The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 38

The yard ran hot with bodies and noise. Men stood shoulder to shoulder on the packed sand. They shouted names and wagers. They stamped heels for their own. The banners on the walls hung still in the salt air. Beyond them the cliffs dropped to the water. The ground in the ring was hard. Dust rose and fell with every step.

Stephan Shield waited in that dust with bare hands. His shield and hook lay against a post wrapped in leather. The shield was round and heavy. The hook was steel with a curve at the end. He had carried them across half the realm. He would carry them again. Not today. The marshal had pointed to the chalk circle and called his name and said bareknuckle. No armor. No boots with iron. No weapons. No killing.

An Einherjar came through the gap in the fence and stepped into the circle across from him. The man’s head was shaved close. Narrow eyes under a brow marked by old cuts. Thick neck. Thick wrists. Scars on both forearms. He rolled his shoulders and the joints clicked. The crowd went quiet at the sight of him. The Einherjar did not look at the crowd. He looked only at Stephan.

Stephan’s hands were steady. He moved his jaw once to loosen it. He spread his toes inside the thin leather shoes the marshals allowed. He set the right foot half a step back. He lifted the left hand and kept the right near the ribs. He had fought men with swords and men with fists and men with clubs. This one was different. The stance of the Einherjar was narrow and high and still. No wasted motion. No tell to the hands. No tell to the eyes. A man cut down to purpose.

The marshal raised a cloth and let it fall. The Einherjar came forward without a sound. Two steps and a straight right. The shoulder and hip moved together. Stephan slipped outside and felt the wind of the fist pass his cheek. He pressed a short jab into the nose and met bone. The Einherjar took it and kept moving. A left hook to the body found elbow. Stephan drew back and timed the next rush. The Einherjar did not overcommit. He checked his feet and cut the angle with a quick step Stephan had seen from sellswords in the Free Cities. Then the left hand cracked to Stephan’s ribs. A tight punch. No arc. The air left Stephan’s chest. He did not fold. He stepped in and wrapped the wrist and forearm and felt the bone, hot and solid. The Einherjar turned his elbow and broke the grip before Stephan could cinch it.

The crowd let out a sound. Not a cheer. A grunt from many throats. The Einherjar moved again. Fast. He feinted high and kicked Stephan’s lead leg at the calf. No wind-up. The shin struck clean. Stephan’s leg buckled and held. He shifted his weight back and touched the leg with the sole of his rear foot. The habit had saved him before. He lifted the left hand to draw the eyes and shot a straight right to the mouth. The Einherjar rolled with it and drove a left into Stephan’s ear. The world swung and steadied. Stephan clenched his jaw and let the pain run out. He saw the man’s chest rise and fall. He saw a thin sheen on the bald scalp. The Einherjar had not broken a sweat until now. He had started to.

Stephan shot a low kick to the shin. It landed. A toe struck bone. The Einherjar did not step back. He grabbed for Stephan’s neck. A collar tie. Stephan broke the grip at the thumb with both hands and latched to the back of the head and pulled the man down into a short knee. The skull met bone. It sounded dull. The Einherjar’s eyes sharpened. No stagger. He fired a right from the hip. Stephan’s left hand rose and caught it on the forearm. The force slid through his guard and jarred his shoulder. He moved off the line and pivoted to the man’s flank and took a half waist on the near side and tried to reap the foot. The Einherjar’s balance did not give. He hammered the back of Stephan’s head with a palm and wrenched for a snap-down. Stephan dropped his base and his neck held.

He had trained in yards and stables and fields. He had set to work on men who did not know the names of things. He had made names for them. Underhook. Crossface. Single. Sprawl. He had taught his body to find them without thought. He found an underhook now and swam for the second. The Einherjar cracked him on the ear again. Stephan turned his head and the blow skidded on bone. He got the second underhook and pinched the elbows tight and drew the man inward. The Einherjar stomped Stephan’s foot. A plain trick. It worked. Pain ran up the metatarsals. Stephan clenched his teeth and hipped in and dragged the man in a small circle. He tried to lift. The Einherjar’s hips stayed low and heavy and sure.

They broke apart. The Einherjar’s mouth was open now. The breath came hard and quick. He pressed forward at once and pinned Stephan’s forearm and hammered the ribs. Stephan guarded his liver and took the shots on bone. He sent a short shovel hook to the body in return. It landed. The Einherjar grunted and drove Stephan back with a forearm across the chest. Stephan gave ground to keep his feet. He felt the ring rope at his calf. It was only a rope on pegs. He moved out.

