[The Alley] Pitfight

[Pharan]

6th Ashan, 719

T

hey alley was a dark, crooked thing. Too narrow for two men to walk abreast, it wound its way around ramshackle warehouses and one-storied residential buildings before ending in a dank cul-de-sac. Twenty feet before that, a staircase broke away to the right. Worn steps dropped precariously beneath the street-level, bound left, then right before ending in a low, brick stone archway. Pharan would have never found the opening, had it not been for Orik’s description. Even so, he had delayed his entrance for two, three trills wondering whenever to proceed or not.

It wasn’t so much that he worried Orik had sent him off to chase around Utheridge’s more unsavory back-alleys for the thrill to set up a foreigner—he just wasn’t sure he quite shared the man’s notion of good old fun.

Pharan pushed on. The alley widened. He passed the towering figure of an Ithecal, who sneered at him as he passed. Pharan kept his eyes trained ahead. He sensed the casual smile he adopted for dealing with others bleed away to reveal the habitual scowl beneath. His sister would have made fun of him for the expression she thought to only served to drive others off.

Sometimes, it worked.

A second man, another Ithecal, crouched low in the shadow of the archway. Coins exchanged the owner. Pharan drifted into the half-dark of the chamber beyond. Braziers lit the space that at some point might have been a cellar or the lowest level of a storehouse or other. The air was warm, humid with the perspiration of sweating, breathing bodies. Figures moved in throngs before him. From the middle of the room, the savage chorus of fists hitting flesh echoed over the heads of the men and woman who had gathered in a circle around the make-shift area. Something—someone—heavy fell. The crowd cheered. By his side a woman let loose a string of obscenities, lamenting the loss of money and the quick end of the fight both.

Pharan weaved through the crowd, closer to the pit. He was dressed in one of his older tunics, the dark blue of the cotton black in the gloom. A woolen cloak covered his wings without hiding them. You had to try really, really hard to obscure a couple feet worth of wings and Pharan hadn’t bothered. He had pulled up the hood of his cloak both for anonymity and against the crisp Ashan cold of Yrithal’s streets. Compared to the faces around him, his features were still looking pale.

By the time the Avriel had found a spot to overlook the arena, the next fight was about to be announced.

[Arc Perscivious]

6th of Ashan, 719

The brawling ring’s canvas was flooded and slick with sweat. And blood. But those were mostly Arc's. His opponent still didn't have a major injury, yet. The air was stale and reeking the smell of men and urine. Someone might have peed in here...somewhere. Cheering and booing could be heard all around the two fighters, drowning the sound of their ragged breath and the creaking red, square ring. Apparently, they thought the fight had a foregone conclusion, that Arc's lost was already set in stone. The gambling spectators thought the young dragon would make them lose money. And he was a disgrace to Ithecals everywhere as he was losing to a human. Why would they be mad at him?! They were the one who was stupid enough to gamble and the human was the one responsible if he ended up losing. IF.

But Arc Perscivious was not really listening to them. Not only his ears were ringing, but he was too busy concentrating on his opponent, trying to chase him down. Whole his life, the young dragon was used to fighting others bigger than him, whether it be other Ithecals or creatures he hunted in the Ivorian Forest. He was always the one looking up. He was always the one who needed to be faster and used the hit and run tactics to whittle his opponent down. But not this time. It was an entirely new experience for him to be the one on the receiving end of that tactic. And it sucked. He was now facing a human martial artist much faster than he was who kept coming and going as he pleased while spinning around him. He had been hit and kicked many times all over his body without any chance to reciprocate. Well, he got the chance a few times but none had really landed. Annoying was an understatement.

His opponents attack, he was called Gladia or something, didn’t really hurt at first. Arc's scales and tough muscles could handle a much harder beating than that. But the injury built up. His legs were tired but he needed to keep on moving. His arms were sore but he kept his guard up. His face was all puffed up and he really wanted to close his eyelids. But he managed to force it open just enough to keep track the opponent he was facing. Arc had done what he did best, though, to endure.

