left uppercut. He managed to roll his head, the blow striking his cheek. Surging upright, he crashed an overhand right into Druss’s face, splitting the skin above the man’s left eye; then he hit him with a left.
Druss staggered back, thrown off balance, and Borcha moved in for the kill, but a hammer-blow hit him just under the heart and he felt a rib snap. Anger roared through him and he began to smash punches into the youngster’s face and body - brutal, powerful blows that forced his opponent back towards the ropes. Another cut appeared, this time over Druss’s right eye.
The young man ducked and weaved, but more and more blows hammered home. Sensing victory, Borcha increased the ferocity of his attack and the pace of his punches. But Druss refused to go down and, ducking his head, he charged at Borcha. The champion sidestepped and threw a left that glanced from Druss’s shoulder. The young man recovered his balance and Borcha stepped in. Druss wiped the blood from his eyes and advanced to meet him.
The champion feinted with a left, but Druss ignored it and sent a right that swept under Borcha’s guard and smashed into his injured ribs. The champion winced as pain lanced his side. A huge fist crashed against his chin and he felt a tooth snap; he responded with a left uppercut that lifted Druss to his toes and a right hook that almost felled the youngster.
Druss hit him with another right to the ribs and Borcha was forced back. The two men began to circle one another, and only now did Borcha hear the baying of the crowd. They were cheering for Druss, just as five years before they had cheered for Borcha.
Druss attacked. Borcha threw a left that missed and a right that didn’t. Druss rocked back on his heels, but advanced again. Borcha hit him three times, further opening the cuts that saw blood streaming into the young man’s face. Almost blinded, Druss lashed out, one punch catching Borcha on the right bicep, numbing his arm, a second cracking against his brow. Blood seeped from the champion’s face now, and a tremendous roar went up from the crowd.
Oblivious to the noise Borcha counter-attacked, driving Druss back across the circle, hitting him time and again with brutal hooks and jabs.
Then the horn sounded. The sandglass had run out. Borcha stepped back, but Druss attacked. Borcha grabbed him around the waist, pinning his arms and hauling him in close. “It is over, boy,” he hissed. “You won your wager.”
Druss jerked himself loose and shook his head, spraying blood to the sand. Then he lifted his hand and pointed at Borcha. “You go to Collan,” he snarled, “and you tell him that if anyone has harmed my wife I’ll tear his head from his neck.”
Then the young man swung away and stalked from the circle.
Borcha turned and saw the other fighters watching him.
They were all willing to meet his eyes now… and Grassin was smiling.
Sieben entered the Tree of Bone just after midnight. There were still some hardened drinkers present, and the serving maids moved wearily among them. Sieben mounted the stairs to the gallery above and made his way to the room he shared with Druss. Just as he was about to open the door, he heard voices from within.
Drawing his dagger, he threw open the door and leapt inside. Druss was sitting on one of the beds, his face bruised and swollen, the marks of rough stitches over both eyes. A dirt-streaked fat man was sitting on Sieben’s bed and a slim, black-cloaked nobleman with a trident beard was standing by the window. As the poet entered the nobleman swung, a shining sabre hissing from its scabbard. The fat man screamed and dived from the bed, landing with a dull thud behind the seated Druss.
“You took your time, poet,” said the axeman.
Sieben gazed down at the point of the sabre which was motionless in the air some two inches from his throat. “It didn’t take you long to make new friends,” he said, with a forced smile.
With great care he slipped the knife back into its sheath, and was relieved to see the nobleman return his sabre to its scabbard.
“This is Bodasen; he’s a Ventrian,” said Druss. “And the man on his knees behind me is Thorn.”
The fat man rose, grinning sheepishly. “Good to meet you, my lord,” he said, bowing.
“Who the Devil gave you those black eyes?” asked Sieben, moving forward to examine Dross’s wounds.
“Nobody gave them to me. I had to fight for them.”
“He fought Borcha,” said Bodasen, with the faintest trace of an eastern accent. “And a fine bout it was. Lasted a full turn of the glass.”
“Aye, it was something to see,” added Thorn. “Borcha didn’t look none too pleased - especially when Dross cracked his rib! We all heard it. Wonderful, it was.”
“You fought Borcha?” whispered Sieben.
“To a standstill,” said the Ventrian. “There were no surgeons present, so I assisted with the stitching. You are the poet Sieben, are you not?”
“Yes. Do I know you, my friend?”
“I saw you perform once in Drenan, and in Ventria I read your saga of Waylander. Wonderfully inventive.”
“Thank you. Much needed to be invention since little is known of him. I did not know that the book had travelled so far. Only fifty copies were made.”
“My Emperor acquired one on his travels, bound in leather and embossed with gold leaf. The script is very fine.”
“There were five of those,” said Sieben. “Twenty raq each. Beautiful works.”
Bodasen chuckled. “My Emperor paid six hundred for it.”
Sieben sighed and sat down on the bed. “Ah well, better the fame than gold, eh? So tell me, Dross, what made you fight Borcha?”
