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Chapter Twenty-One

Zeb and Noriko entered the building where the Sword of Wo was held; the door guard, a Weserian regular army man who appeared as though he'd been a boy only last week, looked at their Sonneheim Games identity papers and passed them through with a disinterested nod. Zeb was grateful to see that there were no unexpectedly large crowds here; the building was as lightly trafficked as it had been the previous day.

"You've been quiet," Noriko said. "Ever since we left the All-Out."

"I've been—it's been sort of—ah, hell. I've just been mad. Because of what Geert Tiwasson said."

"About crushing you?"

"No, about why he was going to crush me. I'd just sort of assumed, Swana's example to the contrary, that everybody with a Burian name was buying in to the Reinis' light-is-right racist dogma." He added, his tone grudging, "Which has me making basically the same mistake they're making."

She smiled at him. "Maybe your mind is out of training. Harris's certainly was when he first came to the fair world."

"Yeah, but in his case it's a lifelong condition."

They entered the Sword of Wo chamber, where competitors and audience were already gathering. Zeb looked for but did not see Colonel Förster among the attendees.

In the draw for this semifinal round, Chang O'Shang drew Harada Sen and Noriko drew Prince Hayato. "This is good," Noriko said as she rejoined Zeb. "The distraction he poses me will end today, whether or not I win."

"You seem pretty happy."

"I will accomplish my goal with him today."

"You'll beat him."

"I told you, I do not care about that, Zeb." She flashed him a smile, calm and confident. "But I realized what I did care about with him. You helped me do that."

"And what was it?"

The referee called Prince Hayato's name and Noriko's. She shrugged. "I'll tell you later. Help me into my helmet."

* * *

Noriko and Hayato endured the words of the referee, waited for his signal to begin, and came at one another with the blindingly fast blows and curious shouts unique to the Sword of Wo.

Unlike the fight between Noriko and Ikina, this was no mismatch of size against grace. The two were almost identical in speed, Hayato perhaps a bit stronger, Noriko perhaps a little more precise. Circling, but demonstrating little wasted motion, they struck, blocked, counterstruck, retreated. Their exchanges became punctuated by short moments in which the two stood back out of sword's reach and caught up on their breath. Then they came together and Hayato was able to batter Noriko's block down. He struck her in the side of the neck before she could counter the move.

She bowed. They resumed their start positions and began again. Again, their exchanges grew long and the breaks they took to catch their breath became more numerous. Yet this time, Noriko took advantage of increased sloppiness in Hayato's technique—she took his last blow as she was backing away, was able to maneuver his edge and point just slightly out of line, and stepped forward to hit him in the center of his chest with her point.

He froze, looking at the wooden swordtip against his armor, then took a step back and bowed. Zeb discovered that he was holding his breath; he released it slowly.

Noriko and Hayato returned to their start positions a trifle more slowly than before, trying to squeeze out every last moment of rest they could, and then came together in their final exchange.

Hayato came out strong, battering at Noriko's defenses, his speed only slightly diminished by the tiredness he had to be feeling. Noriko's circle of defense withdrew—she had to block incoming blows more and more closely to her body as her strength ebbed. Her counterstrikes were fast and sure, not as strong as at the match's start but sufficient to count as kills had they landed, but Hayato's defense was strong and not failing.

Hayato raised his guard high to catch one of her blows near the tip of her blade but at the round hilt-guard of his own weapon. He snapped his blade down and caught Noriko on the shoulder, a hard impact, a kill.

She stopped and bowed. He bowed in turn. The audience applauded. Hayato and Noriko exchanged a few words, then turned to the sidelines and quit the field, both of them moving toward Hayato's trainer and away from Zeb. They were still talking. Zeb frowned, but stayed where he was. This was obviously a private matter between the cousins.

Eventually, as Harada Sen and Chang O'Shang were taking the field, Noriko rejoined Zeb. He helped her off with her helmet. She was smiling.

"You're happy." He set the helmet down at her feet.

"Yes."

"Can I ask why?"

She turned to watch Harada and Chang receiving the referee's instructions. She nibbled at her lower lip, a very Western gesture for her. "It's hard to explain. Do you know what he said to me afterwards?"

"No."

