James West - Queen of the North

“Very well,” Ostre said, and led them up a short flight of stairs to the poop deck. After brushing snow off the rail, he leaned forward. “Are the contestants ready?

Liamas answered by rolling his thick neck.

“Let’s get on with it!” Loro bellowed, slamming a fist against his chest.

“They’re like a pair of cocksure roosters,” Fira said, her voice somewhere between marveling and fearful.

“They’re men with bruised pride,” Rathe said.

“Pride is nothing but a cause for trouble,” Fira said, as if she had not known that provoking Loro might lead to this.

For himself, Rathe knew that if a man had been sniffing around Nesaea, his weapon of choice would not have been fists, but steel … and steel had a nasty way of stilling hearts.

“Begin!” Oster called.

Loro and Liamas began circling each other in the falling snow, their feet leaving prints on the slushy deck. Liamas resembled a great cat, hungry and determined. Loro was akin to a bear that had enjoyed a good long season of feasting.

“Are they going to do something?” Nesaea asked, after the opponents had spent several minutes taunting each other.

“Liamas is just taking a measure of your fat friend,” Ostre said confidently. He leaned over to Rathe. “Care to wager a spot of gold?”

Rathe didn’t have much choice but to choose the side of his companion, but he did so willingly. Irritating as Loro could be, the man had stood at his side when others fled. “Free passage if Loro wins. If he loses, then double your price.”

Ostre nodded enthusiastically.

Loro has a better than fair chance , Rathe was telling himself, when Liamas’s fist suddenly hooked across his body, blindingly fast, and cracked against Loro’s chin with a sound akin to mallet thudding into a wheel of cheese. The watchers roared as Loro staggered away, his arms windmilling. When Loro regained his balance and set his feet, their exuberance faded to murmurs of awe. Growling, Loro shook his head. The quartermaster’s victorious grin collapsed.

“Damn me,” Ostre muttered. “Never seen a man take such a blow from Liamas…. But have no fear, my quartermaster has faced strong men before.”

“He’s never faced Loro,” Rathe said, voice low. He had seen Loro chew the face off a Hilyoth before, one of the Shadenmok’s devil-hounds.

Loro laughed as he stalked close. “If you wanted to kiss and tickle, then why not say so?”

The crew erupted in cheers.

When the Prythian’s fist struck again, Loro absorbed the punch and laughed all the harder. Rathe found himself growing excited enough to forget the perpetual cold and snow. He did, however, notice Nesaea pressing against him, her eyes wild and beautiful. Fira’s lips formed a delicate pink circle, but she didn’t speak a word.

Loro ducked when Liamas swung a third time, and the Prythian’s fist smacked against the top of Loro’s skull. Dancing backward, shaking his wounded hand, the quartermaster cursed in pain. Loro plowed forward, head lowered, and smashed into the Prythian. With a strangled oof , the quartermaster floundered into the ring of crewmen, who shoved him back.

While Liamas struggled to draw a wheezy gasp, Loro raised his fists to the sky and made a slow turn. “Better get another champion! This one’s soft as an old whore’s teats!”

Liamas’s face went ugly, and he charged.

“Behind you!” Fira shouted.

Loro spun. When Liamas’s fist came swooping in, Loro lowered his head again. This time the cracking sound was different, more of a sodden crunch. Liamas jumped away, hand held against his chest. Three of the fingers looked like a mangled claws.

“Broke his fool hand on the man’s skull!” Ostre gasped in dismay.

“Double the wager?” Rathe asked.

Ostre’s black beard shook in agitation. “Aye,” he rumbled.

Loro swung around the big Prythian, shouting insults against everyone from the man’s mother to his unborn children, before bulling his way inside the quartermaster’s guarded stance. Instead of battering Loro’s head again, Liamas hammered an elbow against Loro’s spine. The fat man’s feet went out from under him and he crashed to his knees. Liamas landed a thudding kick to the side of Loro’s face, knocking him sprawling. Nesaea clutched at Rathe’s arm, and Fira moaned behind a raised hand.

“See there?” Ostre said, nodding smugly.

Rathe watched Loro push himself up on shaking arms.

“Now who needs a champion, you fat bastard?” Liamas demanded, earning shouts of approval from his supporters.

Loro clambered to his feet and wiped away a trickle of blood from his temple. He looked up slowly, a stony smirk pulling at his lips. “I’m done playing with you, little sister.”

With that, the two men roared toward each other, collided with a thud, their fists flying. When they broke apart, Loro was breathing hard and blood was flowing from his ruptured lips. For his part, Liamas looked better off. Most of the blood on him belonged to Loro.

Cradling his broken hand, Liamas waded in and kicked Loro in his barrel of a gut, doubling him over. The quartermaster straightened him with another thumping boot to the face. The fat man reeled, struggling to stay upright, and fell against the cheering crew. Before they could throw him back into the circle, Liamas closed in.

Using his good fist, he struck Loro a blow to the cheek, backhanded him, and then sank a fist into the man’s hanging belly in rapid succession. The crew flung Loro away, and he crashed face down on the deck. Liamas treated the crew to a triumphant shout, which most of them returned.

“Your man fought well,” Ostre said, holding out his hand.

“Fool,” Fira said, tears in her eyes as she turned to the stairs leading down off the poop deck. Nesaea glanced at Rathe, then joined Fira.

Rathe wasn’t paying much attention to the women, the Prythian giant, the crew, or Captain Ostre’s waiting hand. His eye was fixed on Loro, who had gotten to his hands and knees. Rills of blood ran over his face, making lurid patterns in the trampled slush on the deck. A growing number of crewmen began to take notice, and a hush slowly fell over them.

Liamas followed their stares. “Give over, you bloated bag of suet, or I’ll unman you in front of Fira, and take her for my own.”

“She’ll never be yours ,” Loro said in a hoarse, woeful voice.

“We’ll see,” Liamas said.

“No,” Loro answered, struggling to his feet, “we will not.”

With a resigned sigh, Liamas moved in again, landing devastating blows against Loro’s face and ribs. The fat man grimaced, but did little to ward against the attack. His singular goal seemed to be driving closer to his assailant. The thin streams of blood on his face grew to rivers pouring from nasty splits over his cheekbones and above his eyebrows. The flood ran down his chest and the expanse of his gut, soaking the waist of his trousers. When it became obvious he was not going to lie down, Liamas gave up protecting his injured hand and let it fly. His efforts came too late.

Loro reached through the flurry and caught the giant Prythian by the throat. While Liamas pummeled him with renewed vigor, Loro used his other hand to catch hold of his opponent’s groin. The crew began squalling about foul play, but Loro paid them no more mind than he did Liamas’s frantic efforts to break free.

With a straining grunt, Loro bent his knees and hefted the Prythian over his head, then made a stumbling dash for Lamprey’s rail. Crewmen hurled him back, and Loro dropped the giant to the deck. Before Liamas rolled away, Loro began putting his boots to the man. The Prythian crossed his arms over his head, and Loro redoubled his efforts. He kept at it until the crew began to protest. Rathe belatedly understood Loro meant to kill the Prythian.