"Insurgent communique` intercepted during a raid on one of their holds in the city. They`ve been passing intel to the catacomb-folk. One such report mentioned High Tribunal`s intellectual alliance with the Invictan Empire and exchange of technological resources. Recommend monitoring the catacombs for any spirit-signals and initiating crackdown if necessary. Those captured in the raid will be re-chipped and re-integrated.

　　-Report to High Tribunal, Paris Nouveau, 237 YT

　　239 YT, Winter: Oxdal, in the Wanderer`s Vale

　　 Winter`s chill and early-morning fatigue cut deep in Melik`s flesh and made him itch as he stood outside the side-hall and waited for the end of the song blaring from inside. With his back to the wall, suppressing the urge to hug himself, he stared at the length of cable snaking up from the ground and back into the wall. With each beat of the drumline of the music playing inside, Melik felt his head involuntarily bob up and down, hands rubbing together to make himself a little warmth while the snow came down all around, wet snow that could have formed rivers in the earth`s furrows if the air were only a little warmer. From inside there came a shout, and cries of "kill him!" Melik tightened his hand around the hilt of the sword at his hip, but didn`t turn or walk away. He chuckled under his breath to mock his own fear, to spit in its face, and moved his hand from the hilt of his sword. Thin strips of cloth wound around both hands, covering his knuckles and forearms. He remembered what his father had said the last time he`d come this way, before the injury and the creeping specter of madness. Wrap your hands, take it like a man, never let em know you`re scared. Simple. He took hold of the wrapping and tightened them - tightened them until he thought he might cut off his own circulation. It was almost like a hug, without love or warmth.

　　 The music inside came to a stop, and the shouts trailed off. Then came jeers, taunts, and the creaking of the door beside Melik as a tall, muscular and wiry man stepped out into the snow. The man spit blood out into the snow and slammed the door shut behind him, shutting out the taunting shouts of the crowd. He fixed Melik with a stare. "You some new challenger?" the man asked, squinting and wiping away snot and tears and specks of blood from his face. "Seriously? The hell`re you doing here, you got a death wish or something?"

　　 Melik told him, and the man let out a guffaw before dragging himself off into the snow. "You ain`t your daddy, kiddo," and then he was gone, the snow obscuring him not long after he set off - but he opened the door before he went. Melik stepped inside, and cast his glance left and right. In the center of the room there was a makeshift fighting ring, dirt and dust and chalk sprinkled and spread and mixed all up together with the blood of the contestants. The winner of the last bout, a figure with walls of muscle for arms and twin braids of yellow-blonde hanging behind, panted in the center of the stage. Around the ring stood and sat many onlookers - mostly men, but more than a few women as well - all clad in similar outfits. Even the men wore women`s coats for their closed fronts, and most had scarves wrapped over the lower halves of their faces along with flat caps - bills turned forward or sideways with no regard for decorum - on the tops of their heads. Every eye turned to Melik as he entered and the door swung shut behind him. One of the crowd sat by a table on which sat an old speaker - cable connected to the wall. That one stood poised, ready to call a start to the excitement whenever called upon.

　　 "Boy," said a voice from Melik`s left, and he turned on his heel, expecting to see a tall figure looming over him. He saw no face when he turned, though the voice had been close to him - by instinct he took a step back and put his hand on his sword and looked down, and there he saw a short man pointing up at him, a Gaurl cigar pinched between his thin lips. The man`s wide, steel-blue eyes stared at Melik for a long moment. "Shachar," he said after a moment. "Yeah I know your daddy well enough, I`d know those eyes anywhere. Is he sending his kid now to win his games now that he can`t anymore?"

　　 "He doesn`t know I`m here," Melik said aloud, hoping he sounded confident. In reality, he knew, his voice was shaking horribly. He must have sounded pathetic. Melik took a deep breath, and to steel himself he closed his eyes for just a second. Behind his eyelids he pictured Avishag, curled up on the floor of their house at the foot of their father`s bed, fiddling with stray bits of metal and listening to the static that the frayed wiring made when she sparked two ends together.

　　 The short man laughed and took a step back, and smiled - appreciatively? Perhaps. "And I suppose you`re looking for a match, then? Want to earn yourself a little cash? You know we`ve already got a full lineup tonight."

　　 From the ring, the voice of the previous winner growled: "If the boy wants to eat dirt, let him. I`ll kick him out the door when we`re done." The voice was smooth and quiet, but cut through the crowd`s chatter with an authority born of fear and an anger born of history Melik could only guess at.

