Venture Unleashed (The Venture Books) (26 page)

“So when we get there tomorrow, everyone’s going to know?” Earnest said.

“They agreed to keep it to themselves for now, and I agreed to give interviews, to go public after the winner is decided.”

“Why would they want you to do that? This is only going to make things worse for Uncrested fighters. If I win, and you go public, that kind of statement—”

“At this point, there may not be a Championship next year, and the kind of statement the two of us make is exactly what they think we need to save our sport. The members of the Fighting Commission are all Uncrested, and they want our sport to continue. They think it’s good for the country. That’s why they’re involved in it. They see the value of having a Crested man on their side, of having a Crested former champion.”

“It’s too late to avoid rocking the boat,” Earnest said.

“That’s right. The battle’s on, and we’re already nearly sunk. This kind of thing—you and me, Champ—can prove the Crested establishment wrong once and for all. It demonstrates how ridiculous, how irrelevant they are.”

“Don’t forget, Vent, that the Cresteds are a minority. Whose side do you think the people will be on, especially when they see what’s possible? When they see what the reality is, that there is no Crested mystique? Dasher,” Earnest added, “Maybe this would be a good time for you to declare your candidacy, too.”

Dasher smiled. “What do you think, Champ?”

They had no idea. What if Grant had sent the lawmen after him? What if they were waiting for him at the tournament? What would that do to Dasher’s brilliant plan? To his campaign for Representative of Rolling Hills County, to his revolutionary ideas?

Chance climbed up on the bed and sat beside him, drawing his knees up to his chest. His eyes brimmed with knowledge, as though he’d put together all the bits and pieces, even some of the thoughts Venture had never given voice to.
I’ll take care of it
, Venture wanted to say.
Don’t worry. No matter what happens, I’ll take care of you.
Instead he gave him a playful jab, then picked him up and gently tipped him back down on the bed. He was able to coax a few moments of laughter out of the kid, but he knew Chance’s happiness, all of their happiness, really depended on what he would be able to do on the mat.

Venture was burning up with the need to be anywhere but cooped up in their room. Earnest had taken Chance to try to find something for them all to eat, leaving him alone with Dasher.

“Come on, Champ, let’s do a little drilling while we wait.”

Eager to get some of his energy out, to focus his mind and body on the work he had to do tomorrow, to do anything but just wait, Venture shoved the table aside, while Dasher pushed the chairs out of the way, and then the two of them went at it.

When Dasher went in for a standing armlock, the pain in Venture’s already strained elbow ripped through him with such immediate intensity that he twisted sharply in the wrong direction, making it worse.

“Ahh! Stop.” He shoved Dasher back so hard, with such suddenness, that they both lost their footing and crashed into the table. Crushed between their weight and the unyielding stone wall, the table broke right down the middle.

Swearing, Dasher disentangled himself from the wreckage of the table, then offered Venture a hand up. Venture grimaced, holding his right arm to his chest and extending the left to Dasher instead.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing.” Venture kicked a broken table leg out of his way, taking his pain and frustration out on it.

Dasher straightened up and let out a long breath. “What happened?”

Venture forced his elbow to straighten. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

Chance opened the door and Earnest followed him in, carrying a tray of food.

“You wouldn’t believe the way they looked at me when I said I wanted to wait and bring the food up myself.” Earnest paused. Frowning, he took in the disarray. “What happened? You guys broke the table? You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on, help me out here. This is heavy.”

Dasher moved wordlessly to shove the broken table out of the way and set the tray on the floor.

Chance looked right at Venture and said, “You hurt.”

Venture ducked his head down to wipe the sweat from his forehead onto his shoulder, still holding his elbow with his good hand.

“What did you do?” Earnest took Venture’s swelling elbow in his hands, probed along the joint, and carefully worked it up and down. Venture tried to hide the waves of pain washing over him, but Earnest wasn’t easy to fool.

“I don’t know what happened,” Dasher said. “I barely touched it. It shouldn’t have—”

“I hurt it last week,” Venture mumbled, pulling away from Earnest. “It’s not your fault, Dash.”

“And you didn’t tell me about it?” Earnest said.

“I thought it would go away.”