"He asked me to return to Wo and rejoin the foreign office."

"As a spy."

"Yes, of course."

"And this made you happy?"

"Zeb, he asked. He did not order me. He did not try to blackmail me with the regard of my relatives and my dead parents. He just asked. I said no, of course."

"Uh, I still don't get it."

"Zeb, respect is a good and proper thing. I had some for him, but before today he had none for me. You showed me that having too much respect for an opponent was like handing him an extra blade. I defeated Hayato yesterday when I talked to him, when I did not rise to his baiting, when I made him feel like a fool for playing irrelevant word games. I defeated him again today when I fought him well, fought him to a standstill at times, and never became the weak thing he has always thought I was." She shrugged. "Just now, for the first time in years, he offered me respect. Just the ordinary respect grown family members should offer, nothing more." Her smile broadened. "Naturally, I did not let him suspect that this meant anything special to me."

"Naturally."

The referee raised his sword from between Harada and Chang. Noriko and Zeb left off talking to watch.

* * *

The shadows were already growing when the All-Out competitors convened for the semifinal matches. Again, the event was set up at Ball-Field Number One. The crowds were bigger, the press corps had swollen, and Aevar's viewing box was even more heavily populated; the king's daughter Edris was there, as was Prince Casnar.

This time regular army men lined the lanes the athletes arrived through, and Zeb received no impromptu gifts of rotten fruit. Also, an airship—Zeb learned that they were called liftships here rather than zeppelins—floated overhead, westerly winds threatening to move it from its position above the field, its engines engaging every so often to keep it more or less stationary.

Colonel Conrad Förster drew Hathu Aremeer, a competitor of the nation of Donarau, one of the southern members of the Burian Alliance. He was a light, shorter than any of the other competitors, burned red from recent exposure to the sun, his long brown hair streaked with blond, his broad, unhandsome face reminding Zeb of a number of Army boxing opponents he'd had unhappy experiences with.

That left Zeb only the name of Geert Tiwasson to draw. He handed his chit to the referee and rejoined Harris and Noriko. "So I'm the only non-Burian left in the competition?"

Harris nodded, his attention on the stands, as he tried, as he always did, to pick Gaby out from the audience. "If you'd been awake for the last match you'd have realized that."

"Keep prodding, Greene. So, you've seen one more match with Tiwasson than I have. Anything new to report?"

"Yeah. He doesn't really show it, under all that muscle, but he is an old jock. You keep him at bay for forty, fifty minutes, you're sure to wear him down."

Zeb offered him a sour smile. "You're a big help."

"There she is." Harris waved until he appeared to have caught Gaby's attention, then turned back to Zeb. "Yeah, there's this. With every round except the first one, he's set up in anticipation of the type of fight his opponent offered in the previous round. He studies his opponents very closely, good for him, but I suspect that he commits himself to their repeating their strategies."

"Sort of like what I did with Stammgalf."

"Sort of."

"Guess it's time to shake things up, then." Zeb turned to Noriko. "Any advice, champ?"

She flashed him a quick smile, then pointed up at Aevar. "Him. He has told the press that you should not be competing, that you kicked Stammgalf like a horse because you're more animal than man. I think you should remember that every pain you inflict on Tiwasson, Aevar will feel."

"Good point."

But Förster's match with Aremeer was first, and Zeb was again able to see the skills that had brought the Sonnenkrieger to the final rounds of the All-Out.

Though Aremeer was a cunning wrestler and a tough boxer, Förster's bag of tricks was far deeper. When Aremeer grabbed him and bore him down, Förster demonstrated phenomenal grip strength in digging his hand into Aremeer's side under his rib cage and causing enough pain to break the hold. When both were standing again and Aremeer grabbed for him once more, Förster caught his incoming forearm, twisting it down and back, throwing Aremeer to the ground in a credible jiu-jitsu maneuver; Zeb heard Aremeer's breath leave him with the impact. When Aremeer, in a surprising display of agility, brought his legs up from ground level to wrap around Förster's waist, the colonel struck him a hard boxing blow to the balls.

And that fight was essentially over from that point. Aremeer rolled away, tried to keep his distance to give himself a moment to recover, but he couldn't quite manage to straighten himself out of a fetal position. As he was rolling, Förster kicked him once in the side of the head and Aremeer went limp.

