Vishous knew he wasn't ready to fight. Virgin in the Fade, he could barely get down into the ring without falling over. But then, that was the purpose in this, was it not? His father had engineered the perfect power maneuver. There was only one way V could hope to win, and if he used his hand, the whole camp would see for themselves what they had only heard in rumor and shun him completely. And if he lost? Then he would not be perceived as any threat to his father's dominion. So either way the Bloodletter's supremacy would remain intact and unchallenged by his son's new maturity.
As the fat soldier jumped in with a lusty shout and the swing of a hammer, the Bloodletter loomed at the lip of the ring. "What weapon shall I give my son?" he asked the assembled crowd. "I think perhaps…" He looked over at one of the kitchen females, who was leaning on a broom. "Give me."
The female fumbled to comply and dropped the thing at the Bloodletter's feet. As she bent over to pick it up, he kicked her aside as one would a tree branch that was in one's path. "Take this, my son. And pray to the Virgin it is not what is used in you when you lose."
As the throng of witnesses laughed, V caught the wooden handle.
"Engage!" the Bloodletter barked.
The crowd cheered, and someone threw the dregs of their ale at Vishous, the warm splash hitting his bare back and dripping down his naked arse. The fat soldier opposite him smiled, revealing fangs that had extended out of his upper jaw. As the male began to circle V, the hammer swung on the end of its chain, a low whistle rising up.
V was clumsy while he tracked his opponent, finding it difficult to control his legs. He focused primarily on the male's right shoulder, the one that would tense before the hammer was thrown out, while with his peripheral vision he kept track of the crowd. Mead would be the least of what they might pitch at him.
It turned out not to be as much a fight as a dodging contest, with V on the shoddy defensive and his opponent all showy aggression. Whilst the soldier displayed his proficiency with his weapon of note, V learned the predictability of the male's actions as well as the hammer's rhythm. Even as strong as the soldier was, he had to brace his feet square before the hammer's head-sized spiked ball was sent forward, V waited for one of the pauses in action and then struck, flipping the broom around and jamming the handle directly into the bulbous soldier's groin.
The male roared, lost hold of the hammer, and clapped his knees together, cupping himself. V didn't waste a moment. He lifted the broom over his shoulder and swung with his full reach, catching his opponent in the temple and knocking him senseless.
The cheering dried up until all there was was the fire's crackling chatter and the sound of V's ragged breathing. He dropped the broom and stepped over his opponent, ready to get out.
His father's boots planted on the lip of the circle, blocking his way.
The Bloodletter's eyes were narrow as blades. "You haven't finished."
"He shall not rise."
"Not the point." The Bloodletter nodded to the soldier on the floor. "Finish him."
As his opponent moaned, Vishous assessed his father. If V said no, the game his father was playing would be fulfilled, the alienation the Bloodletter was after complete, though not in the way the male had probably expected: V would become a target for the simple staple that he would be perceived as weak for not punishing his opponent. If he finished, however, his position in the camp would be as stable as it could be—until the next test.
Exhaustion overtook him. Would his life always be based on such a crude and unforgiving scale of balances?
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The Bloodletter smiled. "This bastard who calls himself my son has no spine, it appears. Perhaps the seed that his mother's womb ate was of another?"
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and someone yelled out, "No son of yours would hesitate at such an hour!"
"And during a fight no true son of mine would be so cowardly as to attack a male's vulnerable place as such." The Bloodletter met the eyes of his soldiers. "The weak must be devious, as strength is not available to them."
The sensation of being strangled locked onto Vishous's throat, sure as if his father's hands were wrapped around his neck. As his breath quickened anew, anger swelled in his chest and his heart pounded. He looked down at the fat soldier who had beaten him… then thought of the books his father had made him burn… and the boy who had gone after him… and the thousands of cruel and graceless acts that had been done to him over the course of his life.
V's body quickened from the anger that burned in him, and before he knew what he was doing he was rolling the soldier over onto his fat belly.