“Why did I hear about this from Chelvin, of all people?” Robin demanded, almost red in the face.

“What did you hear from Chelvin?” Niklas asked dumbly.

“Don’t play stupid. You’re staging a gambling brawl tonight!” Robin hissed.

“It’s not something I haven't done before. And besides, I didn’t tell you because I guessed you might react like this.”

“Niklas, this is illegal! You could go to prison if you’re caught!”

His words were familiar. Words Niklas had spoken countless times to Edgar!

Niklas smiled at his frantic friend, “If I’m caught.” It was the same smile and the same answer Niklas had always gotten from Edgar. Niklas felt more and more like Edgar with each passing day.

“Niklas, I can’t do this with you! Please! Don’t!” Robin pleaded.

Robin’s pleading reached Niklas, making him reconsider for a moment. Robin’s earnestness was so sincere. Maybe he was right. Niklas shook it off. Edgar was always sure of himself. He had to be as well. “Robin. I didn’t ask you to do this.”

Robin looked at him through hurt eyes. “Nik,” he pleaded.

Niklas shook his head. “The shift is over. Go home. I’ll take care of this.”

Robin shook his head sadly and backed up a few steps before turning and leaving Niklas.

Niklas smiled as confidently as he could, watching his friend leave stung. He hadn’t planned for Robin to know about the fight pit. Any number of things could go wrong tonight. He had to keep the yard under control even in the rowdiest circumstances.

Niklas continued to work late as he had every night that week. Workmen filed past him and out of the yard, many tired and ready to go home. But most of them shot Niklas eager and excited glances. They would be back in a short while, with full pockets and with all of their teeth. Many of them would leave without so much.

“Niklas!” Osred called as he left his little wooden office.

Niklas waved him over with a nervous smile.

Osred approached him with a respectful nod. That made Niklas relax a little. So, Osred still didn’t know about his after-hours plan. “Take a look!” Osred said as he handed Niklas a sheet clipped to a board.

Niklas accepted the board and reviewed the figures. “It all looks good. We’re up by over fourteen shelves.”

Osred smiled. “The mill manager has been pleased with our progress. He got approval to cut out yard bonuses. He’s also said that he might make me Mill Foreman. If that happens, the western yard will need a new foreman… ”

Niklas nodded. “Sounds good.”

Osred pulled out a purse and counted out coins.

“What’s this?” Niklas asked.

“Payday.” He smiled.

That was right. How could Niklas have forgotten? He was so engrossed in his plans that he had lost track of time. Osred handed him a neat handful of coins with a satisfying chink.

“A little extra for your help,” he smiled.

“Thanks, Os,” Niklas said.

“You staying?” he asked.

“I’ll be working late again,” Niklas lied.

“Keep it up, Niklas. I’ll leave the gate unlocked.” He started for the exit, but Niklas stopped him.

“Hey, Osred.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow a paper and your pen?” he asked.

“What for?”

“Personal use, I won’t use too much ink,” Niklas promised.

“Sure.” He went to the office to retrieve the articles.

While he was out, Niklas counted his cesh, twenty-three cesh in total. He held a miniature fortune. He had never owned anything before—well, except for his reaper knife, which was practically stealing. Here, he had real money for the first time. It was incredible pay for a week as a workman but not nearly enough for his distant goal of two thousand in two weeks. He was counting on tonight going well.

Osred returned with a paper as well as a wooden pen and inkwell.

“I’ll leave them by your door,” Niklas promised.

Osred waved goodbye and left.

Niklas let himself slump to the ground. With nobody watching, he could be honest with himself. He was exhausted. His headache never left; it lingered like distant drums in the background. Without the burning of his med, his work became dull and boring. Med wasn’t there to urge him to push himself as much, and he didn’t feel the valor of serving the Clan. The idea of a fight pit, which otherwise would have had him on his toes with excitement, seemed difficult and even dangerous. But it was too late to turn back now. He needed the money, and word was that almost everyone in all three of the yards planned to come. Niklas couldn’t blame their excitement. They were men living a life of work but no war. These Relrin’s were incomplete. Surely, they felt the warm tickle of valor, even without med.

Niklas forced himself onto his feet to get ready. He gathered ten wood barriers, usually used to stop stacks of logs from rolling out. Pushing them into a neat circle with four openings, he created a ring about the size of a fight pit back home. Niklas used a stick to complete the circle by scratching a line across the four openings. He dusted his hands off, satisfied with his arena.

Having finished that, Niklas pulled out a bundle under his workstation. It was his Drone jacket. It was designed to fit his body as part of a Sharderin uniform. Lill had scrubbed the blood out of it, but he hadn’t brought himself to put it on until now.

