Chapter Seven: Part One

Continued from Chapter Six: Part Four

Chapter Seven

Twig drew the feather of his arrow to his ear. He aimed at the Scarpy on the right. The Scarpy cackled and hopped through the snow, overjoyed to have something to do it seemed. Embers and sparks dribbled from his mouth and his eyes glowed yellow in the shadows of Cankerous Gorge.

“Just hold real still,” the one on the left said, his voice low. He raised his sword and pointed it at Twig. “This can never take long.”

Twig glanced at the one on the left. He had a more commanding presence, like he led the Scarpy. He was a little bigger as well. Looking back at the one on the right, Twig took a good aim. He released his arrow. It sung through the cold air. Scarpy have thick skin and they’re fast bastards. With a cry, the Scarpy sidestepped. The arrow, aimed for his belly, glanced off his side just above his thigh bone. No lasting harm, but it made him stop laughing. It distracted him so that Twig could make a run for the artificer’s building.

That building had been where the sparking bears had been cross-bred with the fire impelled from Scarpy powder. One of the three triggers to cause the cave-in of the whole complex had been built into one of the inside walls of the building when it had been built. The doors were chained shut, like the barracks. Twig ran for the nearest ground floor window. He took up a gnawed chunk of bar from one of the lids on the bear pits. Throwing the bar, he broke one of the windows before reaching it. The snow scattered from his feet as he leapt through the shattering glass into the building.

His boots kicked up a puff of dust when he landed on the floorboards inside. He broke into a run at once, weaving between the worktables arranged in the room. The room nearly took up the same footprint as the building itself. Aisles of worktables covered in few remains of broken chemists’ gear stood in tiers. The middle of the room had a cage of crisscrossed iron bars, where the bears had been observed and manipulated. Twig hopped onto the nearest worktable Leaping from worktable to worktable, he ran toward the bear cage’s open doors.

Accompanied by a shout from a Scarpy, one of the windows thirty feet away on Twig’s left shattered. The Scarpy had leapt through it. He landed on one of the worktables on that end of the room. Heavier than Twig, the Scarpy’s momentum knocked the fifteen foot long worktable off its legs.  Without bothering to get on any other workbenches he forced his way through the aisles toward Twig. He heaved worktables out of his way. He no longer smiled. The situation no longer amused him. He was the one Twig had got with his arrow. The other Scarpy plunged through a window further along the wall. Something sparked in his hand, like a match in the moment of its ignition. Going across the tops of the tables Twig went faster than the Scarpy. He slashed at pipes in the ceiling as he went. Many were dry. Some began leaking oil for the lamps and aritificers’ machines.

Leaping from the last worktable, Twig reached the open doors of the cage. The Scarpy threw the sparking thing--a sound a little like sand falling through an hourglass accompanied it. When it hit the floor an eruption of force and fire came from it, like in the barracks but smaller. It missed Twig. Several worktables blew into the air from the explosion. Twig took a wrong step when he landed and stumbled into the stone floor of the cage. He turned and fell back-first against the bars on the far side.

He stayed still there for a moment. The breath had been knocked out of him. He chose not to inhale again just then. The Scarpy approached. The one on the left took something from under his coat. A flash of flame lit against it. It began to spark. Twig drew an arrow. He wanted some wadding. And matches. He’d light the oil dripping from the pipes in the ceiling then. He had neither. Taking his aim on the Scarpy he waited. The Scarpy threw the sparking thing in his hand. It was a fast throw, straight at Twig. It would hardly have gone straighter or faster if shot from a wrist rocket. Watching it come spinning and sparking toward him, Twig considered what it would do when it hit him. Wondering about the result, Twig aimed at the sparking ball and shot. The arrow whistled and hit the thing just high of its center. Deflected off its course, it ricocheted straight at the growing puddle of oil. It exploded on impact. The flames belched forth caught the oil alight. It burned hot and spread across the tables and wooden floor.

Twig hesitated no longer than that. He began climbing up the inside of the cage. It had no ceiling. The bars continued in a column up the three floors of the building culminating in a leaded glass skylight. Sticking the black bow into the quiver on his back, he climbed quickly. There was no opening till the very top where windows had been made just below the ceiling on the third floor. The artificers stuck tubes and pipes through the narrow windows to pour chemicals on the bears. A glance up earlier had revealed that the tubes had been removed, leaving the space empty.

