He expected it shouldn’t take very long. The larger musk ox rushed for his opponent, attempting to corner the moose and finish him off in a handful of wild, crushing blows like he had done with all of his crewmates that had faced him thus far. But the moose dodged the heavy brute, almost causing the ox to step out of the “ring” and risk disqualification several times.
The cheers of twenty men and two women, all in various states of inebriation, was mostly drowned out by the deafening whoop of the airship’s four steam engines. It was a constant, deep mechanical growl, like the roar of a great metal dragon forever stretched out. The fact that the ship itself was actually some twenty meters above them, and they were all on a non-powered deck held to the ship by a massive mast-like steel rod that went through the center of the deck and by four chains roughly the thickness of a Class IV mammal’s arm, didn’t seem to make a difference in the sound’s intensity.
The gas bladder was massive, nearly a hundred meters in length, the central gondola connected by a rope ladder to the deck looking almost like a speck upon the champagne-beige canvas.
Four steel walkways also spidered out from the gondola to each of the four engine compartments, from which one could, in theory at least, solve the most pressing issues in case of engine failure to allow the crew to safely make a forced landing.
Four engines. Good.
Inspector-Lieutenant Tyras Maloko had been one of the first mammals onboard an airship, his unit alongside five infantry and two artillery battalions flying over to flank the Lunist advance towards the Osnyan capital, smashing the enemy, coming across bewildered troops and disorganized transport vehicles who weren