Stepping Up, Draft 1, CH 03 (Patreon)

The humid heat broke his concentration, causing him to gasp and only afterward cover his eyes against the bright light. He needed to travel to MountainSea in the evenings, this constant blinding light as he arrived was tiresome.

He stepped down the stairs and to the side with the others, giving their eyes time to adjust. The sounds of the market outside the pillars invited him to hurry there, with their distinct sounds, and promises of pocket filled with coins. As much as he’d like to dip his fingers in those pockets, he couldn’t trust them yet. All it took was one corruption caused spasm, and he’d lose a hand.

He’d be back to himself soon, he reminded himself again, opening and closing a hand, forcing himself to feel the ache. To judge if it had gone down since yesterday. Maybe it had. Or he was just telling himself it had, trying to convince himself.

He joined the people leaving the transport platform and walked down MountainSea Road, which cut the city in the center, going from the mountain to the sea. At Carlisle Way, he made a left and followed it until it widened and intersected Stone Drop, where shops and Kroseph’s family inn were located.

He stepped in and was blind as the light vanished.

“It is little man!” a woman yelled in heavily accented Pursatian, and Tibs readied himself. His sight adjusted to the lower light in time to see the woman grab him and lift him off the floor. “Little man return!”

“Hi Jesbel,” Tibs said.

“How trip?” she asked, carrying him to the back of the inn’s eating room. She was one of Kroseph’s older sisters, Tibs thought, or a sister of one of his parents. The explanations had come too quickly each time Tibs had asked and was broken by language and people speaking over one another.

Jackal had once said that enthusiasm was one of Kroseph’s defining traits. With visiting the family multiple times now, Tibs had decided it was shared by every member of Kroseph’s family.

“Tibs,” the older man behind the counter greeted him when Jesbel sat him on it.

“Mister Fernan,” Tibs replied, moving himself to the stool. Kroseph’s father and Jesbel exchanged words he didn’t understand, and she ruffled Tibs’s hair before disappearing into the back.

“How were your travels this time?” the man asked, placing a tankard before Tibs.

“I didn’t find it,” Tibs answered, placing a copper coin down on the counter.

“You will,” the man answered, glaring at the coin before raising his gaze to Tibs. They locked eyes and after a few seconds, the man sighed, took the coin, and put it in a box under the counter. Each time they had the same contest of will, and each time Tibs couldn’t explain why he insisted on paying, on why he wanted to be treated as a customer, rather than the extended family they kept trying to.

The closest Tibs came to explaining it to himself was that he already had his family, his team, and that he didn’t want to be part of a second one that would compete against them. He liked Kroseph’s family, but as friends, not as his own family.

“Where’s Kroseph?”

“Off with bad fighter,” Jesbel replied, returning and carrying a barrel of ale over her shoulder.

Kroseph’s father said something sharp, and she snorted. She didn’t like Jackal. She thought he was no good for Sweet Kroseph. She was one of the rare person the fighter couldn’t seem to charm.

“Where are they?”

“The arena,” the innkeeper answered, shaking his head. So Jackal was fighting again. “At least that way he isn’t going to end in a cell.”

Jackal had no problem calling himself a thug, and without the dungeon to direct his energy toward, or the training to survive it, he’d gotten in several brawls in his few weeks in MountainSea. Tibs had returned from his first trip to learn the fighter had had to pay most of his coins as part of his sentence after a fight had destroyed the inside of a tavern.

Jackal had spent the days afterward apologizing to Kroseph for it. Explaining he hadn’t intended to fight, he’d just gone in for a tankard because of the heat, but someone there had known he was friends with his family and had insulted them. Jackal had had to defend them. He’d then promised he wouldn’t fight again the entire time he was here.

Three days later he was in another brawl. Tibs had realized fighting was for Jackal what picking pockets was to him, and that Tibs had more self-control.

After that, Kroseph had suggested the arena, and Jackal had fought against it, somehow seeing that as a punishment, rather than a way to get the fighting out of his system. Even knowing he could win coins didn’t make the endeavor more appealing.

Tibs had tried to explain to Kroseph why Jackal was against it. How he saw stepping into the arena was willingly risking leaving Kroseph alone, while the dungeon and even the brawls were out of his control, things that were forced on him.

Kroseph had yelled at Jackal for being stupid, then they’d made up, then Tibs had left because they’d forgotten they were in an inn with customers and he wasn’t watching them have ‘them’ time.

“When did they leave?” Tibs asked.

“Just before you arrived. I’m surprised you didn’t see them.”

“All the light blinded me.”

The innkeeper chuckled. “If you hurry, you might be able to watch Jackal’s fight. They don’t plan ahead, so it takes a while before they can put him against someone who matched him.”

“They have Runners?” Tibs asked, surprised. It’s who it would take to match Jackal. Even the strongest fighter wouldn’t be able to win if they didn’t have an element.

“They have rules. No essence enhanced abilities unless both of the fighters have them.”

