The spry woman wore a soft leather skirt and a top made of dark green silk or satin. It sparkled in the white sunlight. She had exchanged her sandals for the sort of athletic shoes runners often wear. Light-weight and good traction. She carried the small, curved sword, but no shield because it wouldn’t stop a mace, so it just added useless weight. Her gait was light and quick, almost like dancing. She seemed anxious to begin.
I got it. Finally, I understood.
Her clumsiness had been an act to increase the betting odds against her. She was never going to use the mighty broadsword that looked like it weighed half of what she did. She could barely lift the heavy weapon, let alone swing it. All that had been for show. Everyone had bet on the Hoot until the odds became insanely high and who does not like an occasional long shot, especially with odds like those.
While she had struggled with the broadsword and the odds were at their highest, her unseen companions had placed bets for her to win, and probably not a measly fifty credits. Not a single large bet that would draw attention, either. No, if they were smart, they had placed dozens, maybe hundreds of bets of smaller amounts while she warmed up. That’s why the odds had suddenly decreased so fast. Not too many credits in a single wager, but thousands and thousands of credits, would return four times the initial outlay.
Brill nudged me with his elbow again. “I hope we did the right thing. He can kill her with one blow from his mace.”
“And be disqualified. This is not a fight to the death.”
The combatants faced each other from the regulation five meters of a chalk circle outlined in the dirt. Each stood with their heels on the chalk when the starting bell clanged. The Hoot charged, mace raised, ready to end the confrontation in record time. The lithe human woman moved so quickly that when the Hoot pulled up where she had stood, there was nobody to smash.
She now stood several steps to one side, calm and appraising in contrast to his rage.
The crowd roared, squealed, shrieked, whistled, and clacked claws in appreciation of her opening move. Around us, the vocal enhancements of a dozen races blended their excitement to a chilling crescendo.
The woman ignored the noise and crowd. She darted ahead, slashed the calf of the Hoot’s leg once with her short sword—and leaped back before the mace flew harmlessly through the air where her head had been. Her sword had cut the back of one leg, nothing serious. She danced on her toes, sidestepped, feinted, and drew back before he could attack, searching for an opening and working to his left as I’d suggested. She looked like she was trying to get behind him.
He looked like a lumbering fool as he continued turning in an attempt to face her.
A red stain spread on the back of one of the Hoot’s legs, and a noticeable limp slowed him. She darted to one side and slipped on the hard-packed sand.
The Hoot instinctively charged.
Instead of falling, she used her momentum to slide and roll. She landed behind him, with her sword-arm extended. The blade had sliced higher this time, closer to the back of the knee on the same leg. It was also a deeper cut. More blood flowed. Her “slip” in the dirt had been intentional and planned. The Hoot wouldn’t fall for it again.
He turned quickly and rumbled in her direction. She nimbly slipped away.
When he spun to face her again, she was marginally within range of his long arms and the extension of the mace on the short chain. He drew back in a move quicker than I’d believed possible and swung. The head of the mace whistled through the air.
Instead of retreating, the woman dived toward the Hoot. She held her sword in front of her body and slashed again, using only her wrist. This time, it bit deeply into the side of the Hoot’s left calf, the same leg that already had two cuts. Blood ran freely as she rolled three times to stay out of his reach. She sprang erect in a single bound and danced back on her toes.
He lumbered after her in awkward pursuit. The mace circled menacingly above his head as he moved determinedly, limping with each step.
She stood her ground, waving the small bloody sword from side to side in an intricate pattern.
He made a hard dash at her—however, his foot slipped in the blood filling his sandal. He tried to recover but stumbled ahead. Like a matador with an enraged bull, the woman calmly stepped aside, and her sword slashed through the air as she dodged, this time cutting deeply into the back of the thigh on the same leg.
The crowd that had howled and roared earlier now went intensely quiet, sensing the end of the match. It was obvious to everyone that she could outpace the Hoot or outlast him as his blood stained the dirt. With the loss of blood, he would grow slower and weaker the longer the match lasted.
The Hoot hobbled to a confused halt, lowered the mace, and glanced to the side of the ring where his trainers and owners huddled in desperate conversation. From their center, a traditional white towel flew high into the air.
The Hoot warrior had lost.
Brill and I cashed in our winnings and intended to celebrate for, at least, two full days or until we were out of money again. We’d buy decent food, drink, and erotic stims for our closest friends. It would be a party to remember.
CHAPTER TWO
