Firebrand

“This is never good,” Binning told Zachary.

“Why? What are they—?”

“Where’s Dav?” one of the guards shouted. “Dav Hill, where are you?”

All the other prisoners, even Binning, moved away from him as though he were infected with the pox. He climbed to his feet. “I am here.”

The guards grabbed him and dragged him out. He wondered if Grandmother finally wanted to hear the rest of his story about how he’d been caught by groundmites, but they didn’t take him into the keep. They pushed and shoved him through the woods to a clearing lit by lanterns with a bonfire in the center. A number of soldier types stood around the clearing’s perimeter, drinking. Binning was right. This could not be good. The circle opened, and he was kicked into the clearing from behind.

One of the guards from the dig, the one that carried the spiked cudgel, joined him in the clearing. “You are gonna entertain us, Dav,” he said. “Strong fellow like you, always helping the others carry their rocks, surely you can put a good show on for us.”

There was boisterous shouting, and the circle opened to admit a large and heavily muscled man. Zachary had a very good idea of where this was leading.

“This is Mace,” the guard said, indicating the big man. “One of our own looking for a workout. Poor lad hasn’t had anyone to pound in a while. Dav, you are going to fight him. Wagers, anyone?”

Zachary stared at Mace, while the soldiers made their wagers all around him. He knew how to take down big men. His arms training, after all, had not consisted solely of learning the sword. He could use his hands as well as any warrior. The problem was, if he put to use too many of the techniques he’d been taught, he’d be identified as more than the son of a lumber merchant, even more so if he won. They expected him to fight as a brawler, not as a well-trained warrior.

“Just in case you are thinking about throwing the fight,” the guard said, “we’ll cane your friend here real good.”

Zachary’s heart sank as they dragged Binning to the edge of the circle. The older man’s face had gone pale. Zachary did not think the farmer was in any condition to survive a harsh caning. He’d have to fight convincingly, but as a brawler, in order to spare Binning. He sighed in resignation.

PORTALS, AVATARS, AND KNITTING

It was not difficult to give the audience a “show,” for Mace proved to be a skilled fighter. It was all Zachary could do to dodge the hammerlike blows from Mace’s fists. The soldier was both large and quick, a bad combination. It was hard for Zachary to hold back on the finer techniques he’d been taught in order to retain his brawler persona. He jabbed his own fists at his opponent, his feet moving lightly over the ground. If he hadn’t been half-starved and worked so hard, he might have been able to land a couple meaningful blows, but his poor condition left him slow.

Do you think you have time to be tired in battle? he imagined Drent yelling at him. Do you think the enemy will take a break so you can nap?

Had Drent ever been in a situation like this? Zachary didn’t think so, and he told his imagination to silence itself.

Mace’s fist rammed straight for his face. Zachary hopped aside, but the blow clipped his ear. It felt like it had been ripped off. He backed away and touched it, and though it was still attached to his head, his fingers came away bloody. Then he noticed the dull gleam of metal on Mace’s fingers. Iron knuckles. It figured.

The audience yelled and cursed at them. They wanted action. They wanted more blood. Zachary switched his stance and drove his fist under Mace’s guard. It slammed into a gut seemingly made of steel. Mace shoved him back and followed up with a punch that glanced off the side of his head. If it had been more than a glance, he would have been down.

Then he got lucky and scored a hit across Mace’s jaw, but it crunched his fingers. He shook his hand out. Unfortunately, the lucky punch roused the big man, and he was on Zachary like a rabid wolf. The last thing Zachary saw was the iron knuckles flashing in front of his eyes.

• • •

Zachary could not see. He did not want to see, really, if the crackling in his head was any indication. Something cold covered his eyes and brow, and had an herby scent, which eased him. He seemed to be lying on a pallet and was covered by a blanket. The fire snapped nearby. It took him a while to remember the fight, though he couldn’t place exactly what had happened. He guessed he’d gotten hit good and was now back in the keep’s great hall for mending.

Just as he did not want to see, he did not wish to move. He lay still, fading in and out. Someone changed the compress over his eyes, the blessed coolness, the serenity of the herbs. He was surprised they hadn’t just thrown him back with the other slaves to suffer as he would, but maybe they valued good workers.

Presences came and went around him, and voices murmured in the background and faded. At some point, a pair of voices did catch his attention, though he was not sure if they were real or part of a dream.

“How is the knitting coming along?” Immerez asked.

“It is complicated,” Grandmother replied. “I have never made anything like this before.”

Was she knitting a sweater? Zachary wondered.

“So you do not know if it will work?” Immerez asked.

“Rarely do I know, especially when dealing with unknown powers. If all goes as I hope, this will be like the web of a spider that traps its prey.”

It must have been a dream, for spiders crawled through Zachary’s mind and wove fine strands in the eye sockets of his aching skull.