Tibs snorted. “Jackal cheats.”

“I’ve seen. But they also have a sensitive, so they know if one of the fighters cheats.”

“What’s that? No one’s ever told me about a sensitive before.”

“It’s someone who’s sensitive to essence. That’s about all I know. They aren’t common, and those who can prove they are can demand a lot of money for their services.”

“Can I talk with them?” Tibs asked.

The innkeeper laughed. “Ever curious, Tibs? I suspect they’ll be at the arena watching Jackal’s fight in case he cheats.”

Tibs took a quick swallow of the ale and ran out of the inn, ignoring Jesbel’s call to return.

* * * * *

The arena was packed, as usual, which made resisting the pockets tougher. His hand cramping as he reached for one served as the reminder he needed, then he was focusing on getting as close to the pit so he could see the fight and look around for anyone else watching attentively.

He could find Jackal, if that was what he wanted, his earth-tinted essence would stand out among the crowd of normal people, if he was within the range of Tibs’s senses. But the fighter would be under the seating, in the area for them to get ready for their fight. People complained about him standing against the stone rail, looking over it, searching where someone making sure no cheating happened might be. If their range was like Tibs, they’d have to be close to the fight.

He saw guards lining the pit, there more in case someone jumped in than to keep the fighters from leaving, Tibs had been told. With rare exceptions, every fight was voluntary and could be forfeited if desired. With them were official-looking men and women. Judges to decide fights where the end wasn’t decisive. No fight was to the death, but as with the dungeon, deaths happened.

Two fighters in a mishmash of armor that made no sense to Tibs stepped onto the pit and were guided to a circle in the dirt. The crowd erupted in cheers as the fighting started, and coins were exchanged.

The judges, Tibs decided, would be the best place for someone sensitive to be. It put them close enough to sense the fighters and intervene if needed. Tibs didn’t hear the swords clash against the shields among the people yelling, and he expected the distance would have muffled the sounds too.

A man fell to the ground, the other raised his sword. More cheers, exchanging of coins. Mostly coppers with a few silvers. The more valuable coins would be higher, where the seating was more comfortable, and Tibs suspected essence was used to let the nobles see better than anyone this close.

Two other fighters came onto the field as the previous ones left. A man and a woman. No armor, no weapons. Dressed in short pants for the man, the same for the woman, along with her breasts being wrapped tightly against her chest. The wrestling match was quick, with the woman the clear victor.

Jackal stepped onto the field as the two wrestlers left. He wore pants and nothing more. An older and more muscular man, also only in pants, accompanied him. When they reached the circle, the judge, a woman, spoke with them, waited, spoke again, and on the third time got both to break their glaring to nod at her. As soon as she was out of the circle, Jackal struck the other man in the face, and he hardly reacted.

Tibs pushed his sense as the two exchanged blows. Maybe they both had essence. He couldn’t make out their eyes from where he was. And his sense didn’t reach that far. Could he train it or was it never going to change?

Jackal took a blow that lifted him off the ground, then rolled out of the way of the foot coming down where his head had been. The crowd cheered, but Tibs didn’t. If Jackal hadn’t moved fast enough, that might have killed him.

Jackal stood and kicked the other man’s knee, with no visible results. The man responded with a backhand that sent Jackal flying out of the circle. The man followed and had to be restrained by two guards when he tried to kick Jackal, who was trying to get back to his feet.

The crowd was screaming something, but Tibs didn’t care what. He was running, looking for how to get under the seating area. He wished he had something like the normal amount of essence for at least earth. The arena was made of stone, so that would have let him figure out where the passages were. It was something Jackal could do now, so Tibs would be able to if he had enough essence. He couldn’t wait for the dungeon to open again so he could get more amulets to store essence. He needed one for each of them, that way he’d be able to do what the others could with their essence.

He found stairs going down into the dark, and only slowed to give his eyes time to adjust, avoiding people by the sense of the faint essence flowing through them. When he could see, he noticed the illumination was from mirrors reflecting the outside light. Fighters called after him, some laughing, others seriously. A few tried to catch him, but the corruption remained quiet and he could evade them.

Until the woman.

She stopped him with a stare, and she said something as he backed away. She raised her voice, and he bolted. Fighters looked out of rooms and the corruption chose then to act up, locking up his left leg and sending him crashing to the floor. Among the laughter, someone grabbed him and sat him on a bench. Tibs was too busy fighting back the scream to care who.

He hated corruption.

When he opened an eye, the woman was standing before him, studying him, studying his leg. She said something.

“I don’t understand,” Tibs replied through gritted teeth.

“Pursantier,” she said. “Who are you, child?”

“No one important,” he replied.

She reached for him and he tried to slide aside, but the shifting leg caused the pain to spike. She pulled up his left sleeve. “Children who are not important, do not benefit from this.” She ran a finger along the bracelet. “Sealed. Enforced. You do not run dungeon by choice.”