He felt a little bit more like himself. He was a Sharderin Drone, but that aside, the jacket would make him stand out. It marked him as the host of tonight's events.

Two burly men Niklas recognized from the southern yard poked their heads into the yard cautiously. They were early. Niklas smiled nervously. He had no real authority, so he had to make sure he had set an undisputable presence for himself.

“Perfect!” Niklas cried when he saw them. “You guys are just what I’m looking for.” He reached into his pocket and produced ten cesh. “How would you boys like to make two days' wages tonight?” Niklas asked as he divided the amount in two, holding five cesh in each hand and extending it toward them.

They eyed him like he was crazy. He might have been. He worked hard for those wages but couldn’t do this alone.

“What’s the catch?” one asked.

“I need you to be collectors,” Niklas explained. “Strong men like you would be perfect for the job.”

They smiled, swelling ever so slightly, and extended their hands for the money.

Niklas pulled it away. “Two now. Three when we’re done,” he said, counting two cesh into each open palm.

“And you’ll need these.” Niklas pulled out two shreds of fabric with the Sharderin rune Loga sloppily painted onto it. “Tie them around your arm. No one comes in without paying two cesh to go into the money box, you understand?”

They looked at each other bewildered. “Never thought I’d be working for a Sharderin, but you have the money, boss man.” One of them grinned as he pocketed the coins.

“When people start to enter, welcome them to Loga’s Fight Pit,” Niklas said.

The brawny guards puffed their chests and waited at the gates. Niklas smiled, inwardly satisfied. The bouncers would significantly help him set precedence for himself.

Niklas found an old wood box and set up a makeshift lid. Then he dumped his remaining money inside, hoping it would encourage others to contribute to the pot.

Not long after, Banning showed up with five others. A gentle prod from Niklas’ guys had the entry fees from them.

“I’ve got to say, Niklas,” Banning said skeptically, “I didn’t know this was the type of thing you have done before.”

“Please,” Niklas said as he counted their payment and marked it on his paper. “I grew up doing this.”

“You can write?” he asked in shock.

“I write Sharderic,” Niklas corrected him. After all, he still had to protect Osred’s interest. “No one can change the figures; only I can account for the prize money.”

He seemed to relax at that. “You know, I came here half expecting to be scammed.”

Niklas tsked his tongue in reply. “I don’t tolerate foul play. My boys will discipline anyone who tries to cheat here.”

Banning smiled again. “Where is that coward Wissian?”

Muttering at the gate announced the arrival of Wissian. He came with seven men.

“Just on time,” Niklas called to them. “Come check in, and we can begin with today's games.”

Niklas couldn’t believe it. His plan was working. The fight pit was precisely what Edgar might do. Niklas’ box gained a little weight as he let Wissian’s people in, and others started to arriv. With the sound of coins clinking into the box and the pen scratching on paper, the event became increasingly official, even if few people fought. Niklas would be making at least two weeks' profit! That wasn’t fast enough to make 2000, but it would be a considerable chunk overnight.

Niklas waited as, to his shock, the yard began to fill. Maybe he was wrong. They didn’t want a fight. They needed a fight!

He watched until the others started growing impatient. With newcomers still filing in, at least thirty men were there already.

Niklas swung on top of a cart at the lip of the ring. “Come all!” he cried as he threw his hands in the air, drawing the whole yard's attention. “I am Niklas Loga, your host! Two strong and valorous fighters will contend for victory in the main event tonight! Coming from this very yard, we have strong and mighty Banning!”

Men all around whooped, clapped and cheered. Once Banning realized they were cheering for him. He raised a fist and beat his chest with a grin.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“And his glorious opponent! Sharp as a whip, also from this homeyard, the cunning Wissian!”

Wissian’s friends thumped him and tried to outcheer their rivals.

“This match will take place in five minutes, so it’s your last chance to place your bets by the pit’s coffers!”

Niklas jumped down and was swarmed by men as they pushed money into his face. “Slow down, not so fast!” Niklas barked as he noted every cesh that went into the box. Ivar had shown him how to calculate and document wagers. Niklas’ heart started to pound as the box grew heavy. It was working. Seriously well. Too well, in fact. Niklas called two more men and hired them to maintain order at the table. He didn’t have armbands for them, but their imposing presence would hopefully be enough. Niklas charged three Rashkers to make a bet, but despite the fee, everyone seemed all too eager.

Making his final mark, Niklas made his way to the ring and called in his fighters.

“Shirts off, boys,” he started, but they already had taken them off. Banning swung his arms around in big circles to warm them up, and Wissian bounced up and down, ready for the action.

