Trapped

Considering that the ale-drenched people looked tough as nails themselves, the behemoth stomping our way must be the meanest ass-kicker in the bar.

With the possible exception of Sister Impervia. She turned to the Caryatid and me. 'See? My plan is working.'

I didn't feel much reassured. As Hump came closer to the light by the door, I could see he was no drunken fisher-lout, all blab and no balls — he virtually had enforcer branded on his forehead, not to mention tattooed on his knuckles and etched across his sharply filed teeth. He was a mean-eyed sneer-faced bruiser, dressed in leather that he probably ripped off the cow with his bare hands.

Considering how many Doverites took part in smuggling, it required someone special to keep them in line: someone so terrifying, nobody would dare skim the take or turn crown witness for the contraband cops. I conjectured that Hump was the man who cracked that whip… and for the sake of his bad-ass image, he couldn't let Impervia belittle him without reducing her to a bleeding pile of bones.

The good news was that he'd fight on his own; with his authority challenged by a single woman, he couldn't possibly accept help from anyone else. The bad news was he didn't need help: he measured a shaved head taller than Impervia and bulged twice as wide, but his bulk looked more muscle than fat. A man that big was apt to be slower than Impervia, but his extra reach, mass, and muscle-power made up for his lack of speed. Featherweight boxers are faster than heavyweights, but you don't see them taking on the big boys in title bouts.

So: Hump versus Sister Impervia for the championship of Dover. The Buxom Bull's tapman didn't say a word about taking the fight outside; the tapman, in fact, had abandoned his post, disappearing through a back door. A lot of patrons were bolting too, not even pausing to snatch up their tankards. The only exception was Dee-James, still lying on the table. Now he sat up and said with foolhardy but admirable courage, 'Aww, c'mon, Hump, this is nothing. Let's just get out—'

Hump grabbed a tankard off a table he was passing and hurled it at Dee-James's head. The smaller man ducked and shut his mouth… but he stayed where he was.

That made Dee-James one of the only people who hadn't evacuated Impervia's vicinity. The others were the Caryatid and yours truly. The Caryatid held a candleflame in her cupped right hand, but looked reluctant to use it. If Impervia beat the enforcer in a fair fight, the crowd would show respect; if we stooped to sorcery, the bar patrons might attack en masse. Your average Dover sot bears the same enlightened attitude toward sorcery as the torch-waving peasants outside Castle Frankenstein.

As Hump passed the last table in his way, he picked up a chair and hurled it at Impervia's head — a traditional move, the redneck equivalent of a martial artist bowing to his opponent before a match. Impervia accepted the gesture in a similar spirit: she caught the chair in mid-flight and swung it straight back. If I may translate this body language into something more verbal, it went roughly as follows:

Hump: Good evening, sister. I believe we should consider chairs to be admissible weapons in our forthcoming contest.

Impervia: Very well, sir. I accept your proposal and will demonstrate my agreement in the most direct terms available.

Impervia had grabbed the chair by the legs… and it was a good solid chair of good solid wood, chunky enough to withstand the rigors of The Buxom Bull (e.g., lard-assed drunks unacquainted with treating furniture gently). However, when she slammed the chair into Hump using a hard downward swing, he barely noticed — he took it on one arm raised to protect his head, then simply drove forward, chair and all, straight into Impervia. She nearly got trapped between the chair and the wall behind her; but she threw herself sideways, just slipping clear before the chair struck the plaster with a chip-spraying whomp.

Hump tossed the chair behind him, presumably to keep such weapons out of Impervia's reach. Bare fists gave him an advantage. Then again, Impervia wasn't ready to get within punching range; instead, she lashed a kick at the enforcer's forward knee, barely missing as he jumped back.

They both had their hands up in guard position now, Impervia's hands open, Hump's hands closed. If I knew anything about martial arts, I could tell you what that said about their fighting techniques: 'Ah yes, Impervia's open hands indicate the softer style of kung fu, while Hump's closed fists are more reminiscent of hard-style karate.' But I don't know what I'm talking about, and anyway, there was no time for detailed analysis because Hump bulled his way forward, bellowing profanities.

He must have expected Impervia to retreat — no doubt he was used to folks running, the common response to a huge man yelling, 'I'll rip your fucking head off!' and other such endearments. The good sister, however, subscribed to the easier-said-than-done philosophy of Use your opponent's force against him: if someone charged her, she charged forward too, so her strikes combined the speed of herself and the attacker. Of course, she didn't go straight head-to-head, but rather off at an angle: veering to eleven o'clock, and throwing a ridge-hand to Hump's nose as she went past.

I could hear the snap of gristle as the nose broke; but I could also hear a 'Whoof!' from Impervia at almost the same instant. Hump had caught her with something as she sped by, an elbow or punch I hadn't seen. It connected somewhere on her torso: solar plexus, floating ribs, something like that. The hit wasn't enough to take her out, but it certainly didn't do her any good; she spun away fast, trying to retreat so she could catch her breath.

Hump had no intention of giving her a break. His eyes were watering from the crack on the nose, and his view of the world had to be blurred with tears; still, he knew where Impervia was because he barreled toward her, hollering the ever-popular, 'Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!' Impervia heard him coming and straightened up fast… either through sheer force of will or because she wasn't quite as breathless as she seemed. (She sometimes faked injuries to put opponents off guard — a certain type of man turns careless if he thinks he's drawn blood.)

So Impervia was ready for the bleary-eyed enforcer. He popped a kick at her knee — not serious, just a distraction — then came down hard with his kicking foot, hoping to crush Impervia's toes. Simultaneously, his hand lashed out at her head, the punch timed to coincide with his toe-stomp. It looked like the kind of combination you'd practice in a gym, feint-kick to foot-slam with coordinated cross to the face.

