Stories from the Glass Factory: 5
It was dusk down on the docks. A lone lamp-lighter shuffled along the wharves cupping a flame to one out of every six lanterns, then hoisted them high and back onto their hooks. The old man muttered constantly to himself as he moved. The endless string of complaints flowed from his lips like a river of minor misery.
"Too blasted hot. Damned knees ache worse than me back. Ain't had a sausage or a hot pie in two weeks. Think me back tooth is coming loose. Ain't got more than two coppers ta rub together..." Lamp oil supplies were being carefully rationed along with everything else in Baldur's Gate and a greasy little official at the Palace had instructed him in his new duties and then promptly slashed his pay by two thirds, citing that now he was doing much less work.
"Putting the rest o' my money in his filthy pocket he is. All the same they are, them fat greedy bastards in their fancy shoes. Ain't no one gives a flying turnip for an old gaffer like me ...." The complaints kept coming in an unbroken stream.
Behind him the thin line of lanterns swayed back and forth in the dying evening breeze, tiny islands of light in the deepening gloom. From every building the shadows crept slowly out over the Harbor district, heralding the dark to come. In the dens and holes, in the nests and hideaways, in the sewers that ran beneath the city streets, the night crawlers began to wake and stir.
In his modest dockside home Tegar Bearclaw was drinking his favorite cheap wine - a sour Luskan red - and was contemplating the current state of affairs. Murder, robbery, muggings and random acts of violence were still escalating far above normal levels as the desperation in Baldur's Gate increased. The Flaming Fist had doubled patrols in the area, and though they occasionally caught and arrested the unwary or the too slow, most of the criminal element simply faded out of sight as they approached, and then flowed back in like a sinister tide in the wake of their passing.
Tegar's planning and organization was still paying off, and none of his crew had suffered yet at the hands of villains. Twenty five families now looked to him to lead them, to find them work and feed them. Twenty five families that now watched out for each other, that came together in times of hardship or grief, and that swore to take care of the children should any parents disappear or perish.
He couldn't say the same for the north side workers though. He had heard of two families over there butchered in their sleep for near worthless trinkets. Other rumors were also making themselves heard. Word had it that his rival Redleaf Jake was consuming larger quantities of Ziran and spending more and more time in a drug-dazed stupor. Word also had it that neither Jake nor his lieutenants had been seen for several days, and his people were growing increasingly disgruntled with his neglect of them. It might finally be time to make a move and quietly ask if any of the north side families wished to change allegiance and join his family. He had no wish to start a war, but if Redleaf Jake could be carefully dispossessed that would be fewer folk that suffered the abuse of the Ziran chewer and his thugs.
"If I can find a way next week I will speak with some of those that live the closest, once my ribs have improved and I can move more freely." He spoke softly to himself then took another gulp of the wine he was holding and allowed his mind to drift back to the fight of the week before. What a joy it had been. What a complete and absolute joy. It had been years since he had felt as fully alive as that night and the memories still sang strongly inside him.
..............................
The man stands opposite him and shows no sign of fear. Tegar runs through the rules in his head a final time.
Fists only. No elbows, feet or knees. No grappling. No biting. No headbutts. When a man goes down step back and let him get to his feet again. This is not the way he usually fights. If there is no axe in his hand, then he simply crushes backs, snaps necks and limbs, or hurls his enemies to the ground and tramples over them to get to the next. Regardless of these ludicrous rules he is confident that he can win. He can pound his way through a warehouse wall if he needs to. He is Tegar Bearclaw, Chief of the South Side Tribe, and once a warrior of the Red Lion Clan. He glares ferociously at the man in front of him, waits for him to blink and look away - but it doesn't happen. The voice of Black Eric finally rings out above the noise of the crowd like a blessing in his ears.
"TILL ONE MAN IS LEFT STANDING, OR UNTIL QUARTER IS CALLED!"