The Scarpy stomped into the bottom of the cage. They screeched up at him, cussing but in the Scarpy dialect. Twig only knew terms to describe fighting in Scarpy. Twig predicted that both of them would have one of their sparking balls in hand--he could hear the falling of hourglass sand sound. Coiling and releasing the strength in his arms and legs, he leapt sideways and up. He caught hold of the farthest crisscross in the bars he could reach. One of the sparking balls flew through the bars and hit the floor, exploding on the shadowy second floor. Desks blew away from it. The second hit the bars and exploded just behind Twig’s back. The force of it and his own weight swung him forward. Releasing the bars where he had a hold he went the couple feet to the next wall to his right and caught a hold there. He climbed again. With a few grumbled words the Scarpy left the cage. Twig thought he heard “stairs.”

He reached the peaked, leaded window ceiling of the cage. Taking a peak out before proceeding, Twig caught a glance of something falling from one of the gantries sticking from the cliff. It fell toward the roof of the building. Twig only saw it for a moment. Then snow drifted on the window obscured it. Curling through the empty space at the top of the cage, Twig climbed into the top floor. There were no windows here. The only light came from the leaded skylight at the top of the cage and the light rising from the floors below through it. As Twig got out of the cage a huge thump smote on the roof. The thing from the gantry landed. It began smashing on the roof as if with a pickaxe. Landing on the floor, Twig ran between the cots on this side of the room. The artificers had slept up here.  The opening of a duct stuck from each of the walls. One of the ducts had a switch in it. He only hoped he remembered the right one.

On the far side of the cage, the pickaxing Scarpy broke through the roof. In a hale of plaster and splintered wood, he fell into the room, bringing more light. Twig glanced back. The Scarpy’s yellow glowing eyes stared through the falling dust. He shouted instructions. Twig just heard the footsteps on the floor below him before they got just ahead of him. From the sound, the Scarpy reached the same place. Twig strafed to the left. Just in time as the floor ahead of him broke from below. The head and arms of one of the Scarpy erupted in an explosion of broken rubble and light from below.

Twig leapt in the middle of strafing, wanting to get further away. With a shout, the Scarpy lashed out toward Twig. He caught a hold of Twig’s leg. It brought Twig down, breaking one of the undressed cots. Twig twisted, drawing Silk’s knife. The knife was narrow-bladed. He thrust it between the bones on the Scarpy’s forearm. The Scarpy howled, an orange glow in his throat. His hand let go of Twig. Leaving the knife, Twig scrambled away and back to his feet. He didn’t look back again until he reached the wall under the grate to the duct. A whooshing in the air behind him caught his attention. Turning swiftly, he saw just in time that the Scarpy had thrown his pickaxe. With his eyes suddenly wide, Twig raised his hands. The pickaxe whirled. The sharp end came where his fingers could touch it. Brushing his right hand against the side of the point, he redirected it. With his left he followed the wooden handle. The brush of his fingers slowed it a little. His left hand matched the speed of the handle. Even though he slowed it, the force the Scarpy had given to the pickaxe would outweigh Twig. He braced his shoulder.

His grip firm on the pickaxe, it yanked him off his feet. He flew the last five feet into the wall  under the duct. The wall cracked under his shoulder. Distant pain fizzled from his heel to his temple on his right side, like an old bruise came all at once. The electric buzz of the pickaxe having an ill impact on the wall almost broke his grip. He kept his hold on it. His body could no recover immediately and he fell to his knees.

Continued on February 13...

Chapter Three: Part One

Continued from December 9, Chapter Two: Part Four

A couple days passed, and Silk and Digger spent them resting.

With a half-eaten apple in one hand, Silk stood in front of a board covered in relics from the War: wanted posters. The War went everywhere, changed everything. It’d been one of those confusing wars—no one knew for sure what side they fought for day to day. It got confusing after only a few years. The War had lasted for forty years. When Silk had been growing up, an urchin on the far southern docks, the War was already old. Just the War. It didn’t need a name. Probably the history books would call it something, but no history books had been written about it yet.