Too bad for Hump that none of his strikes connected.

Impervia parried the first kick with her own leg, knocking Hump's kicking foot to one side. That meant Hump's stomp came down nowhere interesting: on bare floor instead of the good sister's instep. At the same time, she used a high block to deflect the punch over her head (a move made easier by the enforcer's height, since Impervia could slip under his shoulder). Finally, she delivered a strike of her own — a palm-heel driving hard under Hump's chin to snap his head back, then raking her fingertips down the man's face in a move she called the Tiger's Claw. This wasn't, as you might expect, a scratching maneuver intended to draw blood; Impervia kept her fingernails almost invisibly short, so she had nothing to scratch with. It was more a gouging action designed to wreak havoc on soft tissues like cheeks and eyes… not to mention Hump's nose, which had already taken one nasty hit. If the nose wasn't completely broken before, the Tiger's Claw finished the job, shifting the nasal position several centimeters to the left and rearranging all adjacent facial features.

Herewith, another translation from body language:

Hump: Oh goodness gracious me!

Impervia was close to the enforcer's body, a dangerous place to be even when your opponent is half-blind and reeling with pain. I wondered if she'd risk staying there long enough to deliver a few more whacks or if she'd withdraw before she got cracked by the man's wild flailing. Impervia chose to disengage: not going backward but continuing forward, past Hump's back. As she went, she snapped a low kick behind her in the general direction of Hump's right leg. I couldn't tell whether she was trying to buckle the knee or to hit one of the femoral nerve points she swears will induce an instant charley horse if struck correctly. Either way, she missed… probably because she was distracted by a sudden ripping sound as Hump's leather jacket sleeves burst open from shoulders to wrist.

Impervia took cover, diving over a nearby table and kicking it behind her as a defensive wooden wall. I don't think she knew what had happened — she just wanted to get out of the way till she figured out what the ripping noise had been. A weapon hidden up Hump's sleeve? Some kind of concealed pistol? Hump was just the sort of man who'd carry extra 'protection' to whip out when things didn't go his way. He'd already lost the fight; yes, he was still on his feet, but Impervia had hurt him enough that she could now whittle him down. Kick at his legs from a distance, try hitting him again with a chair… she had plenty of options, and with his damaged nose, he couldn't see well enough to fend off everything. From Hump's point of view, it was time to play his hidden cards.

In this case, said cards were razor-sharp spines growing out of his arms. Sharp enough to shred tough leather as they sprouted bloodily from his skin.

They reminded me of spikes on a sea urchin: organic white spurs, even if they were the size of the studs on a morning-star. Definitely not some strap-on weapon — these were part of the man himself, rooted in place by sorcery, surgery, gene splicing, or all three. The physiology that let the barbs extend and retract might be fascinating to study under more detached conditions; but at the moment, all I needed to know was that they were big, lethal, and heading for Impervia.

The good sister muttered something, possibly a quick prayer; but her words were drowned out by cries and curses from others in the room. Up till now, the patrons had been hiding in the shadows, staying out of the fight but watching keenly all the same — bar brawls no doubt passed for high entertainment in The Buxom Bull. However, a man with spikes running the length of his arms seemed more than the crowd could stomach. Amidst yells of panic, I caught words like 'Demon!' and 'Witchcraft!'… which brought to mind more images of peasants, torches, and Gothic castles after dark. Some night very soon, Hump might find himself waylaid by a mob who didn't like freaks in their midst.

But the mob wouldn't convene in time to help Impervia — they were too busy scuttling for the exits. Meanwhile, Hump treated us to his own show of strength by slamming his right arm into a table. The spikes bit deep into the wood, spraying splinters. When he lifted his arm, the table rose too, as if attached to the man by nails… but he clenched his fist and the spines retracted, releasing the table and letting it fall with a thump.

'Now you,' Hump said to Impervia. His voice was low and controlled — no screaming 'Bitch!' now, just pure focused malice. Impervia's face was focused too: not the grim smile she usually adopted for bar fights, but something more somber. I don't think it was fear; it looked more like finality.

'As God wills,' she said.

She was close to a chair, so she threw it. Just something to keep Hump busy; in the time he took to knock it aside, she was halfway toward the bar. The path was clear of bystanders — people were stampeding out both doors, and even through windows (smashing out the glass with hastily swung tankards). Only Dee-James, the Caryatid, and I stayed where we were… rooted to the spot like scared rabbits, hearts pounding, barely able to breathe.

When Impervia reached the counter, she vaulted over with gymnastic ease and grabbed two bottles of high-proof liquor. One was cheap rum distilled in Feliss City; the other was something colorless in clear glass, gin or vodka, maybe schnapps. Both bottles were almost full. Impervia yanked the corks with her teeth, one after the other, then threw them full in Hump's face.

He hadn't been standing still through all this — he'd been bashing his way toward the bar, kicking furniture out of his way rather than going around. When the bottles came spinning his way, he swatted them aside with his hard-spiked arms. The rum bottle was simply deflected (splashing rum as it flew), but the clear bottle shattered against his bony spikes, spraying glass shards and hooch in his face. Hump grimaced, but didn't seem hurt. In fact, he was wearing an 'Is that the best you can do?' smile when Impervia reached for an oil lamp sitting beside the beer taps.

It took Hump a moment to realize he was damp with flammable alcohol. He charged at the same instant Impervia grabbed the lamp and smashed its glass chimney on the bartop. Amazingly, the lamp flame didn't go out… but then, one should never be surprised by the behavior of flames when the Caryatid is close at hand. I don't know if our sorcery teacher really did keep the fire going by means of hocus-pocus, but the lamp continued to burn, even as Impervia hurled it full in Hump's face.