　　 The small man chuckled and called out, "Fine. You two will be the next bout." Then he leaned in and put his hand on the hilt of Melik`s sword. "Lose the blade, kid. You`ll get it back when you`re done. And just remember this." He jerked his head toward the fighter. "She`s tough and strong, but she`s also tired. You`ve got a chance. Go on then. Win or lose, you`ll get a nice pile of change, extra if you win, and tell your daddy I send my regards. I`ve even got some of the special medicine under the counter if he wants to sweeten the deal for me."

　　 Melik nodded, hoping his ignorance was not too obvious, and slowly unbelted his sword, then handed it over to the short man. He didn`t remember the man`s face, but he couldn`t exactly refuse to hand the sword over. "I`d better get this back," Melik said. "Win or lose."

　　 The small man narrowed his eyes, frowned. "I`m insulted," he said. "I wouldn`t dream of stealing your belongings. Just can`t have you pulling out a sharp blade in the ring. Besides, I know if I did steal this from you -" he looked down at the scabbard and held it in both hands - "-nice sword by the way, but your father would get up out of that bed, bad leg or not, and he`d walk on over here and wring my neck if I stole this from you. Of course, he might do that to you for showing up here without telling him, but what he doesn`t know won`t hurt him, right?" The small man shrugged. "If you get hurt too badly, just tell him mophead over there beat you up." He gestured toward a tall man with shaggy brown hair standing in a corner of the building. "Guy gives me the creeps. Shows up here to watch the fights, but always stands in the far corner, doesn`t cheer, doesn`t react, just stands there with that weird look on his face. His name`s Badem Teke. I know his parents are farmers but that`s about all I could tell you about him. That and the fact that he`s a fucking weirdo."

　　 Melik turned and tilted his head to look at Badem where he stood in the corner. He watched the ring, head not moving at all. Only his eyes darted around the room - making contact with Melik for a moment. Only during that moment did his expression change - he flashed a slight smile, a surprised smile, and then his face darkened. The best descriptor Melik could think of for his expression was disgust.

　　 He stepped into the ring.

　　 "You sure about this, kid?" The previous bout`s victor stepped forward and cracked her knuckles, looming over Melik. "I won`t lie and say I don`t hold a bit of a grudge. Your daddy`s made a lot of enemies over the years."

　　 "Then&" Melik rolled his head and looked up at the brawler. She was big, yes, but he could see that she was still tired from the last match, as much as she was hiding it. Her breath was uneven, her steps were a bit slow. If Melik had been the one running this place, he`d have made her take a break, deeming her unfit for another bout. But she was doing a good job of concealing it, at least good enough for the small man on the other side of the room and for the spectators, half of whom were likely too drunk to notice. "Were you the one who broke his leg?"

　　 "Nah," the fighter said. "I didn`t have the distinct pleasure of doing that."

　　 Melik raised his fists, and fixed his eyes on hers. "Pleasure&" He took a deep breath and let his shoulders rise with the inhale, fall with the exhale. He blinked - a long blink, with which he stepped back, and when he opened his eyes again the fighter was already moving. He ducked the first punch, seeing it coming ahead of time but knowing it would only get harder from here. She was tired, yes, and her movements were erratic because of that, but she was testing him, moment by moment trying to see if she could gauge his strength. He blinked again, moved slowly but just quick enough to dodge the next strike, a left-swipe, and then backstepped her sweep. He kept moving back, and turned with each step back just enough to give himself an escape to the side if necessary. He never removed his eyes from hers - when she glanced down at his feet, he moved his hands, and when she glanced at his hands, he moved his feet. Like water he stepped around her but let her get just close enough to think she had him cornered. The fighter began to smile wildly as she drove him back - a jab that nearly struck Melik in the chest, a kick that narrowly avoided his stomach and kept driving him back, back, back.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

　　 Melik jumped up onto the side of the ring, a plank fixed in the ground, when the fighter attempted a hook at his face. He lowered his hands to grip the plank next to his feet, balancing upon it, and smiled at the fighter. "Are you going to tell me who did have that pleasure?"

　　 The woman spat on the ground. "You might be Shachar`s brat but you`re nothing like him. Ain`t nearly strong enough to beat me and there`s nothing of him in you. But if you do beat me someday& maybe I`ll tell you what you want to know." While she talked, Melik glanced over his opponent`s shoulder and caught Badem`s eye from across the room. The look of disgust was still there, but now it was mixed with interest that went beyond the intellectual. Badem was actually smiling a little, where he stood all the way over there.