No one ever knew what side they fought for, no one except the choice few like Engelkind and the gods. Failing in that certainty, there was a certainty about what sides fought the War. On the one side stood the gods themselves: Ythig and his pantheon, ruling from castles and leading vast armies who believed the old stories and stood by how the way things had been for all recalling. The gods defended themselves against an insurrection: a coalition of atheistic men rallying to cry that mankind had outgrown the gods. Ironically, when that coalition of rebels lost their leader, the person who replaced him was a god. A new god—a god who never appeared in any old story. People took it as a sign that they would win.

And they had won. The coalition of men, led by the new god Kunig and his warlords—Engelkind being first among them—defeated the gods and threw them from their keeps. The gods lost the War.

Silk inhaled cigar smoke around a bite of apple. The War’s outcome was so monumentally impossible. The whole of Eardbána—the only known continent in the world—took on a greyish cast. No parades or celebration marked the end of the War. Quietly, the new regime established, and the population went along with it. The new god, Kunig, assumed rule in the south, and Engelkind and his armies moved into the greatest fortress in the middle belt of Eardbána. The most pivotal warchiefs who had supported the gods took up abode in the northland of Wildhagen. Kunig declared them exiled. Ythig and the old gods disappeared. Folk presumed them also exiled, but rarely inquired because they feared Engelkind’s secret police.

 The gods had lost the War. The concept could hardly be understood. Perhaps the impossibility of it affected men—perhaps the feeling that the gods no longer watched them made more of them turn bad—perhaps fewer people chose to police each other any longer. Silk thought it was because Wildhagen had become a no-man’s land. The only real authority there was the exiled King of Wildhagen, who stayed in hiding because his power was now illegal. Whatever the reason, boards for wanted posters had more posters than ever. Engelkind offered most of the rewards. Many stated that the reward would be paid forward regardless of the criminal arriving dead or alive.

Silk blew a smoke ring at the poster-covered board. A handful of the posters were slashed through. They had the highest rewards and names Silk recognized. Brillig Oxley—Strags Curran—Gerick Cham—all of them vicious murderers, highwaymen destined for the gallows. They had been war heroes, for what side didn’t matter. Now they were wrong-minded psychos. This was the effect of the War. These men could not recover.

Digger walked up next to Silk and looked at the board with him. They stood for a moment with some town folk walking past behind them. Silk blew out a lung of smoke.

“How did you become sheriff here?” he asked.

“I go where the wind takes me,” Digger said.

“That’s sort of ridiculous.”

Digger shrugged.

“How long are you going to stay here?” Silk asked.

“Well,” Digger said, drawing out the word. “That rather depends on you, as it happens.”

“Does it?”

“Aye. As per preparing to become the Wiga, I’m obliged to learn from anyone who can beat me in a fight.”

“Is that a fact?” Silk said, scratching his cheek and raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. A tradition passed down through the ages.”

“I hate tradition,” Silk said. It was true, though he respected magic. It sounded like one of those magical contracts, like the legend about how the gods had declared that Engelkind could not be killed. A legend, most said, though the now eighty year old warlord gave the tale some credence. The gods made magical promises like that sometimes and men lived with the consequences. Some things could not be negotiated. The gods had a tricky way of declaring things that would happen no matter what.

Digger shrugged again. “Tradition means little to me one way or the other.”

“You’ve never gotten around it, though,” Silk said. Digger shook his head. Silk looked close at Digger’s calm expression. Digger’s eyes had a touch of resignation in them, as if he had tried to outwit the tradition and had failed. The look on Digger’s face made Silk think the consequences had been grave. It must be strange to live a life with a destined place in the world. Silk took joy in little, but he did find a great deal of comfort knowing that he made his own tomorrows.

Digger smiled and looked at Silk sideways. Such a child. Silk puffed on his cigar. He turned back to the board of wanted posters.

“These posters that have been slashed—the outlaw was caught?” he asked.

“For these here, I caught them,” Digger gestured at a handful in the corner. “Some of those were caught by locals or by travelers or mercenaries,” he pointed with an open hand to several others. None of them that he had pointed to so far had very high reward. “These,” he pointed at the three with the highest rewards—Oxley, Strags, and Cham. “These men turned up dead on the highway into the north.”

Silk smiled. “No one has tried collecting a reward for them?” He thought he knew the answer but he asked it anyway.

“Some have tried ,” Digger said.

“You didn’t give them the money,” Silk said, more a statement than a question. He smiled around his cigar.

