The Dead Have No Shadows (12 page)

Ivan appeared to have decided that the best form of defence was attack.  Holding the
stoppered
pitch fork out in front of him, he charged.  His attack was slow and lumbering. 
Marek
easily side stepped the approach and delivered a slap to the side of Ivan’s head with the flat of the scythe’s blade.  He didn’t press his advantage though, choosing to circle around his opponent and bide his time.  Ivan continued to hold the pitchfork out in front of him, jabbing at the air if
Marek
showed any sign of closing in on him.

Mickey understood Ivan’s choice of weapon.  Being too slow to be able to compete in close combat, Ivan’s best chance was to keep
Marek
at bay.  If he could then tire his opponent out or force a mistake that would give him the chance to mount an attack of his own.

Marek
feigned a lunge.  Ivan jabbed forward and
Marek
skipped around the thrust.  He landed another blow from the flat of his blade, this time in Ivan’s kidneys.

Stop playing with him you bastard, thought Mickey.  You’re just a bully, picking on the fat kid.  His dislike for
Marek
intensified and was fuelled further when the crowd roared their approval of the taunting they were witnessing.  Even
Janic
was applauding and cheering.  It seemed apparent who he favoured for a son-in-law.  Elena however, looked disgusted at the rising blood lust.

Marek
was now landing regular blows all over Ivan’s body.  The older man was gasping and unsteady on his feet whilst the younger assailant lapped up the encouragement of his audience.  He was putting on a show and humiliating his opponent. 
Marek
stepped in for another attack but Ivan seemed to have anticipated the move.  He mimicked
Marek’s
sidestep evasive move and swung the pitchfork double handed.  The shaft landed square across the bridge of
Marek’s
nose.  Even from where he sat, Mickey heard the crunch of
Marek’s
nose breaking.  The younger man let out a roar of pain and dropped to his knees.  Ivan could have closed in and finished
Marek
off.  Instead he bent forward, hands on his knees, getting his breath back.  It was a fatal mistake.

Marek
suddenly swung his scythe around.  It hooked Ivan around the back of an ankle, pulling him off his feet.  His landing was heavy, winding him. 
Marek
gained his feet with a look of death on his face.  He smeared blood across his face and spat a bright red gobbet onto the ground.  Ivan had just managed to get up onto his hands and knees when a back hand swing from
Marek
landed the back edge of the scythe on Ivan’s jaw.  The bone shattered and Ivan went down.

The crowd erupted.  Many were chanting
Marek’s
name.  The victor dropped his weapon to the ground and walked over to face the village elders and the father of the bride.

Mickey was quietly pleased to see the damage that Ivan had inflicted on
Marek’s
face.  This was tempered by the pity he felt for Elena.  She would have to wake up to that ruin of a face every day.  Looking past the winning fighter, Mickey could see the defeated man being half dragged, half carried out of the make-shift arena.

The leader of the village elders declared
Marek
to be the winner.  When the adulation of the crowd subsided, the elder then gave the opportunity for someone to challenge
Marek
for Elena’s hand in marriage.

Mickey looked at Elena.  She seemed to have withdrawn into herself - defeated.  Though her physical beauty was undiminished she seemed to be faded.  It was almost as if she’d lost the will to go on.  Mickey had a sudden and chilling vision of Elena sitting by the bandstand, staring into space.

The elder was looking around for signs of a challenge to
Marek
.  He looked eager, as if he really didn’t want the conflict to end so quickly.  There was an air of anticipation in the crowd as well.  This was probably the most entertainment they had been treated to in the two years they’d been here.  They wanted more.  It was as
Janic
had stated though.  No-one was prepared to take
Marek
on.

Mickey stood up.

“I will challenge
Marek
,” he said.

Though most people didn’t understand the words that Mickey spoke, they all understood what he meant.

The ensuing chaos was a mixture of approval and outrage, in more or less equal measure.  Some of the crowd were all in favour or more fighting and bloodshed and didn’t care where it came from.  Others seemed to be violently opposed to an outsider making a claim for the hand of one of their own.  They never seemed to consider asking the girl in question her views on the matter.  The girl in question wore a mask of shock and incomprehension.

Through all the shouting and cheering
Marek’s
response rang out clearly.

“
Prihva
ć
am
izazov
autsajder
.”

He also signalled his acceptance to Mickey by beckoning him down onto the field.  Mickey climbed down from the trailer.

The crowd erupted into even louder cheering and clapping.  All opposition seemed to have evaporated.  When the noise died down
Marek
spoke again.

“
Odabrati
borbu
do
smrti
.”

The crowd instantly fell silent.  The enormity of what had just been said descended like the lid on a coffin.  The atmosphere in the arena thickened, almost becoming tangible.

Mickey was stunned.  He’d recognised the final word of what
Marek
had said, ‘
smrti
’.  He remembered that that meant death.

“Can he do that?” he called to
Janic
.

“Of course,” laughed the old man, eager for more violence.  “You want to steal his wife.  It is his right to kill you.”

 “I bet you didn’t think of that one,” laughed Pester, who had sidled up to Mickey.  He was making no attempt to hide his amusement.  “Which seat would you like me to put you in at the bandstand?”

