Hands in his coat pockets, he approached the boys. “I’m Will Fisher,” he said. “I’m going to be your coach.”
Will Fisher, the two-time winner of the All Richland Absolute Fighting Championship. Will Fisher, who several months ago, to all of their satisfaction, had lost his Championship title to his teammate, Dasher Starson.
The other boys cheered out loud, their anxiousness turned to eagerness. But Venture couldn’t forget how nearly all the nation of Richland had rooted against Fisher winning the last Championship, couldn’t forget why.
“So, you boys finally made it. How many is that now, Parker?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty boys, all the best their home centers had to send. All who think they want to be champions. We’ll see who still wants to be a champion after we get started tomorrow.” He gave the smaller guy a sidelong smile. “We’ve made a lot of changes here, in order to help our new hopefuls answer that question. This is Parker. He’s going to be your trainer. He’ll show you to your room. I’ll see you in the morning, on the mat.”
Venture joined the chorus of
yes, sir
s, but without the enthusiasm of the others.
“This way,” Parker said.
Instead of leading them under those archways, to those massive doors that seemed to hold back such promise, to claim such importance, he led them across the icy square, onto a path, through a snow-covered expanse that must have been a lawn, to a cluster of cast-off wooden buildings. Venture stopped in his tracks. His whole body tensed.
Parker opened the door to a long wooden structure that looked as though a gentle push on the walls would make them fold in on themselves—if the heap of snow on the roof didn’t send it crashing in first. Venture would’ve gladly moved into his master Grant Fieldstone’s chicken coop before this oversized shack.
“Welcome home.” Parker’s thin face turned up in a twisted smile. “You’ll be rooming with five guys from Frost’s Center—and me, of course.”
It was only a test. It had to be. Lance stood there next to him, stunned. No one spoke. Venture gave Lance a reassuring slap on the back and moved past him to follow Parker into the building. He’d worked hard against all the opposition stacked against him—the first bondsman to compete in the Youth Championship of the Western Quarter, let alone place high enough to be admitted to this fighting center. If it was a test, he wasn’t going to fail.
The next morning Venture woke up in his shallow bunk, to a shrill whistle and Parker smirking at them in the predawn darkness.
“Let’s go!” Parker smacked his palm against the rickety wall. “No sweat, no breakfast.”
“What?” Nick said groggily.
Lance shoved Nick, his and Venture’s longtime teammate from Beamer’s Center, in the side.
Venture pulled off his night shirt and took his work-out clothes out from under his pillow, where he’d tucked them the night before. “We’ve got a workout before breakfast,” he whispered. “Just be quiet and let’s get it done.”
“I’m not just going to get it done,” Lance said. “I’m going to show them what I can do.”
He was right. They’d been looking forward to this for so long. Venture got dressed and stuffed his feet into his boots, then grabbed his coat and hat as Parker banged on the wall again and cursed at them.
A flimsy breezeway connected the back of the dormitory to a small training room, in no better condition than their sleeping quarters. The floor was ice cold, and there was no fire, and no hope of one, for there was no hearth either. The boys pretended not to notice the rips in the worn-out canvas or the damp, moldy patches on the mats.
“Grab a partner for warm-ups! Hurry up!” Parker said. There was no sign of Will Fisher so far.
“Lance?” Venture said.
Lance shrugged and gestured for Venture to bend down so he could start the drill, jumping over him, then diving under him. They were the first pair done, and so they started the next drill, carrying each other across the mat, back and forth, back and forth. Venture was glad to move quickly, just to be warm again, but Parker and the other trainers kept up a steady stream of complaints the whole time.
“You guys think you’re fighters? This has to be the most worthless bunch of sissies we’ve ever seen. Why don’t you just leave now? Just go home. You don’t belong here.”
Venture tuned out the trainers and focused on getting done, just getting done so he could eat. They were finishing up two hundred squats when Fisher showed up. Sunlight was pouring through the cracks in the walls, streaming in through the narrow, high windows. He must’ve come to wrap things up, maybe to give them a pep talk or a talking-to before they went to breakfast.