“They weren’t up for hunting these brigands,” Digger said. “Anyway, whoever it was that killed them is still roaming the hills.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Silk thought he knew a little more himself about this vigilante. Van Vleidt said that Silk would find the vigilante useful. He wanted to know what Digger knew anyway.

“He’s stuffing these in the mouths of the outlaws’ corpses,” Digger took a little piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Silk, “wrapped around a rock.”

Silk took the piece of paper. Come and get me, it read in simple, straight letters.

Continued December 13...

Chapter Two: Part Four

Continued from Chapter Two: Part Three, on December 7 http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-three.html

Silk hit the ground on one shoulder and slid a few feet, smearing blood from many small abrasions on the flagstones. As he stopped, he became again aware of the crowd. They roared their approval, whistling and chanting Digger’s name. Silk panted for a second—needed to catch his breath. Before it could be said that he was down, he rolled to his knees. His head hadn’t really cleared of the shaking from the uppercut. He’d get past it.

Kneeling and breathing, he looked around at the excited crowd. Ale aplenty and spiced wine circled the people. Chunks of meat—loaves of steaming bread and pretzels. A good time was being had by all. Silk laughed.

“Are you laughing?” Digger said. He bent over, leaning on his knees, trying to catch his own breath, but had his face to Silk.

“Yes. It’s just so ridiculous.” He thought watching a fist fight for entertainment so boorish. Study, maybe--to know your enemy if you would fight one of them, perhaps. Entertainment, though, not so much. The crowd made him laugh.

Digger looked unconvinced. He didn’t see it. People often didn’t see what Silk thought funny. Ah, well.

“Are you done?” Digger asked. Silk felt his jaw to be sure it was neither cracked or sprained. He shook his head. He still had fight left in him.

“You have a second,” Silk said from his spot kneeling on the ground. “You could bet on me—make some money.”

Digger raised an eyebrow. He was not amused.

“Just a thought,” Silk said.

He rose slowly to his feet. When he had, he went at Digger again. This time, his mode of attack was simple and reactive. He watched where Digger’s hands were and guessed where they would be next. Consistently, Silk put his hands just a little bit wrong for the blocks and punches that Digger expected. It’s how he often fought in the last few minutes. It looked sloppy. It was sloppy. His head still spun from the uppercut. When he’d been pressed to a point when he ought to quit he filled his head with breathing sounds, felt only his heartbeat and heard only a cheering crowd, as if a choir of excited and drunk ghosts stood as spectators to his fight. He heard them, always. They cried out for the success of his every move. And nearer, as if over his shoulders, a half dozen voices whispered to him, telling him what to do and where the next fist would swing. The voices were only sometimes the same and only rarely familiar. He used to ignore them, except occasionally and only grudgingly. They often said things contrary to the action he wanted to take. It made him assume they were hallucinations. Though he still wondered what exactly they were, he had decided recently to try listening to them. A mentor had suggested it to him. His life had gone in interesting directions since then.

The voices whispered—jab—feint—blindside—block—kick. He embraced the suggestions. The choir of voices like ghosts—invisible but seeming above the real crowd of people around the fight—sang a violent drinking song. Silk’s attacks had gone just sideways enough that Digger couldn’t compensate. He missed a block. Silk’s attack landed haphazardly on Digger’s cheek. The Wiga’s son tried to jab back. Silk caught his fist. In three quick punches, Silk put Digger off-kilter.

Now, the voices whispered. Silk threw a back-kick into Digger’s head. He fell to the ground, down for the count.

The crowd stood quiet at first, not sure what to do now. It suited Silk, who dropped to a crouch next to Digger. Checking his heart rate and breathing, Silk determined whether Digger would be all right—just to be certain. He had often been the only person near his fights who cared to check and knew how to check of the felled fighter would survive, so he’d gotten used to doing it. A moment of appraisal later Silk had finished. Dazed but not badly, Digger would recover soon. That was good.

The voices like ghosts applauded the effort. They quieted down and dispersed to the normal hubbub he heard all day every day, without there ever actually being noise.

“Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers,”someone in the crowd of humans watching the fight said. Someone else whistled an incredulous whistle. Murmurs traveled to the back as the people who couldn’t quite see asked what happened. Even the bookies had stopped talking. The upset took them all for surprise.

