Starflight (Starflight, #1)(43)
After that, Doran spent the match ducking and running with minimal success. He peered at his aggressor through the cracks of his swollen eyelids and the stinging sweat that blurred his vision. He couldn’t see his periphery, and Demarkus must’ve known it because three left hooks came in a row. Doran pushed onto his feet only to tense for the next hit—to the mouth, the nose, the stomach. No part of him was safe. At one point, Doran took a blow to the head so hard he saw the future.
And he wasn’t in it.
He began to realize this strategy wouldn’t work. He couldn’t match his opponent in strength or speed, so attempting to wear him down and trip him was a waste of time. To win the fight, he’d have to find Demarkus’s greatest weakness and exploit it. Doran knew the man was arrogant, but how could he use that to his advantage?
To buy himself a few seconds to think, he executed some basic football drills, faking left and darting right while he decided what to do next. He kept hearing Solara’s advice inside his head. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty. His instincts told him that was the key, but how?
Another punch clipped Doran’s jaw with enough force to send him back to the planks, where he bounced twice and landed faceup. The adrenaline began to wear off, allowing a torrent of pain to swallow him whole. His face throbbed like an overinflated balloon. Hot blood flowed over his mouth, and when he darted a tongue over his lips, it slid between a cleft of missing flesh. A selfish part of him wished he could pass out so his suffering would end.
Then an idea came to mind.
He could pass out, or at least make it look that way.
With an extra-loud groan, he rolled onto all fours and swayed back and forth, even gagging for effect. He stood from the hard planks and immediately let himself tilt to the side until he stumbled back to the floor. Then after one more feeble attempt to rise, he went limp as a noodle and gave up the fight. Almost at once, he heard Demarkus’s throaty chortle, followed by the crowd’s roar of applause for the victor, their chief.
While the hall erupted in celebration, Doran kept both eyes closed and waited for the planks to stir beneath him. When he felt the thump of footsteps, he snuck a peek at Demarkus’s boots and noticed they faced the opposite direction.
Now was the time to come alive.
He belly-crawled a few inches toward Demarkus, who was too busy pumping his arms in the air to notice anything else. Doran glanced up at the juncture of his opponent’s widespread legs, pleased to find that Demarkus had left his weakest spot unprotected.
Arrogance, Doran thought, grinning.
He pushed himself onto one elbow while tensing his opposite fist. A few of the men watching from outside the ring had begun to catch on. They pointed wild fingers at him and shouted at their chief in warning. Doran knew he couldn’t wait another second. Drawing on all his strength, he thrust his arm straight up and punched his enemy in a vulnerable place that made all men weaklings. His knuckles connected with a satisfying pop, and at once, Demarkus bent at the waist as if an invisible hand had chopped him in half. In slow motion, his massive frame tipped over and landed on the electric ropes. There was a long crackle of energy, followed by the stench of burnt hair, and Demarkus went rigid as he fought to untangle himself. The pain had clearly made him clumsy because it took three tries before he managed to stagger free.
Doran jumped to his feet and quickly pushed Demarkus back onto the ropes. When the man eventually rebounded, Doran was there to deliver another shove—and then another. Each time, the voltage seemed to drain Demarkus a little more, until his head lolled from side to side and his body began to sway. Then, clenching one fist, Doran wound up and punched Demarkus hard enough to send him to the floor with a loud clatter that shook the planks.
The crowd fell silent, and the electric ropes shorted out.
Keeping a wary distance, Doran crept near enough to study his opponent’s face—lids shut, lips parted by slow, deep breaths. He didn’t know if Demarkus was playing dead or truly out cold, so he stripped off his belt and used it to secure the man’s wrists behind his back. Only then did he rise and face the crowd, lifting an arm to declare himself the last man standing.
Nobody cheered.
A thousand pirates blinked at him, then turned to peer at one another in confusion. Hands settled briefly on pistols before drifting up to scratch their owners’ heads. The reaction told Doran that they didn’t know what to do. Should they honor the victory of an outsider, a boy who’d won by trickery, or avenge their leader?
Solara must’ve noticed their indecision, too, because she snatched a pulse pistol from the nearest hip and started waving it around. “Stand down,” she shouted at the crowd. “According to your rules, no moves were barred. My pilot won his challenge. You’re bound by Brethren law to let us go.” She tossed her gold necklace onto Demarkus’s body, then pointed the gun at Four-Eyes. “You. Drop your weapon and come here.”
The guard obeyed.
She pressed the muzzle to his back and ordered, “Tell your crew to make a hole. You’re going to lead us to the hangar, and if anyone moves on me or my pilot, I’ll ventilate your chest.”
Four-Eyes seemed to hesitate, but then he raised both hands and begrudgingly told everyone to clear the way. Like molasses on a pancake, the spectators drifted toward the edges of the great hall and opened a path to the exit, never taking their eyes off Solara. She gave the guard a nudge and followed as he began a cautious stride through the room. Doran fell into place behind her. His eyes had swollen nearly shut, making it impossible to watch the crowd, so he fixed his gaze on Four-Eyes and let Solara scan the others.