He had been enduring and letting himself be a punching bag for four rounds of twelve bits now. As much as it hurt and tire him, his opponent was having the same problem. Even with as good a martial artist as this Gladia guy seemed to be, he still needed to strike an Ithecal scales with his bare hands and legs for almost a break. His movements were starting to slow down. Arc could finally see the gap in his defenses and his mind and body had gotten the timings of his enemy’s attack down. He could feel his anger and determination building up inside him, like a soda being shaken up waiting for its cap to be unscrewed. The fifth round, this final round, would be the endgame.

[Pharan]

T

he crowd reeled. Shouts in the back of the audience grew louder, mixed with the clamor of the fight and the voices of wager-makers. Pharan shifted deeper into the shadow of the brick and mortar pillar that rose by the side of the pit to arch into the vault above. Spectators pressed forward. Three dozen voices rose.

The Ithecal was down again.

His opponent, a human, pranced before him; parading with lifted arms for the hollering masses. Half a head talker than Pharan, the man looked like a child next to the Ithecal’s towering form. He moved with the rolling, self-assured gait of the seasoned fighter. Scars marred his skin. Sweat and blood covered his body. His smile was victorious. In the past four rounds, he had all but domineered the fight—and he knew it.

The dance had started slow, testing. The human had circled the other man, lunged forward and retreated. He had landed, one, two hard blows before pivoting out of the Wyvarnth’s reach again and again. He ducked. Waved. Feigned.

And he made a show of it.

There had been at least one instance when the smaller man could have followed up his attack with another strike, unprosecuted. But didn’t. You are drawing it out, for the crowd, aren’t you?, Pharan thought, watching. But it cost you.

Although he had led the fight even in the rounds he had lost, the human was wheezing. His breath was a cloud before his face and he stepped carefully on the leg the Ithecal had landed a stray hit against earlier. Behind him, his dragon-faced opponent rose to his feet. He, too, looked exhausted. Exhausted, but not like he was willing to give up just now.

Pharan looked to the side where chalk marked the odds of the fight on a board of black. White smeared the dark surface where the numbers had been corrected more than once. The Avriel considered the odds, ran the numbers. Checked the results, again.

To his side, a squat man grunted as the fighters drew back into their corners; the sound bored, irritated, more than angry. Few had expected the Ithecal to win—they had expected him to look better losing. Pharan looked over the gathered men and women one last time, then eased towards a figure sitting beneath the slate with a hide-bound notebook in his lap.

The pock-faced man waved off as Pharan drew near. “Too late. Next match.”

“Three silver. On the Ithecal,” Pharan said undeterred.

The bookmaker starred at him, then past him. Someone near the arena lifted a shoulder. Pharan saw the movement from the corner of his eyes. The man with the notebook starred at him again. Greed worked his face.

“Up front?”

“Up front”, Pharan agreed.

He was still counting out the coins as the sound of the fight once more rose behind him.

[Arc Perscivious]

The red dragon might not be trained specifically for unarmed combat but he had learnt the Stance and been in many fights before. Heck, he had been brawling with other Ithecals before they could even pee straight. Arms tucked, stance widen to shoulder width, and shifted weight using the big toe. He was ready. With a zigzagging footwork, he bobbed and weaved to get closer and closer to Gladia. He would use this small ring to his advantage. His opponent was still moving and attacking around him, but he didn’t realize that his circle was wobbling and getting bigger. The human was moving closer to the edge of the ring, right where he wanted him to be. Arc didn’t need any flashy movements and with each step he was cornering him.

As with every time the human got cornered or in a dangerous place, he would kick the Ithecal’s inner leg and threw a jab on his face, before slipping away from him. But not this time. Arc was ready and the human was slower. The dragon let his leg be kicked while moving forward, slightly changing the angle where the kick would have struck, reducing the impact. Arc tucked his head slightly so the guy’s jab would hit the hardest part of his forehead while throwing a punch of his own matching the human’s timing. Arc would let him had a pound of his flesh while he pulverized his bones.

