Page 90 of Sky Song
A short whistle sounded, calling the second round. The males on the mat sprang up and away from each other, going to the corners. This time, they made use of the white towels, smearing the pristine cloth with blood - the dark red, almost black of the Levisur; the bluish-red of Lyle.
Cricket rounded on Ren. “You said bloodshed wasn’t allowed!”
“A busted lip in the ring doesn't count.” Ren spread out his hands. “You can’t fight without hitting each other, can you?”
What an outrage. She rubbed her face with both hands noticing how unsteady they were.
Lyle, on his part, was showing no signs of fatigue or emotion, his snake eyes like impenetrable one-way mirrors that absorbed everything and missed nothing. He finished cleaning the worst of the blood from his split eyebrow and hung the towel over the rope, calmly waiting for the whistle while the Levisur gulped great quantities of water.
The mood among the spectators had shifted. Those who had discounted Lyle as a serious opponent to Dainty Red, of whom there was a vast majority, were realizing their bets might not turn them profit.
A whistle announced the third round. This time, there was no chase but an immediate full-on collision under the ever-increasing beat of the drums.
Real fights were not pretty. Riveted and disgusted by the show, Cricket breathed in measured breaths to keepherself grounded, intaking the vaguely medical aroma of freely dispensed liquor and close-clustered bodies. The drummer was now beating his drum like it owed him money, the booms drowning out every other sound in the room.
Lyle, despite his inferior size, had the speed and tightly controlled energy that compensated for Dainty Red’s raw strength. In the deeper part of the brain that remained unaffected by the surging emotions, the logical chain linked up the facts, and Cricket came to a realization that Lyle knew his way around a fistfight. He knew it better than well.
Look at his scars, Paloma had said. But that was exactly the point. Cricket had refused to see telltale signs behind the gentle eyes and pretty hair.
He had been to prison.A violent inmate and a troublemaker.
The Levisur managed to pin Lyle to the mat and hold him pinned. With mounting fear, Cricket saw that Lyle’s attempts to dislodge were failing. He was going to lose. The crowd’s hopes for a win erupted in a swell of shouts, but Cricket didn’t care. Finally, it would be over.
She held her breath, waiting for the whistle. Another minute, no longer, and she would take Lyle by the hand and they would walk out into the night. She saw the ref purse his lips in preparation for the whistle, his eyes intent on the wreathing bodies on the mat. Another thirty seconds.
Another ten.
Lyle’s body tensed, then bent at an impossible angle, freeing one leg. That leg drew up and his foot rammed the Levisur in the side of his knee, dislocating the shit out of the joint. The whistle sounded, and before the sound died off, Lyle was on his feet. The Levisur remained down, howling, his shuttered leg useless.
The drumbeat abruptly ceased. There were no cheers. In the sudden sound void, murmured conversations flittered back and forth. The referee was looking from the Levisur to Lyle as if he saw them for the first time.
Ren cursed. “Call the fight!” he yelled at the puzzled ref. “He won, call the fucking fight!”
“He broke his fucking leg!” someone shouted from the crowd, and more angry shouts supported the statement.
“Call it, damn you!” Ren screamed at the referee.
Reluctantly, the ref raised Lyle’s arm up, declaring him the winner.
“I’ll go get the winnings. You two, get him out of here fast.”
Cricket grabbed Ren as he turned to leave. “What’s wrong? What’s the rush?”
“He used a forbidden move. Everyone saw it.” He nodded at the juiced up crowd whose energy started to remind Cricket of Earth, of strife and rebellion.
Without looking to see if Paloma followed, she started toward Lyle. His head was now hanging low and blood dripped freely from his injured face. He looked worse for wear, and when the referee let him go, he swayed. They reached the ropes at the same time from opposite sides, and he fell over into her arms. If not for Paloma, propping her from behind, she would have toppled over.
“Are you hurt? Where?”
She smelled his blood as it stained her clothes. He said something in his language, shook his head and tried again, in Universal. “I’m crashing… from the shock.”
Someone jumped over and yelled “Dirty cheater!” in Cricket’s ear. Enraged, she pushed at the man with all her might, sending him flying.
“Remind me to never yell at you,” Paloma said as she tugged at Lyle. “Can you stand, mister?”
“Too… dizzy…” Lyle sounded drunk.
More men crowded them, their intent written in their pissed off mugs. Cricket and Paloma frantically pulled Lyle upright, but he went all ragdoll on them, slipping and folding back to the floor.