The crowd roared its appreciation. Förster bowed to his king, then raised a hand and gravely accepted the appreciation of the audience. Then, coming to the sidelines, he pointed to Geert Tiwasson, a challenger's gesture, a wordless "You're next."

"Wrong opponent, asshole," Zeb said under his breath.

Stretcher bearers took the still-unconscious Aremeer from the field, and the referee called, "Geert Tiwasson, Weseria. Zeb Watson, Novimagos."

Zeb started out fast onto the field, his usual tactic, and felt his foot snag something. He pitched forward, seeing in his peripheral vision Tiwasson behind him, tripping him. Then he hit the grass, his hands and forearms taking most of the shock of impact. He heard Harris say, "You son of a bitch," and a laugh from Tiwasson. The big Weserian walked past Zeb, taking the field before him, saying as he passed, "Must be careful, this field is tricky." Zeb barely heard it over the roar of laughter from the audience.

Zeb felt a wash of anger. He tried to keep it from his face. One step into the match and he'd already lost points to the big Weserian. The crowd's laughter continued as he rose and followed Tiwasson to the center of the field. Tiwasson waited for him on the other side of the referee, a broad smile under his walrus mustache.

Zeb rose, schooling his face into an emotionless mask, and took his position. He didn't listen to the referee, just kept his intent stare on Tiwasson until the mallet was lifted out of the way between them.

Tiwasson brought his hands up and took a boxing pose. He waited. Zeb mirrored his pose, moved forward, threw a left-hand jab, a feint. Tiwasson's block was slow, unsure, though his return strike was fast enough. Zeb threw a combination, left-right-left, alternating between Tiwasson's face and midsection, and managed to plant a pretty solid hook in the man's ribs; Tiwasson lost his smile in a grimace of pain and backed away a step.

All right, Zeb thought. We have a measure of your speed. Let's go to work. He stepped forward, took Tiwasson's hook on the X-block of his crossed forearms, and moved in just a trifle too close for the man's next punch to have any power, then snapped his leg up to plant a knee in Tiwasson's ribs.

He hit hard, much harder than his hook of a moment ago, but this time his opponent didn't grimace. Tiwasson snapped his left arm down to trap Zeb's leg. He pulled, unbalancing Zeb just a little, forcing him to hop once to keep his balance. Tiwasson slapped Zeb, nothing more than a stinging blow, but it put the man in a position to hammer his forearm across Zeb's face on the way back.

Zeb's vision jerked as though he'd momentarily become unconnected to the world. When he could see again, his vision was tinged with red and Tiwasson's fist was coming at his face. He managed to get an arm up, partially deflecting the blow, but it still grazed along his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He saw the crowd in the stands, a monochromatic field of red onlookers, mouths open to shout, though he could not hear their voices.

Zeb let his support leg buckle, but Tiwasson, rather than allow himself to be dragged over, dropped him. Tiwasson followed through instantly with a kick toward Zeb's groin. Zeb twisted, took it high on his thigh instead, and pain exploded through his leg.

I'm losing, he thought, and knew resentment that the crowd was so happy about it.

His straying gaze fell on Noriko on the sideline. Her expression held sympathy for his pain, and something else besides. He'd seen it before, when she'd looked at him right after the fight with the Kobolde. It was a recognition of the alien place where his mind was right now.

A shadow fell over him. Not Tiwasson—the referee. Zeb's leg was already chambering to kick the man away, but something, just the memory of his fleeting glimpse of Noriko, held his attack in check. Why? Why not get rid of him? 

Then comprehension returned. His vision went back to normal. His hearing came back to him, and Zeb could hear the roar from the audience, even the faint "Watson—Watson—Watson" from one section of the stands.

"Drei," the referee said. Three. He was counting Zeb out.

Zeb put his arms on the ground and shoved, rolling over sideways and up to his feet. The crowd's roar increased. Tiwasson stood on the other side of the referee, his expression graduating from simple amusement to a grudging recognition that this wasn't over yet.

He's been outthinking me. Thinking two and three steps ahead, Zeb told himself. Not any more. 

