Bladeraver (pt49) (302 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 15 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Tactile Ire (View user info) at 2007-04-18 19:15:54 EDT
As they drifted back towards the sandfloor the drumbeats picked up in tempo. Set back from the stage was a collection of drummers, wind and string instrumentalists and a couple of vocalists. With glazed intensity they watched the warm-up sessions now beginning on the sanded platform. During the night they provided a soundtrack for the action, raising or lowering the volume and pitch of their freestyle efforts to coincide with the ebb and flow of the combat. The effect heightened the already charged atmosphere. The Mantling felt his skin crackle with energy. The hairs on the backs of his forearms lifted. How much more susceptible to this were the drugged punters?
The fights began in earnest. The woman of many knives who'd spoken to him earlier was matched against a bare-chested stick-fighter. They circled each other warily, she in a broad crouch stance with a blade in either hand, held low, almost brushing the sand; he in a more upright posture with sticks set forward and high to guard the upper body and head.
As the drums beat out a slowly rising cadence the two feinted at each other, probing for response.
The woman swept forward - her right hand stabbing towards the man's face, her left staying low. The fighting sticks came down, one knocking the weapon from her right hand, another striking the side of her body with a sickening thump. The impact shifted her charge to the side as her left hand stabbed up. She aimed for the groin but struck in the meat of the upper thigh. Leaving the weapon embedded in her opponent's flesh, the woman rolled and came up in a crouch, slightly bent over her injured side and holding two new blades.
The Mantling was stunned by the speed and ferocity displayed by both fighters. Their faces were twisted in matching rictuses of hate. The fighters snarled and growled, though the sounds were all but drowned out by the charging music. Their attacks were smooth and flowing. He'd never seen a human being move that fast. This, then, was the spectacle at the heart of this strange amusement. He looked around.
The punters were transfixed by the fight - they seemed to have gone completely out of themselves as they focused on the blood-sport with avid lust. Here a man dodged and shuffled with the protagonists - mocking out his own responses to the moves made on the stage. Over there a couple pressed against each other in raw lust as they both watched the combat with unblinking gazes.
The musicians seemed to be playing without volition - their attention fully on the fight, instruments seemingly forgotten in their hands as they played on. The entire crowd ached with the tension building in the sanded circle.
The atmosphere pounded sense and flayed emotion until, in a sudden burst of crimson, it was over. The lithe woman penetrated the stick-man's guard with a well thrown blade. Blood fountained from the man's neck as he pitched forward and the tension broke in wild delirium as the crowd reached its first peak of the night.
Medics rushed into the circle to render what aid they could. Good bladeravers were too valuable to waste needlessly. On the other side of the oval the leather-clad woman bounced and waved at the crowd as they showered her with notes and flowers.
A sort of a lull developed, a hiatus in the build up of tension, as the Mantling moved to side of the ring and began his stretching and meditation exercises. Slowly he slipped into his fighting awareness and the charge in the room hit him afresh. The atmosphere made it somewhat more difficult to focus. He put his energies into finding his centre as his body went through its familiar stretching routine. He slowly became cogniscent of the fighters and punters around him, most of whom were studying him with a strained nonchalance.
He lowered himself into a full split, toes in line with shoulders, groin resting on the ground. Moving slowly, he braced his hands on the ground and lifted his legs up, pushing the stretch further. The murmured conversations drifted to him in snatches. It seemed his flexibility was uncommon and those around him thought it a waste of possible talent that he was to fight undrugged.
Bresta stepped onto the stage above him, a spiked lochabar axe held easily in one hand. Almost one-third of the length of the two-handed weapon was made up of the head. It was a massive piece of cast steelwood. A sweeping curved edge dropped away from the haft, a spear-tip like poniard extended forwards and a serrated spike counterbalanced the axe head at the abse of the shaft. Bresta spun the solid weapon in his hand as though it massed no more than a short sword. He lifted his hands and roared to the ceiling. The crowd roared back and the drumbeats began again.
Bouncing easily on the balls of his feet, the Mantling stepped up and forward-rolled to pop up beside the roaring giant. As he came up he drew the left in a rising backhand strike. The right cleared its scabbard, coming in and across the body.
