Without even pausing, Jiron strikes out with his fists and the man falls to the ground. His two buddies immediately turn on Jiron and before the others in the crowd even know something is afoot, Jiron drops them too. Stepping over their comatose bodies, he enters the courtyard and passes through the edge of the crowd.
“Needed a warm up,” he jokingly tells Fifer. “Glad those guys could oblige.” Fifer breaks into a laugh at that.
Passing through the edge of the crowd, they enter the open space in the middle of the courtyard. The barman who arranged this fight stands over to one side with several of his cronies. Upon seeing Jiron, he disengages himself and makes his way over. “Didn’t think you were going to show?”
“Sorry about that,” replies Jiron. “Was a little bit delayed.” Looking around, he asks, “Where’s my opponent?”
“They haven’t arrived yet,” the man replies. “They’re known for being fashionably late.”
Throughout the crowd are not only the riff raff of the area, but wealthy individuals as well as those in between. To one side a pavilion of sorts has been erected, the fact that it’s currently unoccupied leads Jiron to believe it’s for the group putting up the other fighter.
The barkeep asks, “So what weapons are you going to choose?”
Jiron pats the knives at his waist.
Looking in disbelief, the barkeep exclaims, “You can’t be serious!”
“Very,” replies Jiron.
“But you’ll not last a minute against their champion!” insists the barkeep.
“I’ll be fine,” asserts Jiron.
Bystanders begin to notice Jiron and the barkeep together and a buzz begins to circulate through the crowd as he begins to be pointed out as the challenger. Money changes hands as side wagers are placed.
Aside from the crudity of the surroundings, this place isn’t much different than the pits he fought in back in the City of Light before it was sacked by the Empire. Few places ever brought a feeling of peace to Jiron like being in the pits. At times that feeling bothered him, like he shouldn’t feel that way. Maybe it’s because he had made himself there.
From the far side of the crowd, a hushed murmur begins as the spectators begin parting for a procession of several individuals making their way to the fight area. “They’re here,” states the barkeep.
Five men come walking toward them, four of them obviously being from the Empire. The fifth man, larger than the rest is wearing a hooded cloak which covers his features. As the men approach, the one in the lead says, “We’re here. Where is the man to face our champion?”
Jiron steps forward and says, “Right here.”
Looking Jiron up and down, he grimaces and says, “I thought you had someone who would be more of a challenge than the last couple.”
“He can fight,” the barkeep says nervously. “I saw him in action myself.”
The man considers it for a moment and then nods his head, “So be it.” Saying something in their language to the rest of his group, they make their way over to the pavilion where they prepare.
“Hope you can fight well,” the barkeep says nervously.
“Why?” asks Fifer. “What difference would that make to you?”
“If they have another poor fight, it could be bad,” he admits.
“Been bringing him a few losers?” Jiron asks.
“You could say that,” replies the barkeep. “After the first couple of fights, no one around here is willing to face their champion.”
“Just who is their champion?” Fifer asks.
“A very fierce warrior,” he answers. “Brought up from somewhere deep within the Empire. Rumor has it he’s forced to fight for that man there, but why has never been told.”
“Interesting,” muses Jiron.
“Looks like they’re ready,” the barkeep says.
Glancing to the pavilion, Jiron sees the leader of the group and the large hooded man coming toward them. He and the barkeep, with Fifer staying several feet behind proceed to meet them in the center of the cleared area. A hush falls over the crowd as the two fighters meet.
Jiron looks beneath the hood but even with the light of the many torches illuminating the courtyard, he’s still unable to make out anything underneath.
The leader says something to his fighter who removes the hooded cloak.
Jiron hears Fifer gasp as the features of the man he’s to fight is seen. Tattoos cover most of his exposed skin. Bearing two swords, one longer than the other, Jiron knows exactly who or rather what his opponent is. A Parvati!
Breaking out in a grin Jiron gives the Parvati a friendly nod. A murmur grows through the crowd at his reaction. Never has anyone shown a reaction other than startlement or fear when he removed his hood. Now here’s this man, shorter and only bearing knives, giving him a friendly nod.
The expression on the Parvati’s leader’s face shows his confusion as well. He has always revealed his warrior’s features at the last minute to instill fear and doubt in his opponents. But that didn’t happen here and he doesn’t know why.
If the Parvati has taken any notice of Jiron’s nod, he fails to reply. His expression remains placid.
The barkeep steps between them and says, “There’s only one rule here. He who lives, wins!”
At that the crowd around them begins to cheer and call out. Raising a red flag high over his head, he continues, “When I let this go, begin the fight.”
The barkeep watches as the crowd moves back a little bit further to give the combatants room to fight. When he sees enough room has been cleared he waves the flag in a circle around his head. Just before he drops it, Jiron says to the Parvati, “May your swords drink deep.”
Stunned that he would know to say the traditional Parvati greeting, the Parvati stands there motionless when the red flag is dropped. “May your knives drink deep,” he says a smile coming to him as he draws his swords.
Jiron draws his knives and the battle begins. The Parvati begins with a few testing maneuvers to see how strong his defenses are. After several passes, he begins the fight in earnest.
When Jiron realized that he faced a Parvati, his first inclination was to produce the necklace and declare himself a Shynti. But what the barkeep said kept running through his mind. Rumor has it he’s forced to fight for that man there.
Working more on defense than actually trying to do him harm, Jiron easily blocks every strike, deflects every thrust. “Why do you do this?” he asks the Parvati during a series of intermittent probes from the Parvati.
“Do what?” he asks as he launches into a vicious attack which Jiron has a hard time in countering.
“This. Fighting for that man over there,” he clarifies. “From the Parvatis I’ve known, they would never let themselves be used thus.” Blocking an attack, he steps back a minute as they both catch their breath.
The crowd has been cheering the interplay of weapons. Over beneath the pavilion, Jiron can see the leader of the Empire’s men smiling. He’s definitely getting his money’s worth.
“I am honor bound to fight for him so long as he doesn’t set me against my own people,” the Parvati states. Coming at Jiron again, his blades are a veritable blur as they seek to penetrate his defense. But as Jiron is only concentrating on defense, he’s unable to find an opening.
“What happens if he should set you against one of your own?” he asks.
“Then I am free and no longer honor bound to obey him,” he replies. Stepping backward a moment, he says, “But that is not a very likely possibility.”
As the Parvati moves in to continue the attack, Jiron steps back and shouts “Hold!”
Only the fact that what he said was so unexpected did the Parvati pause in his attack. The crowd surrounding them, which had so recently been cheering and screaming at the fighters, have grown quiet at the odd way in which the combatants are acting. Blood should be flowing now, instead they’re standing still, facing one another.
Jiron glances over to the men from the Empire as he draws forth the necklace which signifies him as being a Shynti. An honor given only to the most ferocious of fighters, an honor which makes him one of them.
When the necklace comes free of his shirt and the Parvati’s eyes rest upon it, he asks in a hushed whisper, “Where did you get that?”
“I was given this by an old Parvati after defeating one of their number during a blood duel in the city of
