CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #2
Though Ethenn didn’t know where he was going to get three gold crowns, he accepted the handshake, nonetheless.
He turned and headed for the announcer. After giving his name to the bald man and getting on the lineup, he returned to his troop.
With the number of patrons in the tavern, they’d had to split themselves between three tables.
Isla and Brea had broken off to sit at a two-person table on a raised section near the hearth while Evylin, Deckard, and Auden sat nearby, leaving Thom, Vayden, and Ilain at their original spot.
Rafferty had weaseled his way into the card game a few tables over, and Ethenn took his vacated seat across from Ilain.
She eyed him upon his approach but turned back to her meal.
They hadn’t spoken all day, and this moment of avoidance confirmed his earlier suspicions: She was nervous now that Thom had approached him, and yet still, Ethenn hadn’t sought her out.
Choosing to ignore her discomfort for the time being, Ethenn settled into his chair.
“You forgot your ale,” Thom remarked.
Ethenn looked over at him, confused.
Thom gestured toward the bar. “You spoke with our host for quite a while, yet you’ve returned empty-handed.”
“I was working out a deal,” Ethenn said.
“Eh? Have anything to do with that chat you had with the blighter by the hearth?”
Ethenn shrugged. “Might’ve.”
Thom smirked. “You gonna put on a show, Loxley?”
Vayden tipped his chin up, listening with interest. Ilain shifted awkwardly at his side.
Leaning back, Ethenn flashed a grin he didn’t feel.
“Well, this ought to be fun,” Thom remarked.
Ethenn disagreed. He’d win, of course. In Trollenston, he’d regularly fought in the underground fighting rings.
One of his less reputable friends, Finn, whom his uncle called an uneducated lout, introduced Ethenn to the ring when he was only thirteen.
Though it took some time, Ethenn quickly got the hang of the fights and found his way to victory in practically every bout.
He’d won nearly two hundred crowns through the endeavor, managing to buy Terrina all the pretty fabric, quality threads, and sharp scissors she’d needed to become the best seamstress in town.
Then Uncle Vernon got greedy.
Despite his success, Ethenn didn’t enjoy the fights.
Winning didn’t mean you came out unscathed.
He often wound up with a split lip, black eyes, and bruised ribs.
When he was only fifteen, Auchter MacGaans, the butcher’s twenty-six-year-old son, had even broken Ethenn’s right wrist during a particularly brutal fight.
He’d missed a month of hunts to the injury, and since his uncle couldn’t use him in the smithy either, he and Terrina had struggled through that blistering hot summer.
But now, he was a Warrior, and he wasn’t afraid of what injuries the fight might bring, only of who he might become during it.
Ethenn stretched his shoulders, scanning the tavern around him. Several men were shaking out their arms or downing their ales in preparation for the fights to begin. None of them were as big as the Hammerfist, but they were burly and looked mean enough to fight dirty. They wouldn’t go down easily.
Suddenly, a tingle shot up Ethenn’s arm as Ilain took his hand. He looked up at her, finding her green eyes cutting into him sharply. “What are you up to?” she asked quietly.
Ethenn didn’t pull away, but neither did he return her touch. “Taking a friend’s advice,” he said.
Ilain’s expression turned confused just as the announcer called out the names of the first two fighters. “Bartras the Bludger and Eogahn the Axe.”
Ilain scanned the two men walking toward the ring. “Why do they all have such ridiculous names?” she asked.
Rising, Ethenn withdrew his hand. “Because it’s expected,” he said flatly. “Excuse me, I need to see to something.”
Without waiting for their approval, he slipped to Rafferty’s side at the card table. Coins of copper, silver, and bronze were piled high in the center as the final cards were dealt. Ethenn glanced at Rafferty’s hand and grimaced. “Bad luck,” he said casually.
Rafferty pulled back his winning cards incredulously. “Don’t tell them that,” he whispered dramatically. Then he smiled at the men with a falsely nervous chuckle. “My friend doesn’t understand Flock’s Fleece. I’m not bluffing, of course.”
Greedily, the men around the table smiled, thinking that Rafferty was, in fact, bluffing. They each added to the pot, sure of their success. When it came to Rafferty, he thumbed his cards anxiously, saying, “Time to reveal then?”
Across the table, the men laid down their hands.
Rafferty let out a low whistle, seeing one man’s trio of kings, the figures holding a crook in one hand and a sword in the other, and a pair of princes.
“That’s a good one,” he noted. Then he laid out his run of five with matching black ivy leaves under their numbers.
“Unfortunately, I was telling the truth. I wasn’t bluffing. ”
As one, the men blanched with disappointment.
