Prologue - The Prize Fight

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Lundora Empire Year 3150, The 8th of Fanwar

Ivy.

The sharp clash of slashing steel cut through the close atmosphere clogging Tortelli's Cage, the seediest of the underground fight clubs to be found in the lower harbor ward. The rapid reports were—nearly but not quite—drowned out by the many rough voices, calling loudly for my opponent's blood, which in turn were—nearly but not quite—smothered by the coarser voices calling for mine.

I ignored them. Focusing intensely on my opponent, the offensive jeers, urgent calls and uncouth cheering became a wall of sound outside my consciousness. Every move my rival made—every twitch of muscle, eye or breath—was a signpost that, if properly interpreted, would mean another moment or two of life. Mistaken, my error would be immediately communicated in pain.

I lunged and was countered savagely, steel rising between my blade and his flesh like a crude gesture, offensive in its power to belittle and humiliate. Likewise, I snarled and emasculated his barbaric advances, but only just. I was slowing, and I think he sensed it.

Torchlight glinted from our slashing blades like lightning through the tense thunderclouds of dark smoke and stale air around us. I could use that, sometimes. Reflected in the eyes of an opponent in a dim room, light could distract or disorient just long enough for a swift kick, off-hand strike or kidney punch.

Not tonight, though. I was off my game.

Or, mayhap it was the sparking mountain of man flesh that lurched around the cage across from me, the pig-sticker in his meaty fist swinging like a cudgel each time he hove to. The man had ogre blood, or some crazy thing. Wasn't right—he was half my height again, at least, and faster than any body that size had a right to be.

Another quick clash left him with a nick under his sword arm and me dizzy and staggering from a barbaric blow to my left shoulder dealt with the flat of his sword. He was doing his job; putting on a show. It was galling.

For most of two years, I'd scrapped just like the syndicate wanted, spitting blood and beaten purple most nights. I'd trounced every homeless ruffian they could drub up, liquor up and tie a sword to for a chime or two, just so they could name me champion and pin a patronizing title on me. 'The Untamed,' they called me.

"The crowds'll eat up a leggy tilly dove who's good wiv a sword," Sando had said, back when I thought he meant all the fool things he whispered in my ear. Then, at the height of my success, months from winning my freedom, the fixers pit me against this monster and tell me to take a fall.

Spark the lot of 'em. As if any bloody free-born would bet two bits on a tiny wench like me over that hulk, champion title or no. Didn't make no bloody sense.

"Lay down, Ivy," Jav growled at me, irritated I was making him work for it. "Don' make dis harder dan it has to be."

I spit at his face, and in the momentary distraction bashed away at Jav 'The Pommel' Furgev's pig sticker, just to show him what I thought of that. The crowd was roaring with bloodlust, anyhow. Prolly a fair amount o' coin that should have been brought home to babies and wives had already changed hands, spent guessing just how bad I was going to lose.

I left off the ferocious exchange, wheezing for air. Why won't one of these bloody codpieces open a sparking window?

I didn't care. Not about losing, I mean. Every time I stepped in a cage I knew there was a good chance only one body was walking itself out. But the syndicate had planned for it to happen, just to win some bets... and it wasn't right. I'd worked hard for my title and I wasn't about to roll over and let them do it to me, their 'beloved champion,' neither.

Least I could do was die in a way they wouldn't guess. Then maybe the lot of those cheering fools would go home to their house-hag wives without their wages and, gods willing, be drubbed soundly with pans and rolling pins (or whatever women beat their husbands with now-days).

I took a fist of knuckles in the bone box and lurched backwards, bloody teeth grinning like a fool at the thought.

Of course this giant was going back to his stable in Connorton a hero, no matter what I did, and the syndicate ran Connorton, too.

"He's favoring his right side!" A helpful idiot called loudly from the stands, loud enough for his voice to cut through my wall of sound outside the cage. It sounded for all the world like a tilwen voice.

No fooling, I thought scornfully, dismissing the voice. Fighters didn't live long in the cage if they could be distracted. Tell me something I don't know.

So what if there were tilwen among the mob? My 'people' had never done me any favors. Besides, that kind of information was helpful to a body what could get within two paces of an opponent to land a blow. Pommel had arms like sail yards, and swung steel around wildly so I couldn't get any closer than that. Right side, left side, what did it matter if my longsword wouldn't reach?

I took my grip firmly in both hands, balancing the sword's weight evenly between them, and began looking for a good way to die.


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