“What do you care?” he snapped.

“There is another with such a bracelet. One who does not shine as brightly as you.”

“You’re the sensitive.” Of course she was. He should have realized it when Mister Fernan had said that sensitive could demand lots of coins that she’d be a noble.

“You seem to have a dislike of me, and yet we have not met before.”

“I’ve met enough of your kind.” If not for the pain he was in, he’d have better self-control than to annoy a noble. You never let a noble know you didn’t like them because they were going to remove you.

“My kind? What kind is that?”

“Nobles,” Tibs said, then sighed as the pain ebbed.

“It seems your leg is better. What afflicts you?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“I am sensitive, not all-knowing. I see you have the essence, but not the eyes. I have never known of such a condition.”

“I’m too young.” He massaged his leg. It didn’t help but made him feel like he was doing something.

“You are indeed young. Can you walk?”

“Why? Can’t you get one of them to throw me out?”

“If that is your desire. You were looking at the other runner’s fight. I expected it is who you were running to see. I can take you to him.”

Tibs narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Why would I not?”

“Just tell me where he is.”

She motioned along the corridor. “Ask for the infirmary.” She said a word Tibs didn’t understand, then looked at him expectantly. He repeated it. She said it again, and he listened better. After his fourth attempt, she nodded. “It is the way they say it here. I wish you well, child, even if you do not the same for me.” She left, and he stared after her, trying to understand what she was up to.

When he could put weight on his leg, he followed her direction and asked for the infirmary until he found it. And there a Kroseph who’d cried recently, seated next to Jackal, with more wraps on him than exposed skin.

“Tibs,” Kroseph said on seeing him, “tell this idiot he’s not supposed to get himself killed in the arena.”

Tibs looked at the fighter’s injuries. Broken leg, arm. There was something wrong with the essence in his head, but Tibs didn’t know what that meant. He had bruises under the wraps and other things wrong Tibs couldn’t read from the way the essence was acting.

“Did you anger him?” Tibs asked Jackal.

The fighter looked at Kroseph. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I never do this right, do I?”

“I mean the other fighter,” Tibs said. While Kroseph squeezed Jackal’s hand.

“Who?” He turned to look at Tibs. “Hey, Tibs. Did you see me fight?” there was something wrong with the way Jackal looked at him.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He has suffered a concussion,” a thin man said. He carried wraps under an arm, had a thin knife at his belt, and otherwise looked no different from the people watching. “You should take him to a cleric if you want to be certain he will be fine. Otherwise, he needs rest and food.”

“Tibs will take care of it,” Jackal said. “He’s my best friend.”

The man looked Tibs up and down. “Clerics are not cheap.” He left.

“Can you fix him?” Kroseph asked in a whisper.

The leg and arm weren’t a problem. Jackal’s head. Tibs didn’t know. He didn’t know what a concussion was, or what trying to encase the essence there would do to the fighter. He looked around. Then there was the noble. If she was close enough and could sense what he did, who would she tell?

Let her, he decided. If she wanted to cause him and his team trouble, Tibs would deal with it. “Cover his mouth.” He encased the broken essence in the leg and tightened it back into place. Some of the corruption went with the essence he used, and it began spreading into Jackal. Tibs cursed and tried to pull it back, but it fought him. Later, he decided.

“We should be okay to take him back to the inn,” Tibs said. “But I might have made things a bit worse. It shouldn’t be too bad,” he added at the fear in Kroseph’s eyes.

* * * * *

Tibs stood before the shop and hesitated. He’d rather be at the inn, but there was nothing he could do for Jackal. A medic was looking after him and treating him for the fever Tibs was sure he’d given the fighter.

Tibs entered the Cliffside General Gatherer and had to step aside to avoid colliding with a man carrying packages. Tibs headed for the counter where the heavy-set man was. The tall and thin woman was speaking with a group of nobles by a display case.

“Hi,” Tibs greeted the shop owner. “I don’t know if you remember me. I came to your house and asked for a Sea Drop.”

The confusion on the man’s face was replaced with worry as he looked around the shop. “Why are you here?” there were hints of fear in the tone. Tibs knew the man had played a part in what had happened to Sto. The box he’d handed Tibs had contained it. But what he remembered of him was the worry and concern about what Bardik was planning.

“Bardik failed. He was captured. They sent him to a prison.”

“Oh.” The man’s tanned complexion paled. “No.” He grabbed onto the counter, his arms shaking. “Tari—” he whispered, then fell, knocking something over behind the counter.

“Chuck!” the woman yelled, and before Tibs could react, she jumped over the counter. Tibs looked around. Chuck was on the floor, shaking. Eyes wide with fear. She raised his head and placed a small bottle to his lips, whispering something. She noticed Tibs there, and the concern turned into anger. “Leave!” the rest was in a language Tibs didn’t understand, but even the lyricalness of the words didn’t cover up the hate in them.

Tibs ran.

Posted using PostyBirb