Gladia’s punch connected to the boy’s head at the same time his body blow hit. It had different effect though. Arc might have a mighty headache after that punch and his vision was shaking, but he could still push ahead. The human on the other hand had all his breath taken away from him. His legs that had never stopped moving during the fight finally got grounded to the ring. The spasms in his diaphragm would decrease his lung capacity and that would deprive him of oxygen. And the damage to his liver meant there were no chance for him to get any effective rest.

Arc moved forward even more and Gladia could only back off where the corner was waiting for him. There was nowhere to run. Arc pounded on him and with an uppercut broke his guard. Gladia tried to give a straight to the young dragon but he was already punching as well. Their punch hit at the same time again, but there was not much power left in the human’s fist. The Ithecal would pay his debt in full, though. His closed fist sunk into the man’s face deep, crushing his nose entirely. His head swung backwards to hit the wooden corner behind him hard before swinging forward again. The man slumped down and hit the canvas knee first before the rest of his body. It was over.

The red dragon moved back to his corner while waiting for the referee to proclaim his win. He seemed to be frozen, though, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. Arc look to the betting site and the bookmaker and saw a birdman there. What were they called again? Avriel? Yeah, that would be it. Ohh, did he bet? It didn’t seem look like he was someone losing a bet. Did he bet on him?! That was flattering! Arc gave him a smile and a thumb up when they seemed to lock eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. The referee’s shout brought him back to the ring and as expected the human didn’t go back up.

Arc gave a salutary bow to his opponent, though. That was a tough and honorable sparring.

[Pharan]

F

or a terse moment, the crowd went still. Pharan leaned forward. By his side, the bookkeeper had half risen from his place by the wall. Somewhere to the far left, a shout rung out from the audience. The first voice was joined by another and then another. People pressed forward. The audience went wild.

Pharan had expected anger. Outrage, maybe. Instead, the mood in the room took a sudden shift. Spectators who had cried for the human combatant now carried the Ithecal’s name on their lips. A few faces went dark, but they were the minority as far as the Avriel could see. Not that it was easy to see anything. The audience was in motion, pushing, gawking, waiting to see if the human would get up again. Pharan was threatened to get swapped away by the pull of the crowd but pushed back; hard. He barely noticed. He felt something he rarely felt caught in the middle of a mob—excitement.

For two, three trills he brought up his tangle, suspicious of someone’s interference. He stopped when he felt the bookmaker’s stare. Pharan straightened. He looked back to the man sitting beneath his slate board and the mountainous figures of two Ithecal framing him. Somehow, he had missed them, till now.

“Three silver on the Ithecal, was it?”, the man asked his pale eyes on Pharan.

The Avriel nodded.

Pharan’s three silver coins made a reappearance. Others joined them. By the time the other man was done, the stack of nel was shorter than Pharan had thought it would be. He met the bookkeeper’s gaze, then glanced up to the two men lingering beside him.

He took the money.

Pharan was about to turn when the man spoke up. “The next fight has two Ithecal—a long time champion and a fresh face from the inland. Might be something for you.”

Unlikely, Pharan thought, but he found himself looking up to white chalk marks overhead. He looked at the silver before him, and up again. He ran the numbers—stopped. His heart lurched just a little as he reached down to collect his earnings.

“Another time,” he said as looked around.

The audience had started to disperse, men and women talking among themselves as they waited for the next fight to start. Pharan found himself drifting over to the victor as the other man pushed away from the arena.

“You don’t fight here often, do you?”, Pharan said in the way of introduction, stopping some feet before the Ithecal; the pale of his wings showing beneath his cloak. “Was a good fight—didn’t think you would win, for a time.”