Poul and the tattooed man continued to circle each other, swinging their flails – attacking and retreating, attacking and retreating. The crowd was getting ever more frenzied by the
knife-edged contest.
When it came, though, the end was swift. It was Poul’s turn to attack. He came forward with a lightning-fast attack swing, catching the other man briefly by surprise. However, he wasted
his advantage – the spiked ball grazed the other man’s cheek and, although it drew a spray of blood that speckled the sand underfoot, was thus not a wound to the torso and so did not
count. The other man fell to his knees but on his way swung out wildly with his weapon. Poul, thinking he had won the fight, was oblivious to this until it caught him smack on the side of the head
and he went down poleaxed, his fair hair matted with thick blood that oozed over his twitching form, to clump in the sand beneath. He would obviously not be getting up for a while.
There was a deafening roar, of both triumph and disappointment from the crowd, as the Kudreyan raised his arms in triumph, throwing his weapon to the ground. Behind him two men dragged the prone
Poul over the sand and through the doorway where Willem hoped that, if he was still alive, he would be seriously considering his future in this business.
Time for a drink, he thought, as he joined the throng of people on the stairs. Some stopped on the top circle to collect their winnings, but most went out through the door to stand four deep at
the bar. The girls had arrived, too, and those who were happy to wait for their refreshment went over to them to sound out how much half an hour of sticky, quickly forgettable excitement would cost
them.
Willem sat at a small table in a dark corner, head in hands, listening to the conversations going on around him. There would be some ten fights in total, it seemed, going on well into the night.
Ten more fights, he thought; he was exhausted after one. After some twenty minutes or so a bell was rung from behind the bar. He recognised the voice of the landlord. ‘Get your bets on. Next
fight in ten minutes. Callan the Left Hander against Denham of the city guard.’ The bar rapidly cleared and Willem at last could get his drink.
‘Just an ale, please,’ he asked, his stomach churning with nerves. The landlord, though, recognised him.
‘Hey, you’re the young fellow with the one fighting Degg, aren’t you!’
Willem nodded. ‘Do you know when he will be on?’
‘Oh, Degg is the main attraction; he will be on last. I hope your man is quick; if not, I hope you have enough coin to pay the apothecary for a decent funeral.’
‘Apothecary?’
‘Yes, no house of Artorus here. People want one but the gangs don’t, and here what the gangs want they get. Here’s your ale, sir, and I hope the apothecary is one man you
don’t meet tonight.’
Willem returned to his table and sipped his tasteless watery ale. Soon, through the door leading downstairs, the noise struck up again; evidently the second fight would begin shortly. Up here he
scanned the crowd; it was just the girls, their clients and several well-built burly men he would be in no hurry to get into an argument with. He guessed they were employees of the gangs, here to
keep order, to ensure that the flow of money into their bosses’ pockets continued.
Eventually, and inevitably, he was noticed, though fortunately only by those whores not working at that moment. A few came over to him, only to see pretty quickly that he had no interest in
them. He was surprised, then, to hear the chair opposite him being pulled back. He looked up and saw it was one of the girls, gaudy and over-painted like the others. This one, though, was young,
younger than him, and retained that fresh bloom of youth that had yet to be sullied by cynicism, desperation and hopelessness, or indeed rendered sallow by disease, childbirth or ill-usage. She
knew he did not want her business, she said, but fancied a chat before the next flood of men poured through the door after the current fight had finished. Willem was glad for the company and they
talked for a half-hour or so, as the next fight appeared to be a lengthy affair. She was a sailor’s daughter, sold to the gangs to pay off her father’s gambling debts. Of course, they
never would be paid off and she was expecting her servitude to last a long time. She was friendly and well spoken and Willem realised that he would desperately love to help her, too. He did not
want to hear her name but she told him anyway. ‘Rose,’ she said. The other girls thought it funny, as they worked for the Rose District gangs. ‘Rose, from the Grytsa brothel, the
second one on Sea Street.’