Tegar smiles like a child given candyfloss and steps forward. The man is standing strangely. He bounces up and down on his toes and holds his hands high like an exotic insect or a priest at prayer. Tegar moves in and throws a wild flurry of punches that are hard enough to fell a horse. The man sways aside from each one at the last second and Tegar's punches whistle through thin air. Suddenly the man's left fist is in his face. Once, twice, three times. Almost too fast to see coming, and jolting his head back with each strike. The man skips away. Tegar drops his hands in surprise and in the blink of an eye the man skips in close again and delivers a savage right hook to his jaw. There is power in the blow and his head rocks sideways. Tegar's hands come up quickly and he bellows in a mixture of anger and happiness.
This could be a decent fight after all.
Time passes, is measured in hisses and grunts, and the solid thud of fists on flesh. Tegar learns from every exchange - is still learning. He begins to ape Mikull's posture and movements as best he can. The stance he uses to deliver huge swings with his axe is no good here. It is too wide-legged and he misses the counter balance of the axe weight. In this small arena his usual stance doesn't let him change direction or balance quickly enough. He brings his feet closer together but edges his right foot just a little more to the rear, copies Mikull almost exactly. He lifts his fists higher now, keep his forearms more vertical and elbows closer together. He protects his head and face and he curses silently now that a cut has opened up over his right eye. Because his hands are held higher now, the other man begins to hammer at his body more often. Tegar can't quite believe how difficult it is to hit the other man, nor how easily the other man is hitting him. He holds tight to his growing rage and with a massive effort of will he pushes it down, turns it into a slow burn held deep in his belly. Wild rage and mounting frustration are also his enemies tonight. If he loses control he believes that this elusive man will make him pay dearly.
The minutes keep grinding by. Both men slow a little. The cut on his brow is bigger and he is spattered and smeared with his own blood. Despite the pounding he is taking, he is landing punches of his own a little more often. Mikull's shoulders and upper chest are both turning fiery red from absorbing blows but Tegar hasn't landed a really solid hit to the big man's head yet. He has managed to clip him there a few times, but somehow always Mikull rides with the blows, and takes much of the impact away.
Mikull's counter punching is ferocious and Tegar is punished for every strike of his own that does hit home. Doggedly he keeps pushing forward. A lump slowly forms on Mikull's right cheekbone and Tegar focuses on that spot. He copies a combination of punches that has been used against him several dozen times already, strives for every last scrap of speed he can muster, and breaks cleanly through for the first time. Left, right, left and
crunch! Mikull's head is slammed to the side but as Tegar leans in to follow up, the man skips quickly back and circles to the right. He is clearly dazed, shaking his head to try and clear it, but he keeps on circling away. As much as Tegar tries he can't quite catch him.
The man is a god-rotted Wraith!
Someone in the crowd suddenly pushes Mikull in the back, shoves him directly into one of Tegar's massive left hooks, and the big man goes down. For a split second Tegar is about to hurl himself on the fallen man and finish the fight for good. But somehow he remembers the rules, masters his killing instinct and whirls instead on the crowd. He roars at the man who intervened, blood and spittle blasting into his face, and the entire crowd sways back from his fury.
Mikull rolls over, gets on his hands and knees, then pushes himself upright. Tegar waits until Mikull looks at him, then raises one hand and signals wait. He mimes drinking water and the big man nods. They are both given small cups and they rinse out their mouths then drink the remainder.
The fight resumes. Minute blurs into minute until time seems suspended. Both men are bloody and battered. Neither man calls for quarter. Mikull is still landing two or three blows to every one of Tegar's though both of them are visibly tiring. His superior skill takes an even greater toll as the barbarian's strength wanes. Mikull's jab is a vicious serpent, always in his face. Always setting him up for something, or distracting him from closing in. The screaming crowd fades into the distance. To Tegar's ears it takes on the sometimes dreamlike quality of a battlefield. Only the sounds of his rasping breath, the thudding of the punches, and the grunts made by himself and the other man have any real meaning. His right eye swells closed. The world shrinks to hold only the two of them.
Another blow slips under his guard and hammers his right side. His left side feels pulped, but in the right side he knows something is already broken. The man's right hand is a warhammer, and Tegar folds over and into the pain. His guard drops and something like thunder explodes inside his head. He opens his eyes and cannot understand why he sees a wall of legs spinning around him. Has the world turned sideways?
