Knee-Deep in Grit: Two Bloody Years of Grimdark Fiction by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Gridmark Magazine
Published: 2018-06-30T00:00:00+00:00

A Fair Man

PETER ORULLIAN

Pit Row reeked of sweat. And fear.

Heavy sun fell across the necks of those who waited their turn in the pit. Some sat in silence, weapons like afterthoughts in their laps. Others trembled and chattered to anyone who’d spare a moment to listen. Fallow dust lazed around them all. The smell of old earth newly turned. Graves being dug constantly for those who died fighting in the pit. Mikel walked the row, one hand on his blade, the other holding the day’s list.

He passed a big man sitting in a spray of straw. The fellow wore several brands across his chest. A prisoner. More than forty fights. Each win burned into his flesh with a simple hash. He’d die in chains. Or die in the pit. Blood caked his left foot below an iron manacle that had torn up the flesh of his ankle. Dust clung to his sweaty skin. The prisoner didn’t look up at Mikel, any more than he blinked away the fly drinking at the corner of his eye. But there was something foreign about the man. And something menacing. Indifference?

Further down, a young man practiced thrust and parry combinations, his boots lifting more dust into the hot haze. The fellow narrated each movement, the tone of his voice like a man trying to convince himself he’d survive the pit. Mikel hated this type. Not because they sought glory. No one was that stupid. It was desperation. The pup had a bit of training and had almost certainly wagered on his own victory, hoping to turn a few thin plugs. The young man’s sad, nicked sword told the story of his need.

Across from the pup came a hissing laugh. Mikel turned to see an old pit survivor. Jackman. An incomplete fellow. One arm. Wood stump beneath his left knee. A face that whitened around scars when he smiled. The bastard kept a list of his own. Odds for bettors. He limped up beside Mikel to watch the pup dance.

He said nothing for a long moment, then took a deep breath through his nose. “Smell it?”

“Just you.” Mikel turned to finish his round.

Jackman caught him with his one good hand. “Pup’s already dead. He just doesn’t have the sense to lay down in the grave yet.” The hissing laugh followed. “Ten seconds for ten coins.”

Mikel gave the pup another look. The young man would never best a pit fighter. He’d die wearing the surprised look of a man who’d thought too much of his own skill. Mikel stared into the milky eyes of the odds maker, anger burning at the truth of it.

“Maybe,” he finally said. He pushed two thin plugs into Jackman’s dirty palm, taking the odds, and crossed to the pup. “Your sword arm is slow. Don’t use it to attack, only defend. Then jab with your knife hand. You’re faster there. Be patient. Winning is more important than looking heroic.”

The boy stared, confused, but nodded. Mikel clapped his shoulder and returned to the row.

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