Nearly full dark had arrived. Freezing snow fell on Silk’s and Digger’s bare torsos.

“Does he have apartments?” Silk asked.

“He’s staying at the Currycomb Inn,” someone said.

“My inn is nearer,” Silk said.“The Crossed Wands. Take him there.”

A small crowd obeyed, picking Digger up from the ground. Six men carried him toward the Crossed Wands Inn. Pulling his shirt and jacket on as he went, Silk followed them. He carried Digger’s things.

Not sure what else to do, the crowd dispersed, chatting about the fight. “Bit strange,” some called it.“Thought our sheriff had him at the end, didn’t you?” one said to his mate.“They say Silk uses some mischief or witchwork to win fights,” at least one person muttered, but he was quickly hushed. None wanted the Secret Police down on their heads. Engelkind’s Secret Police were allegedly everywhere, though no one knew if they had ever seen one—not for sure. The Secret Police wandered through recent urban legends, as pervasive as the Boogeyman. And as imaginary, some would say in hushed tones. Still, they explained to one another, best not to risk it. That idea always received warm agreement.

At the Crossed Wands, Silk saw to it that Digger had a room. Then he sent away for Digger’s things to be brought over from the Currycomb Inn.

“He ain’t got much there,” one man told Silk. “Travels light, does our sheriff.” Silk, weary and beginning to feel the fight, grimaced at the man. He had no patience. “Right you are, sir,” the man said. He and his companions skittered off to get Digger’s things.

Without saying another word to anyone, Silk thumped up the flight of stairs to the room he had rented for himself. He shut the door behind him and tugged off his shirt and jacket again. Exhausted, beginning to ache, he fell onto the four poster. Blissful sleep seemed eminent…. Then it felt too cold. He tried to ignore it. A draft from the chimney blew on his skin, though. It fluctuated—cold for a moment, colder for the next. The skin of his side shrank and went goosepimply at the wind’s bidding.

Without speaking, Silk rolled to the floor. He walked in his now bare feet across the well-scrubbed wood slats. Next to the fireplace he found a heap of wood and a pile of wood shavings for kindling. He could light a quick fire. So he did, using the matches on the mantel of the fireplace. Soon, the logs lying in the grate crackled and smoked.

Good and better. He stood—his back felt over-worked—and went back to bed. Falling onto the covers, he closed his eyes. He let himself sink into the downy comforter. The warmth of the fire caressed his aching sides.

But now that he had awaked again, he heard whispering. A voice spoke in the corner of the room. Though the volume and the proximity were near enough, he couldn’t make out the words it said. If he listened to it—he tried not to listen to it but found his attention drawn to it—he thought he could make out every third word or so. When he tried to remember the words he didn’t know what they were.

Though he knew what he’d see, Silk opened his eyes and looked at the corner where the voice nattered. Empty, as he knew it would be. The voice seemed aware of his presence. It turned its attention to Silk and made some salutation, then it went back to talking to itself.

More voices followed. Some in the room—others outside the room but still nearby—most of them moved. He never heard any of them with his actual ears. They more took the form of distinct imaginings that had some origin outside himself. He had no idea where. They went about their own business, if they had any business at all aside from chattering. They always, always talked. He had spent a lot of energy running from them and had never succeeded.

Their inane hubbub filled Silk’s subconscious. They had long since driven him past the edge. He heard a great deal from folk about how he came off as mad and gone astray. Theories aplenty accompanied what folk said, as many theories as towns Silk had visited. Some theories had to do with him selling his soul—others thought that he’d been to the edge of the world—many suspected he’d been tortured so that his mind had gone. The theories all had enough truth in them to be getting along. The voices did little to keep him sane. They never made any sense. Except in desperate moments—near the ends of fights, during raids, at critical moments in negotiations—at those moments the voices assumed perfect clarity.

A mentor of his had recently observed that something important might be happening there. He’d been a much wiser man than Silk. A man called Sagan Van Vleidt who had written books about asceticism and the workings of the mind. Van Vleidt had been a good friend to Silk for the last few years. He had warned Silk against attempting to quiet these voices. “They might be trying to tell you something important,” Van Vleidt had said. Then died—assassinated by Holy Assassins. Now Silk felt guilty. He had always argued with Van Vleidt, never allowing that Van Vleidt might know a thing or two.