“And you didn’t think to warn Dasher about it just now, either? ‘Hey, lay off the right arm. It doesn’t feel right.’ That’s all you had to say.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Well it’s a big deal now, isn’t it? The night before the Championship. How could you be such an idiot?”

“He not an idiot! You the idiot!”

“Chance,” Venture said, gently, yet warningly. He put his good hand on one of Chance’s arms. Chance’s hands were balled up into fists. “That’s enough.” He turned to his trainer. “Just say it, Earnest.”

“I’m not going to say it, because I know you’re not going to listen.”

“Say what?” said Chance.

“That he might have torn something,” Dasher said quietly, “and if he fights tomorrow, he could completely ruin it.”

“Permanently,” added Earnest.

Chance’s big eyes fixed on Venture.

“Don’t worry about it. This is my Championship, I’m going to fight, and I’m going to win.”

“I made a promise to your brother. I’m responsible—”

“Forget about Justice. Justice forbade me to come here.”

Venture steeled himself for an argument, for Earnest’s reminder of the position he’d put him in, but it didn’t come. Earnest rubbed his hand over his face and sank down on the edge of one of the beds. He didn’t know the whole story, but he knew the difference Championship winnings could make in Venture’s life. He didn’t want to take that chance to have a better future away from him.

Earnest looked up at Venture. “Should I bother reminding you that you could still have an entire career ahead of you to worry about?”

“There’ll be other years, Champ.”

“That isn’t what you said earlier, is it, Dasher?”

“We don’t know that for sure. We—”

“I’m fighting. That’s what we know for sure.”

Venture eased himself down on the floor next to their supper. The food had been completely forgotten by the others. He lifted the linen napkin from a dish, picked up a chicken thigh, and took a bite out of it, as if there were nothing to be concerned about at all. “Chance,” he said, “go back down to the kitchen and see if they have some ice for me, will you please?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When Venture entered the arena, the crowd gasped its surprise, then broke into applause. But their enthusiasm, their focus on him, was no comfort to Venture, who hadn’t yet learned to feed off the energy of the crowd as Dasher did. Perhaps it would be different once he’d won them over, once they were truly his fans. Today, he was just a spectacle—an eighteen-year-old fighter, a bondsman, who trained with a champion, and who was rumored to have recently beat some of the best fighters in practice, but who had yet to prove himself in competition. He was the source of much speculation and rumor. Whether he won or got beaten to a bloody pulp, his performance would satisfy their curiosity and settle their disputes, their wagers. All their eyes on him, their chants of his name, just put his stomach in knots.

Venture gave the crowd a nod, then went with Earnest to stretch out alongside a handful of other men in a corner of the arena. Beside him Chance stood, silently taking it all in. The first matches were about to begin, one in each of the three rectangular competition areas. Two announcers climbed the ladder to a raised wooden platform, took their seats, and began calling the first competitors’ names out through their horns. Day One was single elimination. Venture and dozens of other men would fight for five slots for the chance to challenge last year’s top five on Day Two.

Dasher came back to the warm-up area after a walk around the arena, greeting friends and fans. “Champ,” he said, “your brother’s here.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Venture said.

Dasher leaned against the wall next to him without another word.

Venture hesitated, then asked, “Did he say anything?”

“Just to tell you he’s here.”

“That’s it?”
What’s that supposed to mean?
But through his irritation, Venture knew the answer. He was still Justice’s brother, all that he had left of the family their parents had built together. Maybe, after he was done fighting, he’d find Justice, talk to him.

The voice of the crowd grew stronger. Many of the fans called specifically for Venture Delving’s matches to start. The swelling in his elbow had gone down enough not to catch his opponents’ notice, but that arm would be little use to him on the mat. Dasher and Earnest had argued about how he should wrap it, until Venture had grabbed the wrap and thrown it away. Wrapping wouldn’t do enough good to make up for the advertisement to his opponents that he had a new weakness.

He and Earnest and Dasher had been up late scrapping the strategy they’d been working on for months and trying to devise a new one to deal with his useless elbow. They’d tried to hide it, but he’d seen a look in his friends’ eyes that he never had before—they were worried; they didn’t think he could do it, and they didn’t want him causing more injury in order to attempt it. How much more worried would they be if they knew he
had
to win?