With unnatural speed the huge Bresta spun away in mid-roar, dropping the axe into the path of the left. Both weapons rebounded with a harmonious ring - like glass on crystal. The Mantling's right-hand blade swept in unimpeded and opened a long gash across Bresta's chest. Blood flowed freely down to pool around his waistband.
Ignoring the wound, Bresta dropped into a low crouch, weight forward, upper body swaying back and forth. His axe was slung beneath him, like the payload under a trooper's glider, poniard tracking the Mantling's face as he sidestepped around the scarred man, looking for an opening.
A slight bunching of those massive shoulders was the only warning the Mantling received. He jumped, spinning to bring both blades around his body, attempting to block the axe as it cannoned in towards his body. Even with both of his blades on the haft he barely managed to deflect the heavy weapon enough to escape injury. As he dropped lightly to his feet he brought the swords hacking back in a reverse cut.
He was astonished to feel the shock of steelwood on steelwood as his ears filled with that crystal clang. The axe had been wrested back from its trajectory and turned to meet his blades. The sheer power required to pull off that manoeuvre was intimidating. Dropping and turning, the Mantling cut down and in, seeking knee and groin. The axe haft blocked the groin shot but he got a solid hit against his opponent's knee guard.
Bresta grunted and white pain exploded in the Mantling's temples. He was dazed and looking for the rock that had been thrown from the crowd as the big man pulled his fist back for another blow. The second shot glanced off the Mantling's head and into his chest, pushing him down to the ground. As he went down, winded and dazed, his grip opened involuntarily. The twin swords fell from his spikes to land on the white sands beside his body.
Standing over his prone opponent Bresta spun the axe over the back of one hand and up into his grip as he positioned his feet, then drove the axe blade down to cleave sand and platform wood as the Mantling made a desperate roll away. The axe lodged in place, vibrating with the force of the blow.
With a roar Bresta began kicking his opponent in the groin and upper thigh. He lifted a leg to stomp on prone ribs as the Mantling surged up, grabbed the raised foot and stood. Bresta toppled backwards, landing on his back, one of the Mantling's dropped weapons trapped beneath his large frame. The other lay some feet away.
Ignoring the fallen weapon and Bresta's attempts to block his path to it, the Mantling swept down to the huge man on the ground. He started at the already injured knee, a toe kick separating the kneecap from the joint. He dropped further after the kick, putting a straight open palm punch to the groin, driving the climbing spike on his hand through the femoral artery. He scrambled on up the length of the scarred man. An elbow to the solar plexus, a bladehand strike to the base of the throat follwed by a palm heel to the nose.
At some point in the combination Bresta had stopped screaming and, after this last, he stopped struggling.
The Mantling's knee rested on his still chest.
Slowly the Mantling recovered awareness of the crowd as they rode their visceral rush. He looked down at the corpse beneath him and staggered to his feet. He stepped down into the now silent ring of fighters, sucking air into his lungs and unsure of what would occur next. He was ignored for a merciful moment as the focus shifted to the cooling body on the sand. By the time the gold-shirted promoter was in his face the Mantling had regained enough of his control to refrain from killing the strident man.
Despite Drewhldt's blocking presence, the Mantling's patience with goldshirt's invasive attitude and foul language was wearing thin. He was almost reaching for his weapons when the bookie Charke stepped between them and began to make placating sounds. In a few moments he had the gold-shirted man away from them and turned to the Mantling and his two companions. "A spike-handed straight-headed killer. Falling Dreams man. How the fell did you even see him coming?"
The truth was that even on drugs the man had been slow compared to the Terror, or even the mants. Even so, the Mantling found his own speed and deadliness somewhat surprising. Ever since he'd come out of the honeysalve he seemed slightly faster, a shade stronger. He responded to Charke's query with a shrug.
"Oh - silent type. Alright, I can handle that. Got a name, spikehand?"
"Spikehand'll do."
"Falldamned 'Veldt-boy thinks he's all mysterious. Alright. Keep your name, killer. For now though - do you know what you've done?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," responded the suddenly weary Mantling as he checked his hurts.
