above him he could hear the runners of the betting syndicates shouting out the odds, and the wide steps between
floors were packed with people moving up and down them, putting an extra ducat on one fighter, or changing their bet entirely. It looked like complete mayhem, but Willem knew the men controlling
the betting had everything under perfect control.
In front of him, almost directly underneath him in fact, sat Odo Kegertsa flanked by two of his men; one Willem recognised as the man who had taken him to Alys at the brothel. Close by, two or
three other men were seated, other gang leaders Willem presumed; one of them had to be Odo’s rival, Lennark Skor. Odo did not look left or right; rather he stared directly ahead at the arena,
occasionally passing instructions to his men, one of whom who would walk off to place another bet. All of the other gang leaders were doing the same, Willem noticed.
As Haelward had told him earlier, the arena itself was now covered in sand. It was as yet unbloodied; the fights had obviously yet to start. To his left, cut into the lower gallery, was a
doorway, obviously the place for the fighters to make their entrance as it would have led directly to the room Haelward had vanished into upon his arrival.
Hot, nervous and constantly jostled, Willem watched as a man wearing a stained linen smock walked into the centre of the arena, scuffing up sand as he went. Willem recognised him as the
landlord, a big muscular fellow with a broken nose that almost veered off at right angles to his face. He raised his arms to quieten the baying audience, but it took several minutes before things
had calmed sufficiently for him to continue, and even then he had to shout to get himself heard.
‘Get your last bets on, gentlemen, for our first fight tonight. We have Poul the Mangler, an old professional well known around here, fighting for the Veska family.’ There was a
cheer. ‘Up against him is a Kudreyan visitor no less, a man who gives his name as Strava. If you want to know who is who, then Poul is not quite as good looking as me’ – many
ribald cheers – ‘and this Kudreyan fellow fights like his countrymen with no shirt at all. Enjoy the fight and don’t forget the ale never stops flowing here and that the girls,
courtesy of Master Odo, Master Lennark and Master Reggunen, sat here in the front row, will be arriving shortly. It is a ducat a room for half an hour; the rest you discuss with the girl herself.
Enjoy the fight. May you work up a great thirst watching it!’
The crowd roared in their excitement as the tavern-keeper left the floor and ascended the stairs. Willem watched as Odo’s man and those of Lennark and presumably this Reggunen fellow
followed him to place bets with those on the top circle. He tried to listen to the conversations in the crowd, but making sense of such a babble was difficult. Many of the languages were
unfamiliar, too; he realised that these were sailors and travellers from many different places coming here for a night of bloody excitement and presumably to get fleeced by those seated below. He
desperately hoped that Alys was not one of the girls mentioned earlier, though he thought Odo would probably not take the risk of letting her out when there were people around who wanted to steal
her back.
Then finally the fighters’ door opened, an event that was greeted by such a cacophony of excitement that Willem fair thought his ears would burst. An ancient, wizened, hunched man clad in
black from head to toe walked out first amid much laughter from the crowd. ‘Poul, you have really let yourself go!’ shouted some wag, but then Willem realised that this man was actually
leading out the two fighters, who followed some feet behind him. The first man was tall with fair hair that was in the process of turning from straw-coloured to grey; he wore a loose linen shirt
and had obviously been in this game a long time, for his face was covered in little nicks and scars. One ear was misshapen, as though it had once received the full impact of a powerful blow long
since healed, and when he smiled to receive the applause of the crowd Willem could see several teeth were missing. The other man wore no shirt, revealing a torso swathed in black, blocky tattoos.
His features were dark and swarthy and he had heavy gold rings piercing his left ear and nose. Picking up the weapons from a low table close to the door, just outside the arena, the ancient man
handed them to the fighters, along with their iron bucklers. The protagonists then started to circle each other, keeping the enclosing rim of the arena close, while the man in black lifted some
kind of red cloth flag high over his head so that the entire audience could see him. Willem heard someone behind him speak to his companion; he was either a local or a regular visitor, for he
seemed to know a little about the unfolding drama.
‘Poul is a regular in these things; he wins more than he loses and is seen as a safe pair of hands. They have him as an even money favourite but I always wonder when we see a mystery
Kudreyan – he may have been fighting these battles for years. You will get five ducats back for every two you put on, so that’s where my money has gone.’
‘Really?’ said his companion. ‘All I was hearing earlier was how Poul was an experienced veteran and hardly ever gets beat.’
The other man laughed. ‘Don’t believe all you hear. Often two gang members will talk like that, making sure everybody hears them. It drives the odds down and the gangs bet on the
outsider.’
‘Bollocks!’ said the other. ‘The tricky buggers! I have five ducats on Poul just because I heard that.’
‘Don’t worry, he might win; he is a good fighter, after all. It just means you will get less money back than you could have because the odds have been massaged. Let’s cheer him
on regardless.’
The man in black still held the flag up high. The crowd, buoyed by both drink and anticipation, roared louder and louder until Willem was expecting the roof to collapse under the noise. Then, as
hundreds of throats were getting too raw to sustain the volume, he brought the flag down to signal the start of the fight.
Instantly one great roar became dozens of separate ones as everybody bar Willem started to cheer for the man on which their coin was riding. Below him, on the sand, the two men, legs splayed and
keeping low, quietly circled each other. They both started to swing the chains of their flail above their heads, the noise of the whirring balls of steel getting the crowd even more frenzied. Even
Willem had to acknowledge the visceral power of what was unfolding beneath him, though he dreaded to think what Cedric, or even worse, the head of his monastery would say of his being here.
Swinging their weapons over their heads, holding their bucklers out in front of them, the two men patiently watched each other, anticipating an attack or waiting for the time to strike a blow
themselves. Finally, the Kudreyan made his move, making a quick dash towards his opponent and bringing the flail down towards the other man’s shoulder. Poul saw it coming, though, moving
swiftly out of the way so the other man’s attack impacted nothing but the air. Poul tried a counter swing but was slightly off balance, meaning the Kudreyan could easily bat it away with his
buckler. The two men resumed their positions on the outside of the circle and the whole ballet began again.
The tension from both fighters and audience as the fight developed was tangible to Willem, who was feeling parched by the heat and the proximity of so many jostling, unwashed, sweating bodies.
He could not stop watching, though, the fight exerting a macabre grip on him as he wondered how it would all end.