Niklas motioned them in and stood between them. “No outside help,” He started. “No weapons, only your body. If you surrender, you lose. If you get knocked out, you lose. Step out of the circle, and you lose. Any violation of these rules, you forfeit to your opponent, and I’ll throw you out. No breaks or quarter until we have a victor. Do you understand?”

They both nodded in agreement.

“All right, go back and touch the border, and then we start!”

The audience called out and jeered as the fighters went back and tapped the wooden border.

The noise kindled Niklas' valor. He had always heard the noise, only now in a different language. No. It was the same language—the tongue of the fight, the speech of brothers praising each other for their strength, the noise of idle moments at his home.

The fighters circled each other, and Niklas leaned in. They held up their bobbing fists. Being a soldier, Niklas instantly became critical of their stance. They leaned back and threw off their center. He could have thrown them by simply nudging them at the right moment.

Both fighters played defensively, throwing quick jabs but not committing to staying within reach for more than a split moment. Valor burned in their eyes, but there was also fear. These men had not seen war. They had not experienced actual violence. Like children learning to walk, they moved carefully.

Finally, Banning landed a hit on Wissian’s nose, drawing blood. Wissian sputtered, enraged at the blow, and charged Banning. Wissian pushed Banning up against the wooden barrier. The fighters were almost among the spectators now. Wissian held Banning's head back as he tried to tip him out of the ring.

A well-placed hook from Banning stopped Wisian and sent him sprawling. Banning leaped after his prone opponent, but Wissian kicked at Banning’s shins, buying time to scramble back onto his feet.

Both fighters panted, their faces wet with perspiration. Niklas nodded through the cheers. It didn’t take much to wind, even a trained soldier.

Banning bellowed and rushed Wissian, hitting him with a barrage of blows. Wissian cried out and tried his best to cover his head, but a few landed, making even Niklas groan with each hit.

Wissian struck out mindlessly, and by some miracle, it connected with Banning’s jaw. As Banning’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, Niklas knew it was over. He was in the ring to catch him before he hit the ground.

Niklas slapped Banning twice, but he didn’t stir. He was done. Niklas looked up at Wissian and nodded.

“We have a winner!” Niklas cried, and the crowd erupted. Men shouted, praised, and muttered curses to signify who they had put their money on. Niklas had two of his guys drag Banning away, where his friends attended to him, though not too gently, probably because of the money they lost.

“You can gather your winnings now or keep it in credit to use in the next fight,” Niklas announced. “Speaking of which, do we have any challengers? For a small fee, you can fight and have a chance at more winnings!”

“I have a challenge!” a weaselly man cried.

To Niklas’ surprise, he recognized Tim from the yard. He hadn't been there before the fight started.

“You want to fight?” Niklas asked in surprise. I don’t know that we have any runt-sized fighters to compete with. It wouldn’t be fair.”

That earned several chuckles from his ever-growing audience.

“I...you!...that-” Tim flustered. “I said I had a challenge. Not that I wanted to fight!”

“Oh?” Niklas asked. “And what is this challenge?”

“I challenge you, corpse...to fight my friend Sorn!”

Niklas rolled his eyes. “You don’t have friends, Tim. Who’s Sor–” Niklas saw him.

Towering behind Tim, Zach, and Stephan, a giant man grinned with his arms folded. He had more than one knife wound scar across his face, and he had the spark of valor in his eyes. His arms and fists were wrapped. This man had seen violence. He was a fighter who would prey on the weak and strong alike for a price, And he had to outweigh Niklas by at least a hundred pounds.

Another man studied Niklas from Sorn’s side. He wore a vest and a hat and held a ledger under his arm.

“Now, that’s hardly fai–”

“This gray skin has been taking your hard-earned money from you!” Tim cried. “And for what? So he can profit off of your sweat and blood?!”

The crowd started to mutter, especially those who had lost money in the first fight.

“Why should he be in charge? This isn’t even his yard!”

Niklas felt his authority slipping. He quickly looked at two of his thugs. He could have Tim thrown out. But there were five of them, including this imposing newcomer. That aside, Niklas could not tell what the crowd might do. Several of them looked at the makeshift coffers' chest with hungry eyes. Niklas felt himself growing sick. He hadn’t been planning on fighting himself. But he came prepared to do so if he couldn’t find enough fighters. This challenge wasn’t a fight. It was a trap. Niklas cursed himself and everything under Stigki’s name.

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone cheered even louder than they had for Banning and Wessian’s fight. They were going to watch a Relrin bear maul a Sharderin dog.

Tim looked slightly disappointed at Niklas’ acceptance but pleased that he had taken the bait.

