Savage (21 page)

“Thank you. I must admit I was a little taken back by your challenge. I would’ve thought you might try spying on me to find out who my employer is. That is your task isn’t it? To stop the attacks on the prince.”

Bazur cut into the tenderloin and took a bite. The medium rare meat was tender and juicy, and the reduction gave it that extra kick of flavor, perfection. He slowly chewed and savored the bite. “I think I’m better off killing you and worrying about your employer later. I doubt he finds someone better. Your attacks are well planned out. Perhaps a bit brutal, but you have a talent for tactics.”

“Thank you. Although I’m a tad disappointed by the results of the attack at the Devil’s Arm. You and your meddlesome lady friend were not supposed to survive. I had thought an ambush within an ambush was a rather clever maneuver, but it failed. A credit to you, three of my men died trying to follow you across the badlands.”

“You knew we were there the whole time?”

“Yes. I have plenty of spies in Draisha. I knew the route before you did. It wasn’t hard to figure out what you would do once the route was set. There are only so many really good ambush locations along the northern route from Pera, and I knew you’d pick the right one. I hadn’t expected you to climb the Devil’s Arm. That was clever. I was so tempted to kill you then, but I didn’t want to ruin the main ambush. Perhaps I made a mistake not killing you at the first opportunity. You and the woman have proven to be difficult adversaries. Far more challenging than the rest of the prince’s hired investigators. It will almost be a shame to kill you today. I was enjoying our little game.”

General Vargas was a confident man. The way he carried himself let no doubt he expected to win. Bazur would see about that. A true orc—even a half blood would not be intimidated by words. It was likely that one of them was about to die, but it would be a glorious death. One that Bazur would welcome if that was his fate. Yet, if he was victorious there was still the matter of who was behind the attacks. Perhaps the general could give up the missing piece to the puzzle. “I don’t suppose you’d answer me if I asked who your employer is.”

“No. I don’t think that is necessary. Besides, if you did win our little duel, I wouldn’t want the game to end for you so soon. I would want whoever took my place to have a fair opportunity to kill you first. Not that it matters. How was your meal?”

Bazur was taking his last bit of meat and using it to soak up the last of the juices on the plate. “It was exceptional. A pleasant surprise to be sure. Not the ordinary inn meal.”
Damn
, though Bazur. It had been a long shot, but his life would’ve been so much simpler if the general had spilled his guts. Figuring out who was behind the attacks would have to wait for another day.

“No. The cook here is excellent. The inn owner traveled a great distance to find him. The last cook was rather piss poor and the lads hung him from the rafters. I’ve enjoyed our chat, Bazur. Now finish your drink and let us finish this.”

Bazur nodded and raised his mug. “To your health, or lack of it.”

Grabbing his weapons, Bazur followed the general to the pit. The crowd rose from their tables and circled the pits in anticipation.

General Vargas jumped into the pit, deftly landing on his feet. He then walked to the far end of the pit, giving Bazur space and time to enter the pit without being attacked.

Landing softly in the pit, Bazur examined his opponent. General Vargas was a strategic genius, and had a reputation as an excellent swordsman. Finding a weakness in the general’s fighting skills was going to be a near impossible task, but it had to be done. Stopping Vargas before he could get to Kyra was worth the risk of dying at the general’s hands. It had been extremely good fortune to find Vargas in Southend and to not take this opportunity to end the attacks would be foolish.

“Shut it, you bunch of hooligans!” shouted the bartender to the crowd around the pit. When the noise of the boisterous crowd died down, the bartender continued. “We have a challenge. Bazur Zargha, the Badlands Savage, undefeated barroom brawler of Pera, and a noted orc warrior once banished from his home of Lagvon stronghold, now royal investigator of Draisha. The Savage is challenging General Jasper Vargas, a veteran of the pits. The general has eight fights under his belt, all were to the death. Bets will be taken at the front bar, credits available but only coin up front on bets larger than twenty gold coin. Gentlemen you may begin.”

Bazur was somewhat surprised by the detailed introduction. There was no way the bartender should know that much about him. Bazur looked at the general, who had a wide, knowing grin.

