The Drowned Woods (12)

The Blaidd of Hafn Glawog looked more workhorse than man. He stood a full head taller than Fane and his shoulders and chest were thick with muscle. His features were disarmingly friendly—a smile that stretched across his face and shining blue eyes.

“What is this?” the Blaidd asked. When he laughed, the sound was rich and deep. “Lass, go back home. You don’t belong here.”

Blodeuyn merely walked up to the bookmaker—a young woman with a quill and a well-worn piece of parchment. Blodeuyn set down a bag of coins. The bookmaker pulled it open and blanched.

Excitement bloomed across the crier’s face. “Looks like we have a fight on our hands,” he shouted.

Blodeuyn turned to face the Blaidd. She could fight well enough—Fane had experienced that for himself only a few minutes ago. But the Blaidd’s weather-beaten face was full of amusement as he strode into the ring.

Fane watched, a gnawing dread taking hold in his belly. He’d seen many a person fight in this building, even watched one man bleed out when another snuck a wholly unsanctioned knife into the match. But he’d never watched someone he considered a friend face an opponent three times her size.

This was folly—but that didn’t matter to Blodeuyn. She would fight because this was her only chance to stop him. It was a kind of terrible bravery, and Fane both admired and resented her for it.

He knew a little too well what a person could do with such bravery.

The crier raised a hand, then let it fall.

The crowds screamed as the match began. It started with Blodeuyn; she did not wait for the Blaidd to attack first. She went low, kicking at one of his knees. It wasn’t a bad strategy—knees were fragile if hit at the right angle, and such injuries were painful and slow to heal.

The Blaidd wasn’t just a large man but a swift one, too. He stepped aside, so that Blodeuyn’s kick hit him squarely in the meat of his thigh. Fane watched as Blodeuyn’s jaw clenched tight, and then she was punching at the Blaidd’s lower belly, aiming for his ribs, for the soft flesh of his stomach. Several of the blows connected, and the Blaidd had to use his forearm to block.

Blodeuyn caught his arm and held him in place, using it like an anchor as she whirled, putting all her weight into a knee strike. There was an ugly crack when it connected, slamming into the Blaidd’s side. Fane winced at the sound; she had broken at least two of the Blaidd’s ribs.

Fury kindled in the Blaidd’s eyes. People reacted to pain in different ways—it could drive them to their knees or make them weep or steal the breath from their lungs. But pain only seemed to anger the Blaidd. All the restraint slid out of his posture, and his bared teeth gleamed in the torchlight. People did not call him the Wolf for nothing.

Blodeuyn tried to twist the Blaidd’s arm behind his back, to force him to his knees. But the Blaidd shook her off, the full force of his weight and bulk coming to bear.

The Blaidd struck her across the face.

Fane winced. The Blaidd had used his fist, and Blodeuyn looked as bloody and woebegone as Fane himself had during his own fight. Her nose would be broken, and perhaps her cheekbone, as well. But her eyes were full of fire.

It wouldn’t change things.

She’d been trained to fight. But the Blaidd liked to kill.

He got her feet out from under her with one savage kick. The sound echoed even above the din of the shouting, jeering, encouraging spectators. The Blaidd followed her down, landing punch after punch. Fane’s stomach roiled.

The Blaidd was going to kill her.

No one was going to step in.

Blodeuyn threw a lucky jab, striking the Blaidd at the corner of his eye. He jerked back and she used his distraction to roll aside. She coughed hard into the packed earth, pushing herself onto her elbows. She kept one arm around her chest, her face taut with agony. Fane knew the pain of broken ribs, how they set fire to a person’s insides. It was a wonder she didn’t simply stay down. Her face was colorless, save for the smudge of dirt and blood across her cheek. But she gazed at the Blaidd with a determination and strength that would have marked her as a hero in one of the old stories.

If this were an old story, she would beat him. She would find a clever crack in his defenses and bring down the murderer, prove that goodness and decency mattered.

But this was not an old folktale; there were no heroes.

The Blaidd moved so fast that Fane barely caught a glimpse of the blow. Blodeuyn hit the ground again, gasping with pain. This time, she did not rise.

There was a quiet in the crowd, the tense moment of a held breath. Everyone was waiting for the inevitable, for the final blow to fall.

And it would have—if Fane had not pushed one of the men aside and strode into the ring. He stood in front of Blodeuyn, his arms loose at his sides and gaze hard.

The Blaidd gave Fane a once-over. “Move, lad. This isn’t your fight.”

“You’re right,” replied Fane, his voice quiet but firm. “But I’m not going to let you kill her.”

The Blaidd’s forehead creased as he took in the sight of Fane. Fane did not often glance into mirrors; vanity was a thing he’d given up years ago. His eyes and hair were both dark, and while he tried to keep himself clean-shaven, stubble traced the line of his jaw. His nose was crooked from several breaks, and a scar forked through his upper lip.

Fane was all rough, unfinished edges—a sculpture abandoned by its artist.