Grimbling, Silk rolled onto his back. He tugged a cigar and a box of matches from a pocket in his jacket. When he'd lit the cigar he lay still, smoking slowly and listening to the voices.

End of chapter two. Continued on December 11...

Chapter Two: Part Three

Continued from December 5, http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-two.html

“You all want to see a good fight?” he said. Conversation quieted. The crowd concentrated, gathered closer, left space in the middle. “You heard that Silk Golinvaux had come, the Beast himself, one of the stories from the Wars. You want to see him fight?” A cheer from the crowd. “You here to see him brawl?” Another cheer. “You rare to see a good scrap?” A raucous, rolling shout with applause. Digger walked around the circle, his arms raised, his smile saintly, encouraging the noise of the crowd. Silk smiled too. He couldn’t help himself. The crowd liked Digger.

Digger looked at Silk. It was a good build-up. Silk wondered where the Wiga was. “He is a big man,” Digger said. “Have any of you seen him fight?” Some cheers and applause. “He’s dropped men twice his size—leaving them dizzy on the ground.” More applause. “According to him, he’s planning to do that again. Do you believe that?” Chuckles from the crowd—applause and cheers, a few whistles. Digger allowed a few beats then started again. “The Beast has been bragging about his next big win already. Have you all heard about this?” More laughs and applause from the crowd. It had grown thicker. If Silk had wanted to get away he’d be hard pressed to do it through the press of bodies. No gap opened in the crowd to let the Wiga through. Silk wondered why Digger felt so convinced that the Wiga would fail to appear. The crowd seemed unconcerned by it. Noticing the confidence of the crowd, as if a good fight was still to commence, Silk’s mood began turning suspicious. Something uncalculated was about to occur.

“Silk Golinvaux has been spreading around town that he can beat your sheriff in single combat. Now how’s that for a game of soldiers, then, eh?”

There arose the loudest cheers of all from the crowd. From the cheers rose a chant. At first, Silk couldn’t make out what they chanted. Then it sounded like “Wiga.” But it clarified then into “Digger.”

Digger, the Wiga’s son, smiled up at Silk. Silk stood head and shoulders taller, both shoulders wider, older and heavier, greater experience, greater prestige. The crowd cheered for Digger. They had been from the start of the introduction.

Silk had been out-maneuvered. It happened so rarely that feeling it now almost amused him.

“My father is still tangled up in the tribal wars,” Digger said so only Silk could hear.

“Then the farce will end here,” Silk said. He’d allow Digger to leave. The game had been completed.

Digger stood his ground, though. He looked curious. “You said you’d beat the sheriff of Súthende. Here I am.”

Though he knew Digger meant it seriously, Silk had trouble accepting it. He had never once heard of Digger the Wiga’s son being any great warrior. Aside from misunderstanding about the Wiga’s son being sheriff in Súthende—and he didn’t know quite how he had done that—Silk had never heard anything about Digger the Wiga’s son.

The crowd continued to cheer. Silk hardly heard it. Digger seemed to ignore it.

“You’re not ready to face me, boy,” Silk growled. He meant it. The lad ought to pick fights in his weight class or he’d get hurt early.

“Perhaps not,” Digger said with utter calm. “You’d do better to try your luck with me. You’re not ready to face my father.”

That statement rubbed Silk backward. He frowned, turned away, and took off his cloak. As he stripped off his jacket and shirt the crowd screamed their approval: the fight was on.

In a few seconds, naked to the waist in the freezing evening—the snow just starting to fall—Silk, big and curled with muscle, faced lithe Digger in the sinking evening.

The clouds broke just at the horizon. A red stained sunbeam flooded the square. In the confusing light of it, Silk threw the first punch. It missed. Not because of any flaw in its delivery. He delivered it perfectly. Digger had got out of the way, though. In the same movement, Digger threw his knuckles into Silk’s ribs. No testing—no posturing. Just a solid first hit. Bam! Most impressive. Though a punch to the ribs hardly fazed Silk. The layers of muscle protected him from blow like quick jabs from arms like Digger’s. To counter, Silk brought his elbow down toward the back of Digger’s neck. The opportunity opened itself to him. Digger anticipated. He dropped below the blow. Falling to his chest on the cold stone, he caught himself, like a push-up movement. Popping back to his feet, Digger backpedaled several feet from Silk. He got out of reach. Keeping his body straight, he began bobbing back and forth. Digger was ready to move any direction Silk startled him to move.