The Einherjar threw a right cross again. Stephan slipped in and clamped the arm and turned the body with a two-on-one. He drove his shoulder to the man’s triceps and walked him a step. He reached the second hand to the wrist for the drag. The Einherjar ripped free and swung a left hook over the top. Stephan ducked. The hook brushed hair. He came up on the far side and sent an elbow to the jawline. The Einherjar rolled the jaw and took it. He countered with a quick jab. It landed on Stephan’s nose. Blood ran. Stephan wiped it with the back of his hand and tasted salt.

They circled. The Einherjar lifted his chin a hair. It was enough. Stephan feinted low with the eyes on the hip. He dipped the shoulder and drew the hands down and planted the foot and turned through the hips and threw the right kick high. The shin cracked against the hinge of the jaw at the angle near the ear. The head snapped. The body froze and then folded backward at the knees. The man fell flat. Sand rose around his skull and settled.

For a breath no one moved. Then the ring broke. The marshals ran in. They knelt and checked the Einherjar’s breath and pulse. The man’s eyes were open and empty. An arm twitched once and lay still. They rolled him on his side. A trainer pressed fingers behind the ear and checked the jaw. They spoke to each other in short words. The man drew a slow breath. The chest rose and fell. He lived. They dragged him to the fence and passed him through to his fellows.

Stephan stood in the center and put his hands on his hips and let the breath out. He did not raise his arms. He did not shout. He rolled the ankle that had taken the stomp. He moved his jaw and felt a catch in the left side. He pushed the hinge until it clicked and slid clean again. He looked down at his knuckles. The skin was split over the first two. The blood seeped. He curled and uncurled the fingers. They would work.

A shout went up from the seats. Not a roar. A hard sound. Short and strong. Coins changed hands by the dozens. Men slapped each other on the shoulder. A boy crawled under the fence and scooped up the bent ring rope stake that had snapped in the scuffle and held it up with both hands. A guard pulled him back by the collar and set him down outside the chalk.

Stephan raised his head and looked to the high platform. Valon Greyjoy sat with Tyla beside him. On the far side the King sat under a canopy. Alicent Hightower at his shoulder. Lords and captains on benches row by row. No one wore a crown here. Not in truth. The eyes in that place were all the weight a man needed to feel.

She stood one level lower at the rail. Hair black. Face pale. Armor black at the shoulders. No helm. Her hands were empty. Hela Greyjoy did not clap. She leaned forward a measure. Her chin rose once and fell. A slow nod. The green in her eyes glinted and went still. Then she looked away and spoke to a man at her side and the man moved at once.

The marshal crossed the ring to Stephan. He held out a strip of linen and a clay cup. Stephan wrapped his hand and drank. The water was warm. He held it in his mouth and spat blood and grit on the sand. The marshal pointed to the bench near the weapons racks. Stephan went and sat and set his elbows on his thighs and breathed. The pain in the ribs rose and settled. He had been hit hard before. He would be hit hard again.

The next fighters stepped through the gap while the crowd hummed and shifted. Bare hands. No boots with iron. A bald man with a full beard walked from the east side. Yellow sash at the waist. Plain trousers. No shirt. Scars like small white worms across the shoulders. The announcer raised his staff.

“Bao of Yi Ti.”

The man did not bow. He set his feet shoulder-width and placed both palms at chest height. Fingers together. Elbows in. No blade. No stance a Westerosi would know. He breathed slow through the nose and out the mouth. The chest rose and fell in a steady line.

From the west side came a broad-shouldered mercenary with a short beard and a broken nose. Old scars over both knuckles. Braavosi by the look of the cut on his beard and the way he carried his shoulders. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He lifted both fists under his chin. He narrowed his eyes and smiled a little. The announcer called him only by his trade and city.

“This man insisted that he be known only as the Mercenary of Braavos.”

The marshal dropped the cloth.

The Braavosi came forward with the lead hand reaching to check the distance. Bao did not retreat. He stepped forward into the reach with a short line step. His front foot landed between the Braavosi’s feet. He raised his left forearm and cut the Braavosi’s lead hand off the centerline with a sharp push. In the same instant his right palm shot forward and struck the base of the jaw. The head snapped back. The body locked. Bao’s foot drove through the Braavosi’s lead knee with a straight stomp. The knee buckled inward. The Braavosi pitched forward. Bao’s left forearm met the back of the head and guided it down. The Braavosi hit the ground on his side. The marshal lunged in with his arms spread and shouted halt.