“We challenge you to a week's wage!” Tim continued using the momentum of his received attention with a grin. “Fiveteen cesh!”

The men howled in delight as Tim raised the stakes, and Niklas started to feel nauseous. What was wrong with him? He would have jumped at the privilege to fight Sorn a short while ago. Had a few weeks in Relgar stripped him of his valor, leaving him with nothing but the crumbs? All he felt was fear. Sorn pulled off his shirt. His thick body rippled with power as he proudly displayed himself.

“Sorn, Sorn, Sorn!” Tim, Zach, and Stephan started, and the others joined the chant. Each mention of the name pressed against Niklas like the lash of a Zealot’s whip.

“Bets at the book,” Niklas muttered, and almost everyone charged to put money into the box.

To Niklas’ dismay, almost everyone bet against him. Only two bets were in his favor, and more than twenty were against him. He might not have enough money to support a loss. Niklas made the hasty notes. Was he seriously documenting his execution? Gyva had a sick sense of humor.

“Sorry, boss,” one of his thugs grinned. “Tough luck, eh?”

Niklas scowled and jogged to the ring. Several of the men he passed thumped him on the back, the scabs on his back blazed on contact.

Niklas hopped in, and everyone cheered. Sorn flexed and posed, displaying the goods to his sponsors.

With a sigh, Niklas handed his jacket to one of his guys and pulled off his shirt. The crowd instantly died down as all eyes turned to him.

Niklas was lean compared to the freak giant Sorn, but there was nothing small or flimsy about him. But what seemed to draw the most looks were the scars. All across his body, he bore the memory of at least six knife wounds, many lashes from a whip, and even a few bullet wounds from a training accident. To top it off, his rank and name rune tattoos seemed to catch their attention. For a fleeting moment, Niklas saw doubt in a few eyes – doubt that they had chosen the wrong fighter. From that doubt was born a seed of hope.

Niklas smiled weakly, with only a tiny flicker of valor to back it up. It took everything to stop his hands from shaking. “Let’s do this. Touch the wood and fight.”

Everyone roared in delight as Niklas tapped the wood on the boundary and Sorn circled in the ring. Sorn bobbed tight on his feet, his weight properly dispersed and his hands up, knuckles out, palms in, in a Relrin pugilist stance. Sorn wasn’t simply big and violent. He was trained.

Niklas settled back with most of his weight on his back leg in Roach form two, arms up and still. Waiting.

Sorn frowned slightly. “They want a show,” he growled. “Move!”

“Move me!” Niklas challenged as he scanned his opponent for any weaknesses or openings. There weren’t many. Sorn, slightly turned to the side, covered every obvious vulnerability. One blow from him, and he would end the fight.

“Move, corpse!” he growled again.

“I won’t, you Mother-killing pink!” Niklas snapped as his mind clouded over in fear.

Sorn shrugged. “Then you will fly!”

Sorn roared as he charged.

Niklas ducked and weaved, lashing out a jab and a cross to the side that didn’t penetrate Sorn’s compact form.

Sorn spun, swinging his full fist on his pendulum-like arms.

Niklas gasped as he staggered away from his enemy, but Sorn was fast.

A fist brushed Niklas’ forehead, and he leaped away.

The crowd roared with each blow.

Niklas stumbled back, routed by his larger opponent. He couldn’t get his feet under him to reestablish a fighting stance without allowing Sorn to crush him. His back hit the border wall, and Sorn followed.

Niklas spun, lashing out with a spinning back kick that caught Sorn in the gut and stopped his momentum completely.

Sorn grunted, and the crowd groaned.

Niklas’ hope leaped momentarily but was immediately extinguished as powerful hands grabbed his leg.

Niklas wasn’t sure what happened next until he slammed into the wood barrier on the other side of the ring. Sorn had thrown him all the way across the arena.

Niklas ignored the heat that flashed in his shoulder and the slick blood oozing through his newly opened lash wounds as he climbed to his feet.

Sorn was on him in the moment, striking him with hammerlike blows.

Niklas tried his best to cover up, but each strike rocked and threw him like a flag in the wind.

Sorn grabbed Niklas by the arms and shoved him against another barrier.

Niklas gasped for breath, only to inhale the stink of alcohol that blasted him from Sorn’s grin.

Niklas thrashed, but Sorn's grip was true.

Niklas cried out as he kicked at Sorn, but Sorn was too close for him to build the necessary momentum to make a difference.

“No!” Niklas panicked.

“Come on, Niklas! Kick his ass!”

Robin’s voice seemed to cut over the crowd.

“I thought you said you were a soldier!”