The referee got out of the way. Zeb moved forward. When just within Tiwasson's striking range, he stopped and planted his feet. He's smart. Just let him glimpse a weakness and he'll target it. 

Tiwasson glimpsed it, Zeb's apparent immobility. He threw a hook that came in toward Zeb's side but was just there to mask his real attack, a kick at Zeb's lead leg. Zeb felt the kick coming rather than seeing it. He brought his left leg forward in a stop-kick that connected with Tiwasson's shin with a sharp crack. Tiwasson grunted.

Tiwasson's right hand was still out of position. Zeb swept his left out of the way, an effort because of Tiwasson's strength, then stepped in close and turned so he was just in front of the big man and facing the same way. He put his elbow into Tiwasson's chest, trying for the solar plexus.

He missed that vulnerable spot but still connected hard, his blow jolting through Tiwasson's torso. Then he spun again, sweeping with his leg, and took Tiwasson's legs out from under him. The big man hit the grass with a grunt, flat on his back.

He'll kick, Zeb thought, and twisted to get his hands into position.

Tiwasson kicked with his unhurt left leg. As the leg rose, Zeb caught his kneecap and pushed with one hand, grabbed his ankle and yanked with the other, avoiding the kick and hyperflexing the big man's leg.

The leg didn't break—Tiwasson was too strong, too big. But his face twisted in pain as the hyperextension hurt.

Zeb let go. He couldn't do more damage to the leg without allowing Tiwasson time to come up with a countermove. He threw a left-foot kick, little more than an insult blow, into Tiwasson's side and used the maneuver to push off from him. Tiwasson was already rolling up to his feet.

The big man didn't look as steady as he had before, though.

Zeb came on again, hands up in boxing position. As he came within range, Tiwasson threw his right hook again. Zeb blocked it, the impact jarring his fist and wrist, and swept his other hand to the side to catch Tiwasson's left jab.

Which left Zeb in close but Tiwasson's midsection exposed.

Zeb brought his foot up, planted it against the big man's stomach, and pushed, a muay Thai maneuver designed to separate opponents; as Tiwasson stepped back, the big man's injured legs betrayed him, caused him to stagger. Zeb spun into a kick, snapping out before Tiwasson was in view again, trusting his fighting experience, and his foot took the big man in the jaw.

The kick was as good as the one he'd thrown against Stammgalf, but Tiwasson had been right; he was stronger than the fighter from Dhenhavn. Tiwasson's head was snapped to the side by the impact; he turned that direction, mostly away from Zeb, and staggered forward, clearly off-balance, but he did not fall.

Zeb felt his head becoming light, felt his own balance becoming unsure. Tiring. Need to catch my breath. But he didn't; he couldn't afford to abandon this advantage. He charged forward, readied himself for Tiwasson's backward kick but there was none, and threw a hard blow into Tiwasson's back at kidney level.

Tiwasson grunted and spun, flailing at Zeb. Zeb went under the blow by the simple expedient of dropping into splits. As Tiwasson finished the spin, facing him, Zeb braced himself against the ground with one fist and brought the other up into Tiwasson's balls.

Tiwasson's grunt of pain was echoed by the crowd. The big man staggered forward, an involuntary motion rather than attack, and tripped over Zeb. He came down on his knees and threw up.

Zeb came up to his feet and took a breath. He wondered how long it had been since he'd had a deep one. He could feel pain in his thigh from Tiwasson's kick, taste blood from his nose. He stood over Tiwasson, ready to plant another blow in his back, and asked, "Are we done here, man?"

Tiwasson hesitated, stomach rippling as it threatened to send him into another round of vomiting. He didn't look at Zeb, but he nodded . . . and reached out to tap the ground three times.

A roar rose from the crowd. Some of it was made up of outrage. Some of it was appreciation for the fight the audience had just witnessed. Zeb didn't care. For the moment, he was done.

He turned to offer Aevar a bow. The king's platform was full to capacity with onlookers, and Casnar and Edris were still in attendance, but the king wasn't there. Edris, sitting in her father's chair, gave Zeb a little smile and a shooing gesture.

Walking off the field, Zeb pointed to Conrad Förster and mouthed the words, "You're next."

 

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