“What’s Will Fisher doing here?” Earnest said.
 

Venture started at the sound of the name of the former champion. He hadn’t shown up in competition since the last Championship; he was supposed to be retired. Venture followed Earnest’s gaze, to the other side of Competition Area One, and saw the usual entourage Fisher brought with him, enough for an entire team. At its head was the familiar, hulking figure, his dark hair shaved to a stubble, his arms as powerful and as hairy as ever. He was wearing a competitor’s badge.

Venture was so taken with a pang of added fear for his title, he neglected to put his match face on before he looked right into Fisher’s eyes. Venture saw the fire in those eyes.
Yes, it’s still there.
With Dasher retired, Fisher must be planning on an easy run for a third title. If he couldn’t beat Dasher, why not take on his prodigy?

“He looks good,” Venture said grimly, hoping Fisher hadn’t seen the near-panic in his own eyes.

As a former champion and second-place winner the previous year, Fisher wouldn’t have any work to do until the second day of competition. Assuming neither he nor Venture had any losses, as the number one ranked fighter, he would be Venture’s last match-up, not Calling Fox, as Venture had expected and planned.

“We’ll do some planning for how to deal with him tonight,” Earnest said, folding his arms across his chest and glaring back at Fisher. “Dash will know exactly what you should do with him. First we have to take care of today.”

Dasher nodded. “Don’t worry about it, Champ.”

But Venture thought,
Why plan anything?
Nothing was going as planned. Nothing. Was this his punishment for defying his master and his brother, for breaking his mother’s word?

A huge fighter lumbered past them, giving Venture an obnoxious wink. His head was enormous, shaved bald, his square chin covered in a coarse black beard, his massive shoulders right at Venture’s eye level. Venture flashed him his most confident smile.
 

“That guy,” he asked Dasher, “what’s his name?”

“Ox. Just Ox.”

“Ox? His mother gave him the name
Ox
?”

“No. He has some impossible to pronounce Trytlon name.
Ox
was given him by fighters, because of his size and strength.”

“I don’t remember seeing him fight,” Venture said.

Earnest said, “You were in a back room, sulking.”

“Oh.”

“You missed quite a show,” Dasher said. “He wears nothing but a loincloth on the mat.”

“You’re kidding. How’s his speed?”

“Like an ox,” Earnest said. “I hear he’s been working on his stamina, though. He was burning out before his opponents last year.”

“I don’t think I’ll worry about that guy outdoing me in staying power, even with his bulk to wear me down. But I hope he lasts long enough to face me. I want a taste of him,” Venture said, trying to encourage himself as much as his friends, as though he wouldn’t have to face Ox and everybody else without his dominant arm.

“Once you get a whiff of him, Champ, you’re going to change your mind about that,” Dasher assured him.

Venture had made it through seven matches and several heated arguments with Earnest about how much he was using his right arm. He had only one man left to fight today. Ox. The foreigner approached the mat, clothed only in a loincloth. In his hand he held a small lead figurine—Heval, the mountain lion, god of war. This he kissed, then held up toward the North, the West, the South, and the East, uttering something in Trytlon, a language Venture, like most of his countrymen, had spent no time in studying. While many Richlanders treated Heval as a sort of good luck charm, the Trytlons had a reputation for being true believers.

Venture stood there waiting with his hands on his hips. On the bench behind him, Earnest attempted to disguise a laugh as a cough, and Ox kissed the idol one more time before setting it down at the edge of the mat. Venture wondered how much of this display was for his benefit, meant to distract or intimidate him. He shrugged it off; he wouldn’t be thrown off by the unusual manners or size of this Trytlon, or by the expanse of fully exposed, sweaty skin.

It was hard work, moving a man Ox’s size around, and he was slippery in his near nakedness. After just a few strikes, Venture knew his right arm would do no more. It wasn’t merely a matter of the pain; the last jab he’d landed had rendered it rubbery, useless.
Now what?
he thought as he locked up, one arm over, one arm under Ox’s, stalling for time. He felt Ox’s foot begin to lift up, just the slightest little bit, to shift backward. He sensed it more than felt it, for it took more than feeling to receive that message through all the bulk.