Rowena would hate this place, with its noise and its pressing throng. His mood darkened as he thought of her – a prisoner somewhere, a slave to the whims and desires of Collan. He forced such thoughts from his mind, and concentrated instead on his conversation with the poet. He had enjoyed irritating the man; it had eased his own anger, an anger generated by the unwilling acceptance that much of what the speaker in the park had said was true. He loved Rowena, heart and soul. But he needed her also, and he often wondered which was the stronger, love or need. And was he trying to rescue her because he loved her, or because he was lost without her? The question tormented him.
Rowena calmed his turbulent spirit in a way no other living soul ever could. She helped him to see the world through gentle eyes. It was a rare and beautiful experience. If she had been with him now, he thought, he too would have been filled with distaste at the sweating multitude waiting for blood and pain. Instead the young man stood amidst the crowd and felt his heartbeat quicken, his excitement rise at the prospect of combat.
His pale eyes scanned the crowd, picking out the fat figure of Old Thorn talking to a tall man in a red velvet cloak. The man was smiling. He turned from Thorn and approached the colossal figure of Borcha. Druss saw the fighter’s eyes widen, then the man laughed. Druss could not hear the sound above the chatter and noise about him, but he felt his anger grow. This was Borcha, one of Collan’s men – perhaps one of those who had taken Rowena.
Old Thorn returned through the crowd and led Druss to a fairly quiet corner. ‘I’ve set events in motion,’ he said. ‘Now listen to me – don’t try for the head. Men have broken their hands on that skull. He has a habit of dipping into punches so that the other man’s knuckles strike bone. Go for the lower body. And watch his feet – he’s a skilled kicker, lad. . . what’s your name, by the way?’
‘Druss.’
‘Well, Druss, you’ve grabbed a bear by the balls this time. If he hurts you, don’t try to hold on; he’ll use that head on you, and cave in the bones of your face. Try backing away and covering up.’
‘Let him try backing away,’ snarled Druss.
‘Ah, you’re a cocky lad, for sure. But you’ve never faced a man like Borcha. He’s like a living hammer.’
Druss chuckled. ‘You really know how to lift a man’s spirits. What odds did you find?’
‘Fifteen to one. If you hold to your feet, you’ll have seventy-five pieces of silver – plus your original ten.’
‘Is that enough to buy a slave?’
‘What would you want with a slave?’
‘Is it enough?’
‘Depends on the slave. Some girls fetch upwards of a hundred. You have someone in mind?’
Druss dipped into his pouch, removing the last four silver pieces. ‘Wager these also.’
The old man took the money. ‘I take it this is your entire wealth?’
‘It is.’
‘She must be a very special slave?’
‘She’s my wife. Collan’s men took her.’
‘Collan takes lots of women. Your wife’s not a witch, is she?’
‘What?’ snarled Druss.
‘No offence, lad. But Collan sold a witch woman to Kabuchek the Ventrian today. Five thousand silver pieces she brought.’
‘No, she is not a witch. Just a mountain girl, sweet and gentle.’
‘Ah well, a hundred should be enough,’ said Thorn. ‘But first you have to win it. Have you ever been hit?’
‘No. But a tree fell on me once.’
‘Knock you out?’
‘No. I was dazed for a while.’
‘Well, Borcha will feel like a mountain fell on you. I hope you’ve the strength to withstand it.’
‘We’ll see, old man.’
‘If you go down, roll under the ropes. Otherwise he’ll stomp you.’
Druss smiled. ‘I like you, old man. You don’t honey the medicine, do you?’
‘Does you no good unless it tastes bad,’ replied Thorn, with a crooked grin.
*
Borcha enjoyed the admiring glances from the crowd – fear and respect from the men and healthy lust from the women. He felt he had earned such silent accolades during the past five years. His blue eyes scanned the tiers and he picked out Mapek, the First Minister of Mashrapur, Bodasen the Ventrian envoy, and a dozen more notables from the Emir’s government. He kept his face impassive as he gazed around the converted warehouse. It was well known that he never smiled, save in the sand circle when his opponent began to weaken under his iron fists.