“Hello, Nigel.”
His smiled disappeared in a moment, and he scowled fiercely at me. “Don’t call me that, Shaman. Only my friends get to use my given name, and you never did qualify. Even when I thought we were both working on the same side. Never thought you’d see me again, did you, Shaman?”
“You’re looking well,” I said. “Considering Walker shot both your knee-caps off at Place Gloria.”
He sniffed loudly. “You can get anything repaired, if you have enough money. And if you’re motivated enough. I swore I’d have my revenge on you, Shaman! And so when a little bird told me that you’d be coming here . . . and that you wouldn’t have your precious armour to hide behind . . . well! How could I resist? A fair fight at last. I’m going to tear you to pieces, Shaman.”
“Walker was right,” I said. “I should have let him kill you.”
And I went straight for him, even before I’d finished talking. There was no point in hanging about, and there was always the chance I’d catch him off guard and get one good punch in. But of course he was expecting it, and he was so very fast. . . . My fist whooshed through the empty air where he had been just a moment before, and he hit me in the side, hard. I staggered away, clutching at myself, half-blind with pain and gasping for air. I was fast and skilled, well trained and experienced, versed in all the really dirty tricks . . . but he was just so damned fast. I spun round, head down, hands up to defend myself.
I never stood a chance.
The blows came out of nowhere. The first fist slammed into the side of my head, and the earth floor jumped up and hit me in the face. I didn’t even realise I’d fallen until he kicked me again and again in the ribs, to get me moving again. I heard ribs break, felt splinters grind in my side. I coughed hard, and blood filled my mouth. Not a good sign. I forced myself up onto my hands and knees, and a fist came flying down, hitting me so hard in the back I was slammed right back to the earth floor again. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The pain blotted out everything else. I squirmed around on the floor like a fish hauled up out of the water, hardly able to breathe. The only thing that saved me was that the Dancing Fool took time out to go strolling round the Pit in a lap of honour, smiling and waving to the screaming crowd.
I spat out a thick mouthful of blood, and forced myself up onto my feet. I was swaying, and I could barely raise my fists without crying out, but I was up. The Dancing Fool looked around, saw me, and laughed delightedly. He got to play some more. He came at me again, impossibly fast, dancing round and round me, hitting me wherever and whenever he wanted. Every blow hurt like hell, and every blow did damage, but I stood my ground and took it and wouldn’t go down again. Because I had a plan.
I was outclassed, and we both knew it. I was a good scrapper, but he was a professional. I’d only ever beaten him before because my armour protected me, and made me as fast as he was. Now all I had was stubbornness, and one desperate plan.
At first, the crowd cried out and applauded every time he hit me, yelling out suggestions on the best ways to break and kill me. But as I rocked back and forth, taking the punishment but stubbornly refusing to be beaten, parts of the crowd came round to my side, yelling out encouragement. They did love an underdog, even if they wouldn’t bet on one.
I staggered back and forth across the increasingly bloody earth floor, protecting my head as best I could, because one good shot to the head would leave me dazed and vulnerable. And that would be the end of it. More bones broke, more blood flew on the air, as the Dancing Fool spun and stamped around me, enjoying himself. My left arm hung broken and useless at my side, and I couldn’t see out of one eye. I hoped it was just puffed shut. And still I wouldn’t fall, wouldn’t give in. Because bit by bit the Armourer’s potion was kicking in. Showing me the patterns in how the Dancing Fool moved and held himself and planned his attacks.
Until I could read the cocky little bastard like a book.
I put my back against the wall, as though I hadn’t known it was there, as though I had nowhere else to run. The Dancing Fool came in close to throw a punch, and I saw it coming. His fist slammed towards my head with incredible speed, and I turned my head aside at just the last moment, so that his fist flashed by my head and buried itself deep in the earth wall behind me. Just as I’d planned.
I heard bones crunch as they broke in his hand. I saw the look of shock, and then pain, in his face. And then more shock, as he discovered his hand was trapped, buried deep, locked fast in the earth wall. And in that brief moment, as he put all his attention into trying to pull his hand free, I summoned up the last bit of strength I’d been saving and punched him savagely in the throat. I felt his trachea break, felt his windpipe collapse. Blood shot from his mouth, and all the sense went out of his eyes. He was still trying to pull his hand out of the wall, even as he made horrid choking sounds. I hit him again, with my one good hand; a vicious blow that slammed in right under his sternum. Hit a man there hard enough, and you can disrupt the rhythm of his heart. The Dancing Fool fell to his knees, his face blank, his eyes rolling up. One arm still stretched above his head, from where his hand was still trapped in the wall. He couldn’t breathe, and his heart was struggling. I looked down at the exposed back of his neck, and I rabbit-punched him.
The first blow probably killed him. I hit him six more times, as hard as I could, just to be sure.
I killed him. Not because he might have revealed who I really was and put an end to my mission. Not because he was a professional killer who needed killing; not because the world would be a better place without him. No. I killed him because he hurt me so badly, and because he would have killed me.
The crowd was going wild at the unexpected victory. Jumping up and down, clutching at each other, screaming and shouting like they’d never stop. I could barely see them, and the sound seemed to be coming from a long way away. I didn’t care. I was looking at Nigel, lying dead before me on the cold earth floor. A small, broken, pathetic thing. I leaned over, and spat blood on his face. And then I turned away and limped slowly back to the iron ladder. It took me a long while to climb back up, with only one working arm.
Molly and Frankie were waiting for me at the top. Molly looked at the mess the Dancing Fool had made of my face, and swallowed hard. She and Frankie helped me over the edge of the Pit, and then held me up between them as they half-led, half-carried me away. I tried not to cry out, but every movement hurt so much. Molly put my good arm over her shoulders, so she could carry more of my weight. Her face was white with shock, and her eyes were full of rage. Wherever she looked, people fell back to give her more room.
“Hell of a fight, Shaman!” said Frankie. “Hard core!”
“Shut up,” said Molly.
People came forward to congratulate me from every side, and Molly drove them back with hard looks and harsh language. Frankie left us for a while to collect the winnings from his side bets. He came back laughing.
“You wouldn’t believe how much money we’ve made, betting on you!” he said happily. “No one thought you stood a chance!”
“Shut up,” said Molly.
“Is that it?” I said. “Have I done enough to get through to the next level?”
“Hell, yes!” said Frankie. “Major prestige! Dangerous prestige! But I have to say . . . you look like crap. Just saying, but . . . maybe you should quit now? While you’re still ahead?”
“No,” I said.
“Let’s get you back to our room,” said Molly. “Once we’re out of the null zone, I can work my healing magics on you.”