He looked around the room at the other women. Their ages ranged from Rose’s upwards, maybe to women in their fifties, though, as Rose told him, their profession aged them quickly. He
wondered how many of them chose this life freely; maybe some did – the profession could pay better than most honest ones. If one were lucky, could stay free of disease, not get beaten up and
avoid multiple childbirths then a good living could be made. Rose hoped this would happen to her; she was saving a little money and when the gangs let her go she hoped to move to Tanaren City to
set up in business there selling cakes and sweets, for she was a good cook and no one in Tanaren would know how she came by her financial means. Willem gave her his name and address and told her to
look him up. She could not read, so he didn’t write it down for her.
The conversation got no further, as the fight then finished and a tide of humanity spilled through the door eager for refreshment and further entertainment. Rose wished him every happiness and
he did the same for her, as she was accosted almost immediately, disappearing into a backroom with a man twice her age. She must have been kept busy after this, for he did not see her again that
night.
Depressed at his inability to help Rose and the futility of his own predicament, Willem sank further into his tasteless ale. The cadences of noise from the fleapit under his feet rose and fell
like the sea barely a mile away. He drifted – his ale was almost gone and his head throbbed as it took a grip on his skull. One ale, he thought, and he was nearly asleep. He bought another
drink and another as the monotony of routine took hold. Then, however, he jolted back to wakefulness as if a dagger of ice had entered his brain. The landlord was speaking to the excited
masses.
‘Coron Degg the Undefeated. Coron Degg against Haelward of the marines.’
Willem drained his ale swiftly and strolled to the door where, beneath him, the fleapit awaited.
It had been a long wait for Haelward, long and fractious. He sat in the waiting room with the other fighters, listening to the noise of the baying throng that never abated. He
picked out his opponent quite early, a youngish, agile-looking man with dark hair and olive-brown skin. He had one earring from which dangled a gaudy gold chain and wore a loose white shirt with
silver buttons. The fighters spoke little to each other, but at one point his opponent did break free of his half-dozen fawning minders to come and see him.
‘My lucky shirt,’ he said, his Kudreyan accent still strong despite his obviously lengthy sojourn in New Perego ‘Never bloodied, never damaged, a gift from Gang
Skor!’
He smiled, showing many gold-capped teeth, before being dragged away by his men. Haelward stared at him face blank as a stone. This was an arrogant one indeed.
They could hear everything through the door, the banter and abuse from the crowd, the ring of steel against shield, the cries and grunts of pain from the losers. Three people had been dragged
back in through that door, at least one of whom would never get up again.
Then, at last, it was his turn. He heard the announcements and the febrile response of the crowd, their throats now hoarse and rasping.
‘And now for the final duel, a Kudreyan, a man undefeated, once a raider of these shores, now one of its greatest champions, the champion of the family Skor and terror of all other spike
fighters throughout the land. Even those who have been here for only a day have heard of him. I give you – Coron Degg!’
And now Haelward entered his battle focus, concentrating only on those things that mattered to his survival, filtering out anything extraneous and irrelevant. The crowd noise fell and the
announcer’s voice faded in his mind. He looked at Degg, standing next to him behind the old man in black. He was clasping and unclasping his palms and Haelward could even see a bead of sweat
standing out on his forehead. Encouraging signs. Then the door opened and the volume of the waiting audience hit him almost like a physical blow. His mind went back a few years, to his last fight
here. Nothing had changed; he knew exactly how things worked.
Degg took up his flail and buckler and walked out on to the bloody sand; arms raised to the crowd. Haelward then picked up his. Water dripped from the spiked ball of the flail, used to clean the
blood off. Holding his flail up high, he took his position in the arena. Behind him he heard the flag being raised. The crowd volume soared but he ignored it. Just the flag, watch the flag. When it
was lowered he knew what to expect.
It was only a second, but a second that seemed frozen for ever. He saw Degg’s eager face, desperate to get started. He gripped the buckler so tightly his knuckles whitened. Then the flag
went down, the crowd screamed their hysteria and battle commenced.