“You will have to excuse the theatrics,” said General Vargas over the noisy crowd’s cheers and taunts, loud enough for Bazur to hear, but soft enough that the crowd above couldn’t. “Having a large number of cutthroat mercenaries gathered in one place for so long tends to create problems. The pits give the lads a chance to blow off some steam, and I get an opportunity to install a healthy bit of fear into them with the odd challenger. I gave the bartender a little background information of you to spice up the introductions. The lads quit betting against me after I decapitated the fourth challenger. But a healthy half-breed like yourself with such a reputation for destruction, that might encourage a bet or two to be placed.”

It didn’t bother Bazur that Vargas had given the bartender his backstory, but the fact that Vargas knew so much about him was troubling. Did he know as much about Kyra as well? The entire situation was starting to trouble Bazur. Was this fight another of General Vargas’s elaborate traps? Had Vargas planned the whole thing? No, that wasn’t possible. Such a plan was too flimsy and relied on Bazur doing certain things. General Vargas was not the type to rely on such a weak plan.  Not that it mattered anymore. He was here now and all that mattered was surviving.

General Vargas was using a short sword and a dagger. The short sword was the staple weapon of the Royal Guards of Draisha. The dagger was certainly not. A curvy blade that reminded Bazur of a snake slithering across the ground, a nasty weapon designed to create wounds that wouldn’t heal easily. That style dagger was often used by orc warriors when they wanted to fight in the same style as he had used against the loud mouth highwayman, Charles: multiple small cuts that would bleed your opponent out. Bazur couldn’t afford to ignore the small weapon, it was just as dangerous as the sword. General Vargas took a quick couple steps towards Bazur and then launched a quick strike. Vargas’s sword came towards Bazur’s neck at a breathtaking speed.

Bazur used his war scythe to slap the attack off to the side. He then used the momentum of his block to move forward and bring his scythe back across his body, the tip flying in front of Vargas’s chest as the general jumped backwards, avoiding the counter attack. The general grinned at Bazur as he circled. Vargas was testing him, sizing up his timing and fighting style.

Vargas attacked again. This time, instead of a single stabbing attack, he used multiple attacks, his blades flying in a complex rhythm.

Parrying the forceful wave of attacks took all of Bazur’s skills. General Vargas was not a good swordsman. He was a great one. Bazur had never fought a man with such skills and speed. The general’s blades danced to and fro, searching for an opening in Bazur’s defenses. The first cut came quickly as Bazur lifted his scythe to block an overhead sword attack. The general relaxed his arm on contact allowing Bazur’s blade to push his back. As Bazur’s blade moved forward farther than anticipated, the general’s knife came up and slashed against Bazur’s exposed forearm.

“First blood goes to General Vargas,” shouted the bartender. “Who scores second blood? Place your bets now.”

From his experiences in Pera, Bazur knew that the crowds would bet on anything. He cared not about the crowd’s chants and boos, his concern was the reason for their cheers. The cut across his forearm. It wasn’t deep, and it hadn’t hit a vein, but it was a wide cut and the blood was flowing. As he had thought, the dagger indeed left a nasty wound.

Vargas pushed forward again with another overhead swing. This time Bazur sidestepped, warily eyeing the general’s dagger.

General Vargas laughed. He seemed to take pleasure in inflicting worry into Bazur’s mind. He pressed forward again with another combination of blazing fast attacks. The general’s attacks were relentless and he attacked with unbridled aggression, yet each attack was well placed. His skills matched his aggressive style. Again, Bazur was caught by a glancing blow. This time General Vargas’s sword opened a wound on Bazur’s thigh.

Bazur stepped backwards quickly, creating some space between himself and Vargas. He was losing this fight. The wounds were small but would keep adding up, draining Bazur of blood and vitality until he made a fatal mistake. Bazur knew the tactics all too well to allow himself to be defeated this way. Bazur needed to change things up. He needed to take the fight to Vargas, make him make a mistake. So he attacked. Trying to make use of his own advantages, reach and power, Bazur slipped his hands further down his scythe, holding it almost like a sword, and took powerful swings that would break bone or hew limbs off if they connected.