“Pleasure doing business, chaps,” Rafferty said, scooping up his winnings.
There were grumbles of discontentment, but as none of the men could accuse him of cheating, they let the pair go.
Once they’d found their way to the far side of the room, Rafferty slipped his winnings into his money pouch at his side. “You need something, little Lox?” he asked pleasantly.
“I need you to start some bets on the fight,” Ethenn said.
Rafferty raised his brow. “Oh, yeah? I can do that. What’s the take?”
“I want people betting against me,” he said.
“Won’t work.”
“Why not?”
His light eyes flickered around the tavern. “These gents won’t stand against you,” he said quietly. “The first round, I may get some good bets against you, but you’re going to win. And then, you’ll win again. And I’m going to be stuck convincing a shepherd his prized ivory ewe has spots.”
Ethenn didn’t flinch. “I’ll take some hits.”
“Some won’t cut it, Lox.”
“I did this for eight years, Raff. Give me some credit.”
Rafferty raised his brow. “You think you can fleece them?”
“If you want to convince a shepherd his ivory ewe has spots,” Ethenn raised his brow, “throw dirt on her when he isn’t looking.”
Rafferty sniggered merrily. “You’re a rotten scoundrel.”
Having heard the exact sentiment from his uncle before, Ethenn said, “I know,” then turned away.
Most of the tavern occupants had already risen from their seats to surround the ring in the corner.
Men and women stood on chairs and stools to see over the crowd.
Thom and Vayden peered over in interest but remained in their seats.
Brea surveyed from her vantage on the raised platform, likely criticizing the fighting stances of the men in the ring.
Meanwhile, the rest of the troop ignored the fight.
When the first pair concluded, the announcer called out the winner: the Bludger. Cheers and boos reverberated through the room. Ethenn stepped over to the table with Rafferty at his side. Thom looked up at their approach. “Should I be concerned?” he asked casually.
“No,” Ethenn said.
Thom turned to Rafferty. The weasel gave a snide grin. “Certainly not.”
“Now, I’m concerned,” Vayden remarked. “What’s happening?”
Before any of the men could respond, Ilain answered, “Ethenn is going to fight.”
Vayden looked momentarily baffled, then amused. “Really? Why?”
“Because he’s an idiot,” she muttered, then pushed her wooden bowl of stew away from her.
Ethenn’s neck warmed. Why was she upset? Why should she even care if he fought?
“Our next fighters,” the announcer called as the Axe slumped at the bar to forget his loss, “are Vergus the Bloodwolf and Loxley the Slayer.”
At his moniker, Ethenn readily unbuttoned his coat as his friends stared at him. Deckard, Evylin, and Auden rose from their table, a combination of curious and concerned, as Thom gaped at him.
“The Slayer?” he said wryly.
Ethenn tossed his coat over the back of his chair and began removing his weapons next. “I have a reputation,” he said coldly. His knives thunked heavily against the tabletop.
“For killing?” Thom’s laughter said he didn’t believe it.
Ethenn simply continued to divest himself of the weapons hidden on his person. He didn’t want to be accused of cheating or of the intent to pull a blade. Regardless, the weapons would inhibit his ability to move as freely as he liked.
Ethenn removed his boots, and Deckard came to his side. “Are you sure this is wise?” he asked.
Though he worried the colonel would disapprove, Ethenn held his ground. “I can get us a third room,” he explained. “But only if I come out the champion.”
The troop exchanged looks of understanding.
“Yeah, but that room’s gonna be for you and your lady love, isn’t it?” Rafferty said. “Why should the rest of us care?”
“It’ll make it one less person to squeeze into a tiny room,” Thom said. “I’m for it.”
The rest nodded in agreement, but Ilain glared at Ethenn. When he caught her gaze, he held it, imparting the unspoken through one look—he was doing this for her.
The announcer appeared at their table. “Ready, Slayer?” he asked cheerfully.
Internally, Ethenn bristled at the name as he always had but, nevertheless, donned the persona he’d been given those years ago.
With a sharp nod, he stepped toward the fighting ring.
His opponent was already there, stretching an arm across his bare chest. Vergus the Bloodwolf was spry and lean, with black hair shaved close to his scalp.
His dark skin almost glowed in the dim light.
He had a scar running from his clavicle down to his pectoral, and he wore a bored expression that said he’d done this many times already.
Standing barefoot on the wooden floor planks, Ethenn tested their warp and spring. They were worn greatly with age, leaving them soft and pliable. Dark spots stained the wood. Ethenn wondered how many men had bled in this ring. Then he stopped thinking altogether and readied himself to fight.