The legs revolve around him again then steady. Understanding comes. He is on his knees. He hasn't been in this position since he was a young boy. Not since his father forced him down to pray for forgiveness at the clan totem, for taking the waraxe from his uncle's tent. He looks up and sees Mikull signing to him to take rest and drink.
Something deep inside Tegar unfolds like a desert flower taking in rain. This is what it is meant to be like. This is how it used to be. This is true battle. This is what a warrior lives for. Not for brief skirmishes on a city street, or cowardly knives stabbing in the dark. Not for pathetic opponents that are crushed like flies. A warrior needs mighty enemies to measure himself against. A warrior needs to walk the razor's edge. Oh how he had burned to take the fight to the Undead that attacked the Gate last year, but his people had pleaded with him, and held him back, and reminded him of his duties to them.
He continues to look at Mikull as he levers himself slowly to his feet. His heart swells with respect and something almost like love for the man in front of him. For the first time he speaks to his opponent.
"Good fight," he croaks.
"But that's the last time you will put me down."
Mikull looks over and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
A glint of weary amusement appears in his eyes.
"You talk too much to be a decent fighter."
They both nod when they are ready and step back into the center. The fight rages on. Mikull dances back less often now. His lack of match fitness is beginning to tell. His hands are still faster than Tegar's, but his legs have turned to lead. They are spending more time toe to toe, raining blows on each other, trying to finish it. Mikull has taken a savage beating now, but he rises above the pain as he has learned to do in the past. He can feel the end is close. Tegar's body is on the verge of betraying him. The unrelenting damage is crippling him. He can only see through his left eye now, and that too is beginning to close. His indomitable will is the only thing keeping him going.
Tegar sucks in another ragged breath and launches one more uppercut. His right hand begins at waist height and drives up with all the weight of his body behind it. He has learned well. He twists his hips and shoulder, leaning fully into the blow. It is the most perfect punch he has thrown in the entire fight.
He fully expects that once again Mikuul's head will slip almost magically to the side, and it will be just one more useless, energy sapping swing at the air. But behind Mikull the pressure finally gets too much for another of the spectators, one with big money riding on Tegar. Driven to distraction by the length of the fight the gambler loses control and kicks hard into the back of Mikull's knee. The big man collapses forward, completely off balance, and Tegar's mighty uppercut catches him flush beneath the chin, straightens him up and rips his head viciously backward. Mikull seems to hang in the air a moment then crashes to the floor like a fallen tree. There is no movement in him at all, not even a finger twitch.
A shocked silence falls over the glass factory. Tegar howls in disbelief and the rage inside him surges free. For a timeless moment he remains staring down at Mikull, then his head lifts up with a slowness that is terrifying. He focuses on the man who kicked out at Mikull, then leaps at him like a ravening animal, takes the man's head between his hands and with one sharp twist he snaps his neck like a rotten twig. A red mist swamps his mind and he hurls the lifeless carcass to the floor and begins to destroy it. He stomps down again and again until the head becomes a bloody ruin. The crowd scrambles in horror to get away from him.
.........................................
Tegar shifted his thoughts back to the present, raised his goblet and made a toast.
"To warriors!" he said and took another large drink of the sour red wine. Sprawled in a deep armchair on the other side of the room Mikull raised his own goblet and echoed the toast.
"To warriors!"
The barbarian chief studied the mass of bruising on Mikull's jaw and face. In some places it was changing from the darkest purple to a sickly green hue. He knew that his own face and body bore all the same colors, and he wore them like a flag of pride.
"You are an ugly son of a Warg." Tegar offered his opinion without rancor.
Mikull responded with equal deadpan pleasantness.
"Better that than an ugly son of a Yeti like yourself."
Both men grinned at each other. A burgeoning friendship had sprung up between them after their epic fight, and they had learned they shared a very dry sense of humor. Today they struggled to keep it in check. They were both determined to say nothing else, to avoid going any further with their jests. The pair of them looked away at the same time. Mikull studied his boots as though he had never seen them before. Tegar examined his wine with the focused dedication of a gourmet. Neither of them liked to laugh a lot these days. It was dangerous to do that. It still hurt far too much.
// To Wes .. Gotcha! Hook, line and sinker! 