Mickey ignore the jibe and turned to Elena, who looked horrified.

“Trust me please,” he said.  “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

Elena just stared at Mickey and didn’t reply.  Mickey knew he wasn’t going to get through to the girl so he made his way across the field.  Pester followed him.

“If I win I think I might have to make a quick exit,” said Mickey.

Pester scrutinised the crowd carefully.  “You’re probably right,” he said.  “It’d be a waste of effort for you to win the fight only to be lynched by the angry mob afterwards.”

As Mickey started to walk towards his opponent Pester stopped him with a hand on his arm.  His amusement had disappeared and he looked totally serious.

“A word of warning,
Laddie
.  Remember, wounds don’t heal here.  Keep away from his blade.”

Mickey nodded and walked out into the arena.  The stewards had unwrapped all blades and
unstoppered
all pointed tools.  The array of what were essentially innocuous farming implements now took on a sinister feel as Mickey accepted the fact that he was about to kill with, or be killed by, one of them.

Marek
had already selected his weapon, keeping faith with the short handled scythe that he’d used to defeat Ivan.  Mickey followed the vanquished man’s example and chose a pitch fork.  The difference this time being that the rusted tines would now be functional.

The two fighters put a safe difference between themselves and waited for the signal to start.

Marek
reacted fastest when the steward dropped his arm.  Mickey had to jump to one side and use the shaft of the pitch fork to block a back handed swipe from
Marek
as he shot past.  The two fighters recomposed themselves and started their circular dance.  Unlike Ivan, Mickey held the pitch fork in both hands across his chest.  This allowed
Marek
to get closer than he had during his battle with Ivan.  However, he didn’t capitalise on this, choosing instead to adopt the same tactics as he had in his previous fight.  This handed the advantage to Mickey, who knew what to expect when the attacks were made.  He was easily able to avoid
Marek’s
charges; never being hit but usually able to land a retaliatory blow with the shaft of the pitch fork.

Some of the crowd started to get restless.  They wanted
Marek
to finish this stranger off in quick time.  He wasn’t welcome here and they wanted him gone – one way or another.  The shouts of encouragement became interspersed with boos and jeers.  This only served to anger
Marek
and his attacks became wilder and less controlled.  He started to swing the scythe without really aiming.  Added to his earlier exertions this wild swinging began to take its toll on
Marek
.  Despite this Mickey wasn’t winning.  Though he continued to land blows he was only causing minor damage and the fight was turning into a stalemate.

Marek
made another charge which Mickey went to dodge.  At the last instant
Marek
shifted direction and shoulder barged into Mickey.  The two went down in a heap.  Mickey rolled over to put some distance between himself and
Marek
and felt a stab of pain in his right thigh as
Marek
swung his arm over and dragged the point of the scythe across the muscle of Mickey’s leg.

Mickey managed to roll free and gain his feet, albeit unsteadily.  Seeing the emerging blood stain on Mickey’s jeans
Marek
sensed victory and charged again.  Mickey was off balance and could only hold the pitch fork out across his body to block the incoming blow.  There was a loud crack as the handle splintered under the impact of
Marek’s
assault.

The attack from
Marek
forced Mickey to stagger backwards, but
Marek
was off balance as well.  Mickey thrust his hands out in front of him as the two of them crashed to the ground in a heap.  As they landed there was a scream from one of the two fighters.

Marek
rolled onto his back to reveal the broken section of pitch fork handle embedded in his groin.

There was a momentary gasp from the crowd then they erupted into raucous laughter at the grotesque parody of an erection that
Marek
was now sporting.  Winded, Mickey climbed to his feet.  He winced when he put his full weight on his right leg but was able to hold himself up. 
Marek
was also trying to stand up.

“Stay down,” Mickey said, between gasps for breath.  “It’s over.”

“To...the...death,”
Marek
said in broken English, through gritted teeth.  He carried on trying to get to his feet.  He tried to pull the pitch fork handle from his body, squealed with the pain it caused and abandoned the idea. 
Marek
dropped onto one knee to try to retrieve his own weapon.  The effort robbed him of his strength but he still managed to pick up the scythe and struggle to his feet. 
Marek
tried to charge at Mickey but blood loss and exhaustion made the effort slow and ineffectual.  Mickey sidestepped the lunge and
Marek
stumbled forward onto his hands and knees, driving the stake further into his groin.  He howled in agony and blindly lashed out with his weapon.  Despite the action being laboured Mickey still had to jump to avoid the blade slicing through one of his ankles.

“Do
smrti
,”
Marek
hissed again in his own language, turning his head to face Mickey. 
Marek
collapsed onto his side in a spreading pool of his own blood.  He tried to swing his weapon arm but lacked the strength to even lift it.  Mickey threw his own remaining weapon to one side and walked over to
Marek
.  He picked up his opponents weapon and threw that away as well.

“It’s over,” Mickey said.  He turned and walked away. 
Marek
tried to rise, tried to call out but his body was failing him rapidly.  He could only lie there and watch his conqueror walk away from him.  He continued to watch the scene in the field after his body finally expired; before he was carried to the bandstand.