General Vargas dodged and weaved, deftly blocking each attack as it came in. Bazur couldn’t get past his defenses. General Vargas ducked under one of Bazur’s attacks and lunged forward stabbing his dagger into Bazur’s side. Bazur kicked out with his leg, surprising Vargas. His boot landed hard against the general’s chin sending him sprawling to the ground. Bazur pulled Vargas’s blade from his belly. The blade had gone in just over his hip and hadn’t hit anything vital, but it was a deep wound. Vargas stood up. His lip and nose were bleeding from where Bazur’s boot had landed. But Vargas was still grinning. He knew that the boot to the face was a small price to pay for finding a landing place for his blade. “You are good, half-blood, I will give you that. I haven’t tasted my own blood in years. It’s almost a shame that I have to kill you, but I can’t have any of Prince Astor’s royal investigators alive. It sends the wrong message.”

Any of the royal investigators
, thought Bazur
. If I die here and Vargas lives, then Kyra dies as well.
Bazur hardened his resolve. No matter what happened, Vargas would not leave the pit alive. If death was the price to pay for Kyra’s safety, he was willing to pay it. He had lived a warrior’s life, and to die in battle would be a fitting end. There was little shame in his life to look back on. The gods would surely welcome him into the next life. As he steeled himself to the task, Bazur’s thoughts went back to his parents’ death. If he had one regret in life, it might be the decision to stay so long in the badlands. Grief shouldn’t last a lifetime. He should’ve mourned his losses, and moved on. The years in the badlands had given him many skills, taught him inner strength and resolve to survive the harsh lands, but to what end? His life had no purpose, no meaning. But his death, that could serve a purpose. Killing Vargas would save Kyra, and possibly Prince Valentine, which strangely enough mattered to him. Bazur stepped back and put the war scythe in his left hand. He then drew his sword and clutched it in his right. He stared at Vargas, daring him to attack again.

Vargas nodded his appreciation for Bazur’s determination and then swiftly moved forward and into his next series of attacks.

Bazur blocked each attack, his scythe and sword working in unison. But after a flurry of attacks that seemed to last over a minute, but in reality lasted half that long, Bazur faltered and caught the tip of his scythe against the bottom of the pit, the jarring stop of the weapon knocked it free of Bazur’s hand and he was forced to let it fall to the ground. Vargas pushed forward making Bazur step back from his deadly war scythe and rely strictly on his sword skills. Bazur was good with a sword but not nearly as good Vargas. Soon, Vargas caught him in a compromising position where Bazur, with his sword against his own chest, was pinned by Vargas’s sword. Vargas used the opening to stab his knife deep into Bazur’s side.

Chest to chest they stood. Vargas leaned in to whisper in Bazur’s ear. “You were good, but not good enough. Fair well, friend.”

Bazur ignored General Vargas’s words. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. This was his trap for Vargas. He had not lost his scythe by accident. He had purposely let the weapon fall, for he needed Vargas to move in close, close enough that he could get his hands on Vargas, even if it meant taking a dagger to do so. Bazur let go of his own sword and let his weight fall forward against the general, pinning the general’s sword between them. Bazur reached behind him and grabbed his own dagger with his left hand while his right hand grabbed General Vargas by his dagger arm. Instead of trying to pull the dagger free, Bazur held the arm in place so that Vargas could not move.

Vargas was slow to recognize the danger. He thought Bazur’s slumping against his chest was weakness. It wasn’t until Bazur gripped his arm like a vise did he realize that Bazur still had some fight in him. Vargas tried to push Bazur away, but Bazur held his ground staying chest to chest with Vargas as he stabbed his own dagger into Vargas’s ribcage, angling the blade so it struck Vargas in the heart. Bazur let go of Vargas’s arm and let the man push him back. Vargas let go of his own blade and gave one desperate attempt to remove Bazur’s blade from his own chest.

“I might not have been good enough, but I won’t die alone, General Vargas. I hope you’ve made peace with your gods, it is time to meet them.”

Bazur watched Vargas. His face was filled with shock, as if he couldn’t fathom the idea of death or losing a fight. Vargas fell to his knees still trying to remove the dagger from his chest, but his strength was gone. Vargas flopped face first onto the floor of the pits.