Back in the waiting room, shortly after his arrival, the fighter Poul had come over to him. They remembered each other; Poul had been doing this for many years, after all. His speech was
slurred, his eyes wandered absently, but he did say one thing that mattered. ‘Degg starts fast. His battles never last long. He overwhelms people early, so keep on your toes and keep
moving.’
And so it was – in the same second the flag went down, instead of circling his opponent, Degg went straight for him, aiming a deadly blow directly at his chest. Haelward, correctly
forewarned, saw it coming, though, and blocked it with his buckler. The blow, though, was powerful enough to make his hand sting and for the vibrations to travel up to his shoulder. There was no
time to feel the pain, though, because Degg was on him again and the blow was on course to take his head off. Having no other recourse, Haelward threw himself to the floor, getting a mouthful of
sand for his trouble. He rolled away from his assailant but could not stop another blow hitting him on the back of his shoulder. Pain shot through him and he felt blood dampen his shirt. It was a
blow to his back though and did not count as a victory strike. Haelward got to his feet, keeping as far away from Degg as possible. Both men started to swing the flails over their heads, giving the
duel a more conventional look.
They sparred for a while, defensive blow matching defensive blow. It was enough for Haelward to see that Degg was fast. Too fast. It would take luck, cunning, or both for Haelward to win
here.
Then Degg was at it again, a lightning-fast advance and a strike like a cobra. All Haelward could do was lift the wooden stock of his flail up in a feeble defence. However, his luck held –
the two chains tangled with each other leaving the combatants pulling hard at their weapons trying to topple the other off his feet. Inevitably, Degg was stronger. Haelward felt his balance go and
over he went, losing his grip on his flail. Desperately he got to his knees. He was totally exposed and any blow could finish him off easily. For the first time he heard the crowd in his ears,
anticipating the Kudreyan’s victory.
However, fortune still smiled on him. Degg was still trying to untangle the two chains. No blow came. Haelward grasped the stock of his weapon again, winding his wrist and so freeing both
weapons to their owners again.
Still, they circled each other; he could tell the crowd were loving every minute. He was gratified to see that Degg was breathing almost as hard as he was. Then, however, the other man spoke to
him.
‘You fight well,’ he said . ‘You have done this before, I can see that. It means nothing to me, though; you are still going down. Right this minute.’
It was the oldest trick in the book and Haelward fell for it.
Because Degg was speaking to him, it caused him to lower his guard and he did not see the ball of spiked metal until it was inches from his face.
He managed to move a little, stepping backwards and turning his head sideways, but he had no chance to avoid it completely. The flail caught his left cheek, cracking the bone and loosening his
teeth. He slipped to his knees, spitting blood into the sand. He knew Degg would be on him again and blocked three blows with his buckler, denting it on each occasion. Despite the pain threatening
his judgement, and the blood threatening to choke him, he regained his feet, earning a raucous cheer from the crowd, who, he sensed, were switching allegiances to his side.
This had to finish quickly; he could not stand up to much more punishment. He swung at Degg’s head. The man avoided it easily but the backswing caught the back of his neck, drawing
Degg’s own blood, which, Haelward assumed, would soon be staining the back of his lucky shirt.
They circled once, then twice. Haelward realised that Degg was waiting for his injury and fatigue to take its toll. Both men knew it would not be long now. Haelward thought furiously; he had to
do something. Degg’s look of expectant triumph was perfectly justified, for he felt his legs weakening and he could not keep spitting out blood for ever. There was but one desperate gamble he
could think of. If it failed, he would definitely lose but, without trying it, he was a beaten man anyway. Haelward stepped forward and saw Degg preparing to defend a swipe of his flail. Instead,
Haelward reversed his grip on his buckler and hurled it like a skipping stone straight at Degg’s face. It was not a lethal manoeuvre but a surprising one; Degg ducked and swung his flail at
the thing, his concentration now broken and the right side of his chest momentarily exposed. Haelward continued his advance and swung his flail at Degg’s chest, hitting him square on the
solar plexus. Stunned, Degg fell on to his back, looking dumbly at the front of his shirt, which was now beginning to colour with his blood, first a spot or two, then a livid crimson bloom that
stuck the shirt to his chest. He had been defeated.