　　 The fighter took a step toward the plank that formed the wall of the ring, while the crowd sat with bated breath around the two and the music blared from nearby. With a left and a right - the fighter`s fists were flushed red as she stepped into Melik`s reach - "say goodnight, brat" - her eyes a cold steel blue - she came in tall and proud, spine starting to twist to throw her full weight into the blow, and Melik burst into action at the same time, turning his torso and kicking out with both feet. Anticipating the move, his opponent threw her own weight to the side, stepping further into the invisible ring around Melik.

　　 Wrap your hands, take it like a man, never let em know you`re scared

　　 He twisted and kicked out, striking his opponent in the inner elbow, and she cried out in surprise. Melik leapt off the edge of the ring, toward his opponent, eyes fixed on eyes, hand reaching out with curled fingers and bared teeth in his mouth - "tell me!" - and she was staggering back with a thin, small boy furiously holding onto her throat. Melik grinned with victory in his face when he saw that she could no longer hide her fatigue - the heaviness of her breathing, the unevenness of her steps despite years of experience and practice that had made her the fighter she was now.

　　 She batted at his back with both hands, trying to catch a hold of him. Melik twisted, twisted, kicked against his opponent`s chest and neck and shoulders, holding on all the while with the clawlike grip of his right hand. Like a vice he held on, eyes inches from hers, whispering the entire time: "tell me what you know. Tell me what you know and I`ll let go."

　　 Until finally, through all the scrabbling and reaching, she caught hold of the back of his shirt. And she leaned closer to his face and whispered back: "Earn it first."

　　 Melik saw the world spin around him in a great blur as he was ripped off the opponent`s throat and thrown against the side of the ring. Gasping with pain, he rolled away from the plank and pushed his hands into the dirt and chalk and bloody dust. He glanced up through tear-blurred eyes just in time to see his opponent barrel toward him, draw her leg back, and kick him in the stomach.

　　 Melik thought he knew what it was to fight because he had seen it and heard it. He knew blood in the air and the stink of sweat and the feeling of fear at the back of his neck as he watched and listened, the raising of the hairs there, the hope that the fight wouldn`t spill out from the ring and catch him up in its chaotic embrace. He`d been struck before, chased and knocked over and struck. But he didn`t know what it was to fight, not truly, until he was half-blinded by his own pain, without breath in his lungs, hands scrabbling uselessly in the dirt while someone much stronger and faster than him beat him into submission. He managed to break free for a moment and crawl away, only to stumble and fall again with his face in the dirt. The dust filled his eyes and they filled up with tears in reaction, and he curled up against the nearest wall of the ring, and finally, slowly, managed to push himself up until he was standing again, unsteadily.

　　 She charged across the ring with her arms out at her sides, and Melik was wrapped up in a tight grip and pushed against the wall. He shouted out and raised a foot to kick his opponent in the stomach, and she batted it aside with an arm. He raised his leg again, and again it was knocked aside. He tried to raise his leg again, but his muscles burned with horrible pain and he was too tired. He raised his hand in an effort to tap against the side of the arena in surrender. "Please&" he huffed through a mouth that had no more breath for words. Just tell me, he wanted to say, but instead he just fell.

　　 "That`s it!" cried the small man, just as the fighter was leaning down, panting heavily, blood on her face, to grab Melik by the throat. "Fight`s over! You`ve had your fun, everybody. On to the next bout. Kid, get over here."

　　 Melik lay there for a while longer before he was roughly grabbed by the arms - instinctively he flinched from the fighter`s grip, from her sweat-slick and rough skin, but she pulled him up to his feet and pushed him out of the ring, sent him staggering back to the small man. He handed him his sword, helped him belt it back on him, put a pouch of gold coins in his hand, and pushed him to the door. "Get some rest," the small man said to Melik, "and come back later. Don`t stick around."

　　 When he was outside, Melik walked perhaps twenty feet from the door and collapsed in the thin layer of wet snow on his hands and knees. The cold was welcome, but when he looked at his hands in the snow he only saw the red mixed in. He sat there for some time, slowly regaining the ability to breathe properly, and the world came into focus again. He sat and breathed, slowly in, slowly out, until the cold was no longer soothing, but bit at the tips of his fingers. Then he curled his legs under him and rubbed his hands together.

　　 The door creaked open behind him, and when he turned to see who it was, Badem walked toward him. "Hey," the tall boy said, raising his hand in a greeting. "You had it pretty bad in there, huh? I was rooting for you. You almost had her there, but too bad about that throw." Badem stopped next to Melik and reached out his hand. Melik looked up, into the boy`s smiling green eyes, then took the offered hand and shook it.