Silk let Digger gain his bearings. He had quick. Quick could get a fighter a long way. Silk had relied on quick in his younger days. It corrected a multitude of errors. So far, Digger had displayed a few errors. He kept his attention full front—forgot to check his blind spots. Hard to take advantage of in single combat unless Silk could come at Digger from more than one angle. Silk ran at Digger and brought his next punch down from a high angle. Digger blocked. In the middle of the motion, Silk slung his leg up to knee Digger’s side. It only scored him a glancing blow. It overbalanced Digger just a touch. Pressing the wobble, Silk slung his other hand down at the side of Digger’s neck. But, in a practiced and smooth motion, Digger slid his hand up Silk’s striking arm. Digger ducked forward. Using the strength of Silk’s swinging arm and his weight against him—Silk only had one foot on the ground--Digger finessed Silk sideways off the ground. He tossed Silk aside.

Silk rolled a few feet. Using the rolling momentum he rose to his feet and braced himself, keeping his stance wide. He appraised Digger. The little redhead stood still now, waiting to see what would happen. His body moved like a conduit of martial training. Surgical, refined, flawless. Silk felt no personality in Digger’s fighting—no soul. All he could do was ply hours of drills. They had been good drills, apparently, and so far they were enough. Digger’s fighting had no life in it; he was an example of perfect theory. There was no fighting Digger. Fighting Digger was fighting martial arts itself. It would get Digger killed someday, unless he learned to put himself in the fight. Someday Digger had to fall off the edge and claw his way back again. He’d never be great till he did.

It made Silk laugh. Digger lacked experience. That was all. Made him a devil to fight, though. Silk had gotten so used to outwitting people in fights. It entertained him, fighting someone with apparently all the tricks to anticipate all the other tricks hammered into him leaving no room for his soul.

Digger threw a bracing foot back, thinking he anticipated what Silk would do next. Silk had turned off planning. He didn’t even know what he would do next. Pell-mell and roaring, he ran at Digger with his fists raised. Silk wailed on Digger without any organization. He paid no heed to Digger’s many precise little punches. He’d have to deal with them later. They were damaging even if they were small. The little stabs of pain could be ignored for now. Silk knocked past Digger’s many blocks with brute force. When Digger attempted to turn away Silk’s frenzied punches, Silk jumped forward, shoulder-first. Digger tried to throw Silk again. Silk grabbed Digger’s hand and pulled him over. They rolled apart and regained their feet. Then, abruptly and illogically, Silk went on the defensive. He lowered his stance and put his loose fists in front of his face. Pushing forward, Silk crowded Digger. Digger tried to back away. Silk kept inside a few feet of him. He lashed out a few times with his open hand. Nothing strong. Just baiting Digger. Digger tried not to take the bait. After a few seconds he couldn’t help it. He jabbed at Silk. Silk caught Digger’s wrist, squeezing. He tugged Digger closer and punched him in the ribs. Letting go of Digger’s wrist, Silk kept inside Digger’s circle. Digger slung his fist at Silk’s cheek. Silk punched Digger’s wrist up. He ducked at Digger. With an uppercut, Silk knocked Digger in the chin. Digger attempted to dodge. His weight was off. He only managed to stumble away. Silk scored a glancing hit. At the power he put behind it a glancing hit would bruise a bit.

Digger wobbled a few steps away. He looked destabilized. When he lowered his chin again blood reddened his lips. His eyes had taken a dazed cast. With extra energy this time, Silk again drove forward to press the advantage he’d gained. Leaning forward, he drew his fist back for a large left hook. And, almost delicately, Digger rebalanced his weight forward. He put his hand back. Then, with textbook perfection, he put every piece of himself into an uppercut. The uppercut landed under Silk’s chin just as Silk’s momentum reached critical and he had started catapulting his own fist forward. With every ounce of his own weight and every foot pound of his left hook redirected back at him, Silk rose off his feet. The electric tingling from the uppercut going up and down his body. He made a long, slow feeling arc off the ground. As he went, a smile grew on his face. Crazy fight.

Continued on December 9...