Two moves. A palm under the jaw. A stomp to the knee. It was over.

The Braavosi rolled and clutched his leg. He hissed through his teeth. The marshals waved for the healers. Bao stepped back to the center and lowered his hands to his sides and stood still. Breath steady through the nose. No smile. No shout. He waited until the marshal lifted his wrist and called his name.

The crowd made that hard sound again. Not a roar. A stamp on the benches. A beat of palms on wood. Coins flew again. A banner from Yi Ti lifted in the east stands and dipped once. Men from the Jade Sea clapped in rhythm. A few Ironborn whistled. Some crossed their arms and watched Bao walk out with narrow eyes.

Stephan’s eyes had not left the ring. He had seen the step and the hand. He had seen the foot on the knee. He kept his breath slow. He traced the path in his head. Enter on the lead. Jam the hand on the line. Palm to the hinge. Stomp to the joint. No wind-up. No signal. The whole thing in one breath.

He raised his wrapped hand and held it in front of his face. He opened and closed the fingers. He placed his right palm under the left jaw and felt the angle. He took his heel and pressed it against the inside of his own knee and felt where the pressure would go. A joint would give. He set the hand down. He watched Bao leave the ring and vanish in the crowd. He watched how the man placed his feet even when he was not fighting. The feet told truth. The hips told truth. Men who lied with hands could not lie with feet.

A black-clad official passed the bench and pointed to Stephan’s hook and shield. The man’s head dipped. He spoke without looking at Stephan.

“Keep them close. Your bracket will call steel before sundown.”

Stephan nodded. He touched the shield rim with the fingertips of his left hand. The steel was cold. The leather straps were oiled. The hook leaned against the post. He had built the grip himself from oak and wrapped it in old belt leather. The curve would catch wrists and ankles and blades. It had spared him from killing more than once. It had saved hands and lives. He had broken bones with it and broken grips and broken pride. He had never liked the look in a man’s eyes when a life left it. He had seen that look enough. He preferred to end a fight without ending a man.

The bouts rolled on. Bare knuckle. Then staves. Then short blades with edges ground dull. Men came in and bled and left. A woman from the Stormlands beat a man from the Reach with three tight throws and a choke that ended when he tapped her arm. A sellsail from the Stepstones smashed a Myrman’s nose and walked out with a broken hand. The marshals moved with buckets and cloths. The sand turned dark in patches and then the sun dried it and the patches faded. The crowd ate and drank and shouted and jeered. The food stalls on the wall did not slow. Smoke from meat fires drifted across the benches. The smell got into the hair and did not leave.

Stephan stood and stretched and walked the edge of the ring. He kept his eyes on footwork and hands. He counted steps. He noted where the ground was uneven. A shallow rut ran near the east rope where a hundred heels had dug the same path. He would not step there if he could avoid it. A raised stone sat near the north post. Men stumbled there when they backed up under pressure. He would not be one of them.

He would win. 

A horn sounded from the outer wall. Not a long call. A sharp note twice and a third that stretched. Men stopped in the aisles and turned. The marshals looked to the platform. Lord Greyjoy did not rise. He spoke to a steward at his elbow. The steward nodded and ran.

A shadow moved across the sand. Then it moved across the benches and across the faces that turned upward. The sound came a breath later. A low crackle. Then a heavy beat. Wings. A red shape cut across the square of sky over the ring. The belly scales caught the sun and threw it into the eyes of the front benches. The tail drew a line over the crenels and the shadow spun once over the sand and over Stephan’s hands and over Hela Greyjoy’s pale face as she tilted her head.

The dragon turned over the yard and dropped breath in a long line that smelled of heat and ash though no flame came. The beast banked and climbed. The wings beat again and the benches shook. Sand lifted from the ring in a small storm and drifted down. Children yelled and men laughed and some did not. The guards at the gate lifted their spears and then lowered them again.

After a while, a crier ran in under the platform and took the handbell from his belt and rang it three times. He held the bell up and shouted from the center of the ring with a voice trained to cut through wind and war.

“Hear ye! Prince Daemon Targaryen has returned to Pyke. The Rogue Prince will join the lists.”