Instead he ordered them down for push-ups. Fine. They’d do their push-ups and then they’d eat. Venture made sure his were perfect, made sure he kept up with Parker’s count.
As Venture did his push-ups, Fisher’s hairy feet approached. They stopped right next to him, right in front of Lance.
“What,” Fisher said, “do you think you’re doing?”
Venture glanced up, but Fisher was looking right at Lance. He looked back down and kept going.
“Push-ups, sir,” Lance said.
“That’s a push-up,” Fisher pointed at Venture. Fisher blew the whistle and everybody stopped. Though most of the boys stayed in the up position, a few collapsed. Parker kicked one of them, a boy from Frost’s, hard, and Venture jolted.
Fisher nudged Venture roughly with his foot. Venture flinched, then quickly made his face unreadable.
“Do it again.”
Venture pushed up, then down.
“Like that!” Fisher said to everyone. “Again.”
Venture pushed out another one, while all their eyes burned into him.
“We’re going to try again, and this time everyone’s going to do push-ups like that. From the beginning.”
“One!” Parker said.
Lance lowered his body. His arms trembled. He glared at Venture.
When they were done, the trainers lined them up at the end of the mat for sprints. Fisher blew the whistle faster and faster, so there was less and less time to rest between each sprint to the wall. They barely got back in their lines before it was their turn to go again.
Nick was in the line beside Venture, and when he reached the end two full strides behind him, Parker grabbed Nick by the arm. “Why are you so blasted slow? Huh?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just—”
“You’re just too slow.” Parker shoved him roughly back in line. Nick exchanged a look with Lance, in line behind him, but neither of them would look at Venture.
It had to be mid-day by now, and still there’d been no meal, but Fisher blew the whistle and announced their first water break, their first rest. Venture leaned forward, head against the weathered wood plank wall, and tried to convince his stomach that it didn’t want to empty itself. He wanted a drink so bad, but he was afraid it would come right back up.
Lance held out his empty water flask. “Excuse me, Parker? Where’s the pump?”
Parker swatted the flask out of his hand. “Right there.” He pointed at half a dozen rusty buckets.
Lance bent to pick up his flask, but Parker kicked him right behind the knees.
“Hey!” Venture stepped between them, but Parker just turned his back and smirked over his shoulder. “Lance,” Venture said, “You all right?”
He stumbled to his feet. “I don’t need your help.”
“Everybody back on the mat!” Parker called. “Thanks to these guys.” He nodded at Venture and Lance.
A couple of the others shoved Venture as he walked by, back onto the mat. But Parker was watching him. All he could do was glare back at them.
Lance looked like he wanted to give him a good shove, too, or worse, but he just shook his head and said, “Thanks a lot, Vent.”
“What’s going on?” Fisher asked Parker.
“These guys aren’t thirsty enough.”
“Well then,” Fisher said with a crooked smile. “let’s make them thirsty.”
Venture removed his boots and steeled himself to get back on the mat. His stomach rumbled. He’d burned through the little bowl of lukewarm goo he’d had for lunch before he even made it back to the training room.
There was a rumble of boots and laughter and the training room door clattered open. Fisher entered, followed by a couple dozen older fighters. “I have a surprise for you boys. A chance to fight.”
Venture flexed his fingers. Those guys looked fresh and strong and eager to give them a good beating, but it would be a break from drills, and this was what he’d come here for, to fight bigger, better guys.
A tall young man, not bulky like Fisher, but long-limbed and well-built, stepped onto the mat right next to Venture. His hands were wrapped in the gloves many of the fighters preferred—lightweight, leather, covering only part of the fingers to allow for dexterity, while offering some protection to the knuckles. A fine pair, supple, and a custom fit. Venture’s hands would like a pair of those.
Something about the way he moved, that shaggy sandy hair, cut short enough to show his ears, oversized and misshapen from repeated breaking and swelling, looked familiar. Then he turned his head and Venture recognized him. Dasher Starson.
The
Dasher Starson, who’d just beaten Will Fisher for the title this past summer. The current Champion of All Richland.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding, Will.”
“I have a job to do, Starson.”
“Tough job.” He surveyed the exhausted boys. “Come on. You promised me a round today.”
