Vedas’s hood flowed to cover his face. Grey did not mask her face completely, but caused her suit to form bars that rose from her chin to the armored bridge of her nose. Shelf-like eyebrow ridges formed and the eldercloth thickened visibly over her ears.
Transformations complete, they bowed to one another.
The fight began.
‡
Vedas was the first to move.
Grey merely widened her stance, turning to follow him as he circled. He kept his distance, watching her smoothly shift weight from foot to foot. She had lowered her center of gravity without bending her back, as if she were squatting over a latrine hole. Though he could not rely upon it as fact, nine times out of ten this posture communicated an unwillingness to reach farther than arm’s length for an opponent.
She would wait for him to bridge the gap between them. From there she would try to take him to the floor, counting on her bulk to overcome him. She had probably caused her suit to texture, especially along the forearms and inner thighs, creating a gripping surface to counter the smoothness of her opponent’s suit. A conservative strategy, sound but ultimately limiting: Her suit and thick build granted her a great deal of protection against close range attacks, but unless she proved faster than Vedas she would be unable to get a grip on him.
In his experience, the majority of fights ended up on the ground. He knew himself to be a capable grappler, but this time it would not be wise to end up on his back.
Neither would it be wise to rely on one strategy alone.
He limbered up as he circled, purposefully avoiding a fixed stance in order to throw her off. The ragged approach made him uncomfortable, but he thought it wise not to mirror her solid, unchanging posture. He held his fists just below his collarbones in a loose boxer’s guard. He spiraled ever nearer to her. She gave nothing away.
Crouching, he swept his right foot at her left calf. She lifted her foot and stamped down, far too slowly to touch him. Otherwise, she had not changed position. Unless she was purposefully holding back, this told him something about her reaction time.
He continued circling. As he shortened the distance between them, her forearms rose. She opened both plate-sized hands and held them out from her body at the height of his biceps. He bobbed up and down and her hands followed exactly.
He shuffled in and jabbed at the right one. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand, but could not close around his fist.
Quicker that time. Not abnormally agile, but definitely quick.
He continued moving, looking for openings. She continued biding her time, waiting for him to get overanxious and make a mistake. He darted in again and jabbed with his left. She nearly caught it. Her expression never changed.
They watched each other. This could go on for quite some time, he knew.
The crowd made dissatisfied noises. The fighters were silent.
He feinted in, pulling short a right jab. Reaching for his fist and grasping air, she threw her right shoulder forward slightly. He grasped her leading forearm with both hands and pulled diagonally across his chest, trying to throw her off balance. Her weight only shifted slightly, and he backed away before her other hand came into play.
Not fast enough.
Before he was out of range, she darted in for contact. It was a clumsy slapstrike, and the back of her left fist only glanced off his temple. He staggered but recovered his feet, shaking the stars from his eyes. She settled back into her stance. He resumed circling, noting that she now hobbled slightly on her right foot. Though her offensive movement had seemed slight, it had apparently rekindled a previous injury.
He decided to do a foolish thing. Take a calculated risk.
Hoping to catch her off guard, he repeated his last attack exactly. She was not fooled, however. Instead of reaching for his incoming fist, she lifted her right hand above it and closed her fingers in an overhand grip around his wrist. She levered his arm down, slamming her left palm into his elbow—the exact move he had planned for her, only far, far faster than he could have imagined. His right foot came off the ground, followed by the left. His face hit the dirt.
Though his suit hardened around his arm, as she pushed his chest to the ground her weight overcame the resistance.
His elbow snapped, and she pulled his forearm back, twisting it to ruin the joint.
He bit down hard enough to crack teeth.
She ground her left knee into his back, holding a stable position. But as she let go of his useless arm to reach for his head, her weight shifted minutely—just the slightest movement of her knee to the left of his spine, the tiniest slip of fabric against fabric.
It was enough.
Vedas pushed up with his left arm, lifting his chest a few inches, and she overcorrected, trying to keep her knee in place. It slipped clear of his back and he rolled under her pelvis. The entire right side of his body bloomed in agony as his shoulder joint dislocated and his shattered elbow was crushed beneath the weight of two people.
As her hands moved to wrap around his throat, he buried his stiffened middle and index fingers in her right eye socket.
She spasmed and fell forward, dead instantly.
‡
Night had fallen while he and Grey fought, but the Needle had not yet risen. A group of his brothers carried him from the tent toward Aresaa Coliseum.
Jostled atop their shoulders and hands, right arm stiffened against his chest, he demanded to be let down. He needed his speech. He wanted to wash Grey’s blood from his body. The sound of the crowd drowned out his voice.
He unmasked himself and attempted without success to meet someone’s eye. Eventually, nausea and light-headedness convinced him to stop trying.
He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to a rough, two-mile ride into the heart of the city.
A commotion to his left. Shouting. Vedas turned.
Head and shoulders above the tallest man, gigantic hands parting the crowd, Berun swam through a sea of black-suited humanity. He moved in a straight line toward Vedas, unmindful of the blows raining down upon him.
Staffs broke upon his head. Blades broke between the spheres of his chest, back, and shoulders.
Someone called Berun’s name, and another picked it up.
For a moment, the crowd was split. Brothers and sisters who knew the constructed man’s reputation struggled with those who did not, trying to halt the violence.
A line of green magefire arced from a sister’s staff and struck the ground at Berun’s feet: a warning. The constructed man halted, pointed to Vedas, and bellowed. The noise ate his tolling words. He bellowed again, and this time Vedas heard.
“My friend!”
All at once, it seemed, the rabble cleared a path. They cheered as Berun lifted Vedas from their brothers’ shoulders, overjoyed now that the constructed man had declared sides. It did not lessen their violent mania, nor did it stop Adrashi—White Suits, townspeople, and foreigners alike—from continuing to attack the flanks of the crowd. They tried to break the ranks bodily. They stood on vegetable carts and roofs, throwing rocks and refuse. Despite the official’s warning, violence had erupted the moment of Grey’s death. The orders had crossed the aisle with fists and staffs raised while Vedas lay trapped under his opponent’s body. It could have been no other way, of course. The Black Suits had won, but the Followers of Adrash would not let it rest there. Men would die before the evening was through. Vedas reached up and pulled Berun’s head down. “I don’t have it! They wouldn’t listen to me. I need to go back to my tent!”
Berun smiled. “I have it, Vedas.”
“How?”
“Quick thinking.” Berun’s eyes burned brighter. “They wouldn’t let me in, so I tore the tent down. They showed me where your cot was after that.” He shrugged his right shoulder forward, displaying the strap of Vedas’s pack. “I checked to make sure it’s in here.”