　　 "I did notice something though&" Badem kneeled down. "You were trying to ask her something, weren`t you? You wanted her to tell you something."

　　 Melik nodded, looking warily at Badem. He glanced toward the door, looked over his shoulder, then back to Badem. "My dad used to fight here, but he got injured badly one time. I&" Melik lifted the bag of coins. "I`ve got to provide for myself and my sister somehow. But I thought maybe that fighter - she had some kind of grudge against me - maybe she knew who injured my dad`s leg? He says he doesn`t remember who did it - that he was drunk at the time, at least that`s what he says." Melik shrugged. "But these places aren`t supposed to let people get injured that badly, right? Whoever did it, they must have planned it ahead of time - it can`t have just been an accident."

　　 "Accidents happen," Badem said, glancing over at the door. "Can you stand?"

　　 Slowly, Melik pushed himself up. Then he collapsed again. Badem grabbed him by the forearm and helped him to his feet. "Come on," Badem said. "Let`s get you home. Where do you need me to go?"

　　 "Just& that way," Melik said, pointing with his arm. He let Badem sling his arm around the taller boy`s shoulder. As they walked, Badem continued.

　　 "Accidents happen, but I might have an idea of who injured your dad. It was a masked man, I think - I saw it happen."

　　 "Why do you come to these fights?" Melik grunted as they stepped gingerly over a large tree root. "You don`t seem to be enjoying yourself."

　　 "I have to know what it`s like," Badem said. "Because I`m worried."

　　 "Worried about what?"

　　 They walked slowly between the trees and then along the tiny stream, past wax-burning lamps that hung on tall poles, protected from the wind by frosted glass that scattered the light diffusely for dozens of paces in any direction. "I have a bad feeling about the future," Badem said. "That`s all."

　　 "You said you saw it happen." Melik adjusted his grip on Badem`s shoulder, trying to put a little more of his weight on his own legs. "You saw my father get injured?"

　　 "Yeah." Badem nodded vigorously. "But I don`t know the name of the person who did it, although& I do have some idea of who it might be. That fighter you lost against, your dad beat her every time and she always wanted to beat him. She probably thought she was getting some kind of revenge on him by winning against you tonight."

　　 "That`s ridiculous," Melik said.

　　 "Not really." Badem sighed. "You`re his kid, so I guess she thinks she`s proved something that way. One way or the other& there were a bunch of people who wanted revenge on your dad. She was one of them. She probably knows who hurt your dad. But the one who did, he was masked at the time& I think he`s -"

　　 "Hey."

　　 Slowly, Badem and Melik turned to see who had spoken. The fighter from earlier stalked toward them, steel-blue eyes aflame.

　　 "Fruem," Badem said with a stiff upward nod. "You fought well."

　　 She stopped and stared at Badem for a long moment, then continued stalking toward the pair. "You creep. Making friends with the newbie, are you? When you won`t even give the rest of us the time of day? Won`t join in the revelries? You give everyone the cold shoulder, act like you`re better than everybody - and now you`re making friend with Shachar`s kid." She turned to Melik as she approached. "You don`t deserve that money, kid. Didn`t fight worth a damn, and your dad claimed plenty in his time."

　　 "I need the money," Melik said. "And besides, the club paid me to fight - I fought, so I got paid. That`s how it works."

　　 "You lost," Freum said, coming closer. "So give me the money, unless you`d like to lose again."

　　 "Now listen," Badem said. "It`s like he said. He needs the money. You don`t need it. Back off."

　　 She charged.

　　 Melik hit the ground and the air was nearly driven from his lungs again as he felt the lightening of a weight at his side. When he looked up, Badem was holding his sword, leveled at Freum`s throat. Freum had stopped running with the tip of the blade only an inch in front of her neck. Badem raised it, staring down the length of the weapon, an almost neutral expression on his face. "I said to back off," Badem said simply.

　　 Slowly, Freum backed away, her eyes narrowed. "You`re marked, boy," she said. "Don`t come back to the house." She jerked her head toward Melik. "You feel free to come back anytime, though. I`ll beat you every time. You don`t know how to fight." And then she was gone.

　　 Afterwards, Badem slid the sword back into its scabbard at Melik`s belt and helped him up to his feet, helped him start walking again towards his home. Melik soon stopped leaning on Badem, began to walk independently, and only had to stop once every couple of minutes to lean against a tree or a fencepost and take a few breaths. The early morning was quiet but for the clinking of the coins in their pouch in Melik`s pocket, and the crunching-squelching of wet snow underneath the boys` feet.