Full-Blood Half-Breed (29 page)

The rest of the enthusiastic blended younglings shared that sentiment. They cheered Paladin, all of them eager for payback against the pura-sangre.

Drud laughed and patted Paladin on the back. “It’s good you are famous,
vato
. We’ll have our pick of the blended fighters.”

Paladin quickly explained to Drud his plan to include fighters schooled in each of the four disciplines when choosing their team. He fought with a combination of the four disciplines, though for Suki’s sake, he would adhere to Ashi-Kobushi, at least until he faced Fox the Runt. Drud was physically strong and well studied in Eisenfaust. That left eleven empty slots in their King’s Dozen. They would avoid what Paladin saw as a flawed strategy of building teams of the same discipline, which would also mean the same strengths and weaknesses. Their King’s Dozen would be made up of a varied group of fighters who could compensate for each other’s shortcomings and enhance each other’s strengths. They split up and quickly interviewed the blended Oestelings vying for positions on their team.

It took only a few minutes for Paladin and Drud to assemble a full and well-balanced King’s Dozen. They had four burly Eisenfaust fighters, including Drud, and three small but quick Ashi-Kobushi. Most of the hopefuls were el Combatedanza–trained warriors, so he took on four to make up for the lack of Ngoma ya Kifo fighters. They could only get two warriors to represent Muumba’s fighting style.

There were quick introductions made all around and Paladin shared his strategy with the group. They all nodded at his reasoning when he talked about the weaknesses and strengths inherent to each fighting system. He was vehement about their need to work together, even as Blackspear’s paladíns had done a score of centuries before.

When he was done, Drud looked over the team, a strong balance of power, speed, and agility. He grinned, nodding respectfully. “Schöpfer’s Teat,
vato
. You are as shrewd as old Blackspear himself.”

Fox chuckled at the absurd clumsiness of the charging boy’s attack. The brute was thrice his size, brandishing a heavy cudgel and wooden shield, but he was slow, lumbering, and, the instant he came within Fox’s striking range, unconscious. With two moves Fox knocked the boy’s helmet from his head and left him lying in the dirt, face split open like a burst melon.

“Dead!” the Caller yelled, and then, “Hold! We have an injury.”

The combatants broke away from one another and the Red Cloaks came quickly to aid the big Nordling lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. Fox and the rest of his King’s Dozen watched the scene with pitiless satisfaction. Fox’s teammates were all small-framed natives of Eisesland. Like him, they had fled their homes to study Ashi-Kobushi in Santuario del Guerrero or the other large cities throughout the Thirteen. In the history of Torneo, there had never been so many Nord competitors of a single discipline other than Eisenfaust. He even knew a few of his teammates from Temple Seisakusha. And though it was good to see his old comrades, he pitied them. They still worshipped the sham goddess of the Higashi Shima. When Torneo was over, he would approach each of his old disciple-mates individually, and attest to the truth of the One God. This was his primary duty as a Santosian disciple, and besides, some of their souls might be worth saving. Assuming, of course, they survived the war that would begin in a few hours, if he won the Black Spear.

Or in a few days, if he lost.

“Ungläubigen!”
the other Nords, both in the stands and on the game field, screamed at Fox and his King’s Dozen. “Filthy, faithless Ungläubigen!”

Fox and his teammates laughed off the taunts and slurs of their countrymen. Nords recognized and gave prayers to all the gods, but they held Schöpfer and her martial gift of Eisenfaust as superior. Nords forgave the lesser people of the Thirteen their worship of the secondary gods, but a Reinblut who put any god before Schöpfer or practiced a martial system
other than Eisenfaust was a blood-traitor and an Ungläubige, a word so filthy there was no Alltongue translation for it.

Except for Fox, the Ungläubigen were garbed similarly in bushi-style armor, colorful metal plates, soft wood, and mail. They carried bokken modeled after the katana and wakizashi, slightly curved long and short swords. Fox’s bokken were of the bushi style as well, but he had no bushi armor. He could not borrow armor from Temple Seisakusha and would not have done so anyway. Señor Don Efraín the Spicebringer had found some old caballero-style mail for him to wear, which he preferred. He may not fight in the style of a Santosian warrior, but he could look like one.

He had not gone looking for other Seisakushans to join with initially. Fox’s King’s Dozen had come together because no one else would have them. The other Eisesland youth were hateful separatists with disgust in their pale eyes. They had mocked and spat upon the Ungläubigen.

But that was before the fighting had begun.

After the Ungläubigen’s first charge, those taunting tongues had been stilled. There had been pain, frustration, and surprise in the voices of the larger, stronger Eisenfaust younglings; there had been disbelief that a group of Ungläubigen zwergs could wreak such brutality against devout Schöpferites, but the mocking had ended.

One of the fundamental theories of Ashi-Kobushi was that an opponent’s size and strength could be used against him or her. Today, the Ungläubigen had proven that theory before the eyes of thousands, and Fox gloried in the carnage. Nord blood proved a potent salve for his pride, devastated by years of abuse in Kalteströme. The Schöpferites were clumsy oafs, and the Ungläubigen punished them for it.

The Healers went to work, muttering magic words and waving witch-sticks over the downed Nordling until he stirred. The Ungläubigen watched the moaning boy escorted from the game field with satisfaction.

Wigburg von Hillkeeper, a girl from Temple Seisakusha, nodded at the injured boy. “He is Seppel von Wolfslayer. From Schildkrötezehe Valley, my home village. Seppel and his
freunden
beat me nearly every day until I fled to Santuario del Guerrero to worship Seisakusha and study Ashi-Kobushi. I wish you had killed him, Fox. Or I had. It grieves me to see him live.”

