Demon Sword

opponent's eye, then tried another right cross. The brute came in under his guard. He took the punishment while pounding both fists at eyes and nose. Then he switched and landed a one-two on the man's gut and it was like punching an oak door. He tried a cross-buttock throw — Randal got him in the kidneys with a haymaker. They both went down together and their seconds rushed in.

Through the waves of pain, Toby could hear Hamish screaming that he had really hurt the swine that time. But he was hurting, too. There was no air in the world. And it was time for more.

Randal's face was bloody. The timekeeper barely had time to call the round before they both went at it. No running this time — they stood toe to toe and slugged. The crowd roared approval. This was what they wanted: butchery! Jab, hook, feint, block, pain, blood. Randal tried to close, but Toby drummed fists on his ribs until the referee pulled them apart. Randal went down.

So did Toby. He drank from the bottle Hamish thrust at him, spat blood, drank again. His face was a swelling furnace, his chest a huge agony. That noise was his own breathing. Up again.

He must end this soon. He couldn't take much more of this.

But he couldn't end it. It just went on and on and nothing he did seemed to make any difference. The rounds blurred. His arms were all ache; they were tiring and he wouldn't be able to keep them up much longer. He had almost closed Randal's left eye and damaged his right, but his own were no better. Both men's noses and ears were battered and bloody, their bodies smeared with mud and gore.

Once Randal caught him by the hair and held him for four brutal punches before Sir Malcolm broke it up.

Once Toby found himself backed against the fence and had just enough wit to go down before he could be nailed there and pounded to jelly. Once he landed a right cross to the jaw that spread the older man on his back. Oh, that felt good! But his strength was failing and even his best punch was not enough now.

Randal must have done much the same to him, because he found Hamish and Gavin running him forward between them to get him up to Scratch in time for the next round. His ears rang and he couldn't focus well. His fists were falling apart. The world shrank to that hateful, battered face, and he pounded and pounded at it, ignoring what was happening to him. He went down. Randal went down. It was Round Thirteen or Fourteen, so he had won the first side bet. He was sitting on Hamish's knee while Gavin wiped blood from his eyes. He was being helped up from the grass. He was at Scratch and his knees were wavering. Now Randal was backing. Toby followed blindly, pounding, blocking, pounding. He got Randal on the fence and landed a half-dozen killers before the referee hauled him away.

The crowd screamed in fury. Gavin began to appeal to the umpires, then stopped when he realized that Toby needed extra time as much as Randal did.

One round lasted only one punch, but it was Toby who fell. An earthquake of pain in his chest… He doubled over, clutching himself.

'Think you've broken some ribs,' Hamish wailed. Gavin snarled at him to shut his mouth, but it was too late — the opposition had heard. Seconds later they were at Scratch again, and Randal went straight for those ribs. Toby tried to shield them. A farm-boy uppercut to the chin floored him.

Water in his face…

'You've done good, kid,' Gavin said. 'It's time to throw in the towel.'

'No!' Fail in his first real fight? Never! His mouth was so swollen and his chest so sore that he could barely speak. He had lost a tooth or two, and he suspected his jaw was at least cracked, if not broken. 'Get me up there. I'm going to murder the scum.'

The ribs were bad. Again and again he got hit there and the world blossomed in red glares of pain. Fortunately, Randal had not noticed the jaw, while he himself had a broken cheekbone that gave him his own defense problems. Toby worked hard on that, because every time he got in a good hit, Randal went down. Neither man was punching as he had before. Their fists were pulp. There was less footwork now, more slugging. Neither could see very well, neither had much breath, so they both just stood and hammered, trading blows like madmen. The crowd screamed in delight.

Once Randal went down and Sir Malcolm shouted that there had been no punch. Randal's second appealed to the umpires. They had an argument, yelling at one another over the howls of fury from the crowd. In the end, the castellan was overruled and the fight went on.

'This is Round Twenty,' Gavin said as he and Hamish helped Toby to his feet again. 'One punch, go down, and we throw in the sponge.'

Toby gasped, 'No!' Let Meg see him beaten? Worse, let Rory see him beaten? 'Never!'

'You're taking serious damage, lad.'

With a supreme effort Toby forced out the words, 'Never! Promise me! Keep me up there whatever it takes!'

He thought Hamish was sobbing, but it might have been him. There was straight whisky in the bottle now.

'Promise!' he insisted as they dragged him up to Scratch.

'We promise,' Gavin said grimly. 'He can't last much longer either.'

Oh, yes, he could! Hours. Days. Life was only pain and struggle and hate, bone on bone. The grass was red mud. How much blood could a man lose? How long until his eyes closed altogether? Kill the sonofabitch! But the worst was over; now the rounds were ending with him on his feet, which was good, yet they kept bringing Randal back for more. Toby gave him more, ignoring the man's feeble efforts to respond, whirling a blizzard of fists, getting in as much damage as he could before his victim fell again. Pound, pound, pound… Give up, damn you! Why wouldn't he give up?

He was at Scratch and there was no one else there, just a bloody towel on the mud. His arms sank lower. Sir Malcolm grabbed one and raised it overhead. The crowd screamed hysterically. Randal's supporters weren't even working on him. He was flat on his back — the bugger couldn't even sit up, let alone stand.

He had won!

He sobbed for breath as the joy registered. He wasn't going to be hit anymore. Won! No demon lightnings, just knuckles, just pain — and finally just butchery. Hamish spread a plaid over his shoulders. Winning should have more triumph, should be one big haymaker punch — not this dismal nothing-left-to-hit. There was terrible noise, not all in his head… the crowd? He had won. He wasn't going to be hit any more! They were shouting, Longdirk! Longdirk! They were paying off bets. He forced his arms up again to acknowledge the cheers and his plaid fell. Someone put it back. Gavin was trying to tend to his battered hands. Hamish was passing the hat.

Rory, using both hands to clasp one of Toby's fists; Rory smirking… sort of smirking.

Toby took a swallow from the bottle. He had shown him! He had shown all of them. 'How many rounds?' Hard to speak with lips like muffins.

'This was twenty-nine.'

'Twenty-nine? Needed one more. Scum cheated us!'

'Not really,' Rory said.

He peered around the circle. Meg, chalky pale… Lady Lora… Others… smiling, but not happy.

Here was Stringer, with a face long as a carrot, and Randal's second and bottleholder, come to congratulate the victor. Tears? They had tears in their eyes! Where was the loser? Toby rose on his toes and looked over the crowd. Randal still lay on the grass. They had given him a plaid, too. They had covered him with a plaid.

Stringer babbling: 'Well fought, Master Longdirk! Jolly great fight! Best fight I've seen in years.'

Ignoring him, Toby tried to grab Rory with bloody fists, almost fell as Rory shied away from them.

'Where's the loser?'

Rory shrugged sadly.

Toby choked. Nobody covered an injured man's face!

He turned to look for Meg, but Meg was walking away with Lady Lora.