"You have just created a legend. Not only are you Immolate's new club bitch, but to step up to the title weaponless and clear headed? By mid-morning they are going to know of this from here to the halfway up the log-pile. By the end of the week Rhys over there," he jerked a thumb at goldshirt, "is going to be fielding invites from some big name outfits - Scream, Frantic, Gatecrusher - fell, maybe even the House of Pain. You are in a position to make some very nice money."
"And meet some well-connected people?" He didn't know why he asked. Fatigue and adrenaline shock had loosened him more than he knew. Charke was obviously a good judge of people though, for he pounced on the opening.
"Oh hoh! The killer wants to be connected. Yeah - that might happen - if you've got the right man to steer you. To point out the players. Make the introductions."
The Mantling refused to sigh. He'd given enough away already. This grease-spot would do as well as any other, and they did need a guide to get them through this fetid night-time world. "And why would you help us in this way?" he asked, summoning all the level menace he'd ever heard his father use.
The goateed man refused to be phased. "Why? Thirty percent of all purses, all extension rights and exclusivity. That's why."
"How about you show me what you can do and who you can bring to the table before we talk about rates?"
"What, give you free contacts, set up your next fight and then find myself out on my arse? No way."
"I'll tear up the betting chit my man here's holding."
"You are going to love your next fight! Did I mention I'm a great networker?" Charke didn't miss a beat as he steered his new clients towards the exit.
They arranged a meet three days hence and parted, the trio slipping into the night, Charke back into the club to work the floor.
User Reviews
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2007-04-24 14:25:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm not finding it hard to follow this character through different geographical scenes. He originally was from what felt more like a country or small town setting, then off to the wilds for most of his adolescence and young adulthood. I enjoy learning how he adapts to a world he is not a part of.
It doesn't feel like he is walking (unnaturally) though time, just through his life.
babblebabblebabble $0.02
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-20 14:03:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
But.. ehm.. what about today's post? Part 50?
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2007-04-20 02:30:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It's catching on!
WOOO!
It might be strange to hear from some random e-dude - but gotta tells ya I'm pretty darn proud of ya.
God bless you brother Snare.
Submitted by Ildeth (user info) at 2007-04-20 01:17:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
woo hoo! you rock
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-04-19 17:27:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I am concerned that you feel the quality of the writing has slipped. I've felt a few passages have been a little clunky, but on the whole I like the imagery I'm achieving. If you have any particular instance of things that didn't work, wehter from a craft, character or plot point of view please let me know.
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The main issue here, is that you've taken your character imagery from the first series, and directly transplanted it into this new series, which is markedly different.
The second series has more of an urban feel to it, due to the language and character interaction.
The first series was heavy on imagery and exposition, while this one is (to some degree) more dialogue driven. There is still action, but the tone is different, and I think you'd have been better of not even introducing an old character, you should have started anew.
Let me give an illustration, such as...Indiana Jones.
Indiana Jones does his Indiana Jones-type thing in a story, ok, good...now the story's over, and...Indiana Jones goes to Gettysburg! And does Indiana Jones-stuff against the Confederates, with a railroad chase scene in the middle!
Now, the reader is expecting Indy to be running around in the jungle, stealing diamonds and avoiding giant spiders. Sure, he's still the same character, but it makes it hard to get into the story when all of a sudden he's fighting off grey-clad riflemen.
Or, having Washington cross the Delaware, in a hovercraft - just because you can physically write it, doesn't mean it's a good idea to do it.
Submitted by YELLOW-MAN (user info) at 2007-04-19 16:30:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by genericIntent (user info) at 2007-04-19 15:10:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by silent1 (user info) at 2007-04-19 11:28:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-04-19 09:03:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by messmind (user info) at 2007-04-19 04:18:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Aaahhh....
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2007-04-19 04:08:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-19 02:10:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You're gonna make me late for work..
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He should really stop hogging the bathroom
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-19 02:10:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You're gonna make me late for work..
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2007-04-18 23:12:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Absolutely awesome. It is writers like you that keep Uberers coming back.
Submitted by Zebra (user info) at 2007-04-18 22:16:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-04-18 21:17:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This whole series is great, and under-reviewed....
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-04-18 21:17:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This whole series is great, and under-reviewed....