An Ungläubige boy nearly as short as Fox said, “This Seppel may live, but I think his brain was permanently damaged. He has paid a high price for his cruelty.”

“As have many of our thickheaded countrymen,” Fox said, grinning.

“As will many more,” Wigburg promised, her face twisted by bitter hatred of Seppel von Wolfslayer and all those like him. Seppel was the twelfth Eisesland youngling taken off the field. That many critical injuries this early in the youngling Melee trial was unheard of.

Every known safety precaution was taken to keep the young fighters from grievous hurt. Armor was a requirement. Weapons were made of blunted wood, and every Red Cloak was an accomplished Healer. Torneo, after all, was just a game. Defeated combatants were “called” dead after having been touched by an opponent’s weapon in a vital area of their body. Customarily, there was a profound level of respect amongst the combatants, and great care was taken to win without giving too much pain.

Of course, in the heat of competition there would be injuries, and occasionally grudges were settled during competition, but the spirit of the games was one of camaraderie and sport. No one wanted to be hurt. Champions wanted to be alive and well to enjoy their winnings. That was not the case today amongst the younglings of Eisesland.

The Ungläubigen rampaged.

When Seppel von Wolfslayer was gone from the game field, the competition resumed, and the Ungläubigen continued their bloody onslaught, gorging themselves on sweet, succulent revenge against the youth of Eisesland. They left many of the brawny Eisesland youth with scars and wounds they would take to their graves, along with the memory of the Ungläubigen’s unquenchable thirst for Nord blood. They fought and won until they were the last King’s Dozen of Eisesland left. Though they cheered each other, they received no such acclaim from their fellow Nords. They were jeered and spat at and cursed.

Yet only one of the Ungläubigen could represent Eisesland as paladín and fight for the Black Spear. When the time came for them to fight among themselves, Fox tore into his fellows. He took no mercy upon those who had been his comrades just moments before. They were, after all, worshippers of a false goddess. He turned upon them the same savagery he had wreaked upon the Schöpferites, sending still more younglings to the Healing ministrations of the Red Cloaks until he alone was left, the youngling paladín of Eisesland.

He stood with straight-backed pride, his chin held high, and accepted his pronouncement as paladín. He wondered if his parents had come to this season’s Torneo. Had they borne witness to his victory? He hoped so. It would shame Schneeflocke and Gairovald that he had become an Ungläubige.

He would be the first youngling Ungläubige to be named Eisesland’s paladín since Torneo began two thousand years before. And shortly, he would become the first Santosian Black Spear. He adjusted the scarf around his neck and smiled. He had proven the inferiority of both Schöpfer and her martial gift of Eisenfaust. But more importantly, he had proven the supremacy of The One God. For though he fought with Ashi-Kobushi, an inferior martial system, he fought with The One God’s blessing, and thus could know no defeat. He longed to declare his faith to the world, but that joy would come in time.

The Caller grabbed his wrist and raised it high. “The winner and youngling paladín from
Eisesland, Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line!”

The Eisesland spectators hissed and jeered, appalled that an Ungläubige represented their kingdom in the fight for the Black Spear—a smug, runty Ungläubige at that.

Pía sat in the northern quad, along with many of Fox’s new brothers and sisters from Templo Santos, all of them cheering. They too kept their faith hidden. For now. When he won the Black Spear, they would wave banners blazoned with the Santosian Ira de Dios. The people would see an army of Santosians standing with their champion. And then the people would join that army. Or they would die. He felt light enough to float, blessed enough to fly, holy enough to soar amongst the clouds, buoyed by the hot breath of his god.

He descended into the dragón’s den to rest and wait. The other Nordlings shot him dirty looks, but were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. They gave him a wide berth in the narrow pit, and he moved to the westernmost edge of the den to watch the last of the fighters from Prosperidad face off. The pagan’s King’s Dozen had defeated the rest of the Prosperidad younglings. And the battle to decide who would represent the kingdom in the fight for the Black Spear had dwindled down to three competitors, all blended pagans: Del Darkdragón, his swinish friend Von Wildboar, and a dark-skinned, half–Kusini Watu girl. He didn’t doubt for a moment who would win. It was The One God’s will that he finish the pagan, once and for all time.

Once the fear of reprisal had passed, he had revisited the highborns’ attack on him in his mind. Again and again he had imagined Bernadita’s face, the exact moment when she realized she was dead. Oh, but it was a pleasant memory. Still, that pleasure would be a bland draught compared to the sweet ambrosia of spilled pagan blood.

“Praise the Prophet, Voice of The One God,” he whispered to himself when the pagan vanquished the last two Prosperidad fighters. “Death to evil.”

Paladin couldn’t help but notice the pained expression on Drud’s face as he helped him to his feet. “Did I hurt you,
vato
?”

“Only my pride,” Drud said. “But I think I have done permanent injury to Isooba.”

Paladin thought so as well. They both looked back to the dragón’s den, where two healers tended Isooba’s leg. Isooba had found a team of mostly poor, blended younglings to fight with. Paladin knew some of them, and doubted they would have accepted Isooba had they known he was a Vile. Then again, so many people were turning Vile these days. When the two teams clashed, Isooba had tried to attack Paladin from behind. Drud had intervened and crushed Isooba’s knee. The Red Cloaks were not sure if it would ever heal properly.