Niklas scanned the crowd to see Robin leaning over a wooden barrier. He looked more panicked than Niklas as he watched his friend get handled by the beast.

Niklas grunted in frustration. As all Pit Sharderins did, he had trained for this since he was ten. Robin was right. Niklas was a soldier. He wasn’t thinking. He was panicking and blindly lashing out.

Sorn stuck Niklas twice. Each hit jarring and shaking his whole body.

Edgar would have been so disappointed.

Sorn reared back, and Niklas growled.

Sorn struck, and Niklas caught the back of Sorn’s hand with his elbow.

Sorn cried out and shook his hand. He still held Niklas by the arm with his other hand.

Niklas dug into the back of the hand, holding him with his foreknuckles, rubbing and digging into the nerves.

Sorn bellowed in surprise and jerked his hand away.

Niklas ducked, slamming two fists into Sorn’s armpit. Through his years of training, Niklas learned that the armpit was usually a vulnerable target if the enemy had a large mass.

Sorn snarled and spun on Niklas, swinging a wide haymaker. His body didn’t telegraph the strike. Niklas barely weaved around it.

Sorn fell back a few steps and growled.

Niklas gasped for breath as he recalled his training. He was a professional fighter and wouldn’t throw it all out the window because he was scared. Slick with sweat, Niklas realized he couldn’t maintain an extended fight. Sorn could go another ten rounds after he crushed Niklas. He needed a new plan.

“I can’t do this!” Niklas cried as he turned and ran for the edge of the arena.

Sorn roared in refusal. The ground almost seemed to shake as the giant thundered behind Niklas.

The crowd booed and jeered as Niklas fled from the center of the ring. Somewhere, Niklas heard Tim cackle victoriously.

Niklas lunged at the wood barrier and kicked into it as hard as he could. The railing shifted and started tipping. Niklas’ knee popped again, and venom spiked through the nerves. His forward momentum redirected back and up. The barrier corrected itself and launched Niklas. Niklas screamed in pain and in desperation as he twisted and turned on the charging giant.

Sorn’s surprised face met Niklas’ wild airborne haymaker with a snap. Niklas felt two of his knuckles break, and a jarring shock traveled up his arm.

Sorn dropped.

Everyone stopped cheering.

Niklas threw back his head. “For our mothers, you deck pink!” He screamed in Sharderic.

Sorn didn’t move.

The yard was silent.

Niklas put weight on his right leg and almost collapsed. He growled through clenched teeth as he felt his valor return. He had no med, so he knew this valor was pure and natural.

“Loga!” Robin cried “Loga, Loga, Loga!” The others joined the chant even though most had just lost money.

Niklas pumped his fist and roared, “Who Challenges my authority in my own pit?” He shouted at the astonished crowd.

Tim, Zach, and Stephan inched away from the assembly.

Niklas awkwardly leaped on the wood stop and jabbed a finger at them. “Stop them!”

At least ten people pounced, grabbing and dragging them, kicking and cursing into the ring. Niklas held up a hand, calling everyone to silence. The crowd had at least doubled since the first fight.

“I challenge each of you!” Niklas cried, drunk with victory and valor. “A week's wages each!”

“No!” they cried in horror, but the goading push of the crowd denied them exit.

“Don’t worry!” Niklas grinned and cracked his neck. “I’ll let you all fight me at the same time!”

“Loga! Loga! Loga!”

Tim screamed as Niklas threw him onto the pile that was made up of Zach and Stephan’s now motionless supine figures. Blood flowed freely from Tim’s nose, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. “Stop!” he screamed, holding up a hand. “I give up!”

“You challenged me!” Niklas barked. “You tried to trick me!”

He paled. “I swear I won’t ever cross you again, Mr. Loga, just let me leave!”

Niklas grabbed the small man and hoisted him into the air. “Very well,” he growled. “He forfeits!” Niklas hurled the man over the wood stop and into the crowd. They jumped away from the small flying man, and he smashed into a wood shelf, causing it to shatter.

“Loga! Loga! Loga!” the crowd raved as they cheered Niklas on.

“Get them out of here!” Niklas snapped. Leaving the men to drag the unconscious two out of the yard, he returned to the coffers box to find it guarded by not two but eight thugs, arms crossed over their chests.

“A chair, boss?” One ran a wooden chair to Niklas with a towel draped across the back, and another handed him his jacket with a grin.

“You showed them, boss,” another said. “Do you need a bandage for your knuckles?”

Niklas looked down at his knuckles, which had been unwrapped and were now bleeding and swollen.

“No,” he said like a king surrounded by his personal guard. “Let them be a testament that this is my yard.”