“Didn’t you get enough of a beating yesterday?”
Starson didn’t blink, but Venture thought he saw his face harden for a flash before he smiled again. His Championship win had been a narrow one, and the two of them had been taking turns at first place in competition ever since.
“I left my nice, warm training room and came to this dump to find you. The least you can do is put your gloves on.” He picked up Fisher’s gloves from the matside shelf and tossed them to him. Fisher caught them, but then hurled them into the corner and turned his back on Starson.
Starson just smiled and shook his head, as though he’d expected exactly that response.
“Mr. Starson?” Venture said. “I’ll go a round.”
“Venture Delving,” said Lance as he walked by, “you’re out of your mind.”
Fisher stormed over and smacked Venture hard on the back of the head, not the friendly sort of swat that Earnest, his friend and trainer back at Beamer’s might’ve given him if he’d done something really stupid, but a wallop that left his head ringing. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Will,” Starson said sternly.
Fisher grabbed Venture’s arm. “Your name!”
Venture twisted away and glared at him, his lips determined not to open.
Don’t answer him
, his gut said, both his pride and a sense of warning.
“Will!” Starson took Venture by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of Fisher’s grasp, but Venture didn’t resist his firm grasp as he had Fisher’s. “We don’t have time to play around. You promised me another round. Let’s go. Give these boys a break so we can have the mat.”
“Tell me your name,” Fisher insisted.
“What does it matter? He’s with that group from—?”
“Beamer’s,” Venture said.
“From Twin Rivers? You sure?”
“You from Twin Rivers, kid?” said Starson, releasing his grip on Venture.
“Yes, sir.”
“There you go. Just another kid from Beamer’s. Who cares?”
Fisher shrugged. “Thought he was someone else,” he mumbled. “All right, Starson. We’ll go, after these guys finish up.”
Starson shrugged. “I’ll wait right here. They look pretty close to finished to me.”
The rest of the boys were lining up with the older guys for sparing partners, so Venture hurried out there. One of the guys gave him a nod and shoved him in front of him just as the whistle blew.
“You’re the bondsman, right?”
Venture struggled to hide his surprise. “Right.” Who had told him that? Would Nick or Lance go so far as to tell this guy that now?
The fighter said nothing more about it, just began one attack after another, fast and hard. His jabs kept hitting their mark, not full strength, but much too hard for practice. Each takedown made Venture never want to get up again. But he got up, every time. He fought back, fiercer than he had in all his years on the mat, holding nothing back.
Venture’s knuckles made contact with the other fighter’s nose, and blood gushed down over his mouth. Venture pulled back, considered an apology, but a heavy fist bashed right into his ear—right through his head, it seemed. He felt himself go out for a split second but he kept his feet, brought his hands back up, focused back on his opponent. The other guy wiped the back of his hand across his bloody face, then the hand on his shirt. Fear flooded through Venture’s fuzzy-headedness, a kind of fear he’d never felt on the mat.
Venture kept his hands up, his guard up, waiting for someone to intervene, but no one did. That feeling he’d gotten in his gut when he first saw Fisher tightened up into an even bigger knot. This guy could beat him senseless, right here, and no one would care. Venture swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth, and he made a decision. A decision he’d never made before. A decision he hated. He wouldn’t push this opponent anymore. He would survive this round, even if it meant holding back in order not to anger him.
It was forever before they stopped. No three-minute timers here. Fisher finally blew the whistle and offered them water.
Venture’s opponent grabbed him by the chin. “You think anyone’s going to miss you after we’re done with you?”
Venture pulled free.
“Your master ought to find some other way to dump his bonded trash. But I guess this way we can have a little fun helping him get rid of you.”
He laughed and turned away and Venture limped toward the edge of the mat, for a vicious leg kick had set a knot already forming on his calf. He put his hand to his throbbing ear. It felt hot.
When he stumbled, Parker laughed and shoved him. Venture’s usual leaping flames of outrage were nothing but dying coals underneath his desire to get off this mat and never get on it again. Maybe Able was wrong, and Earnest too. He wasn’t meant to be here. And he’d just learned how to give up even while he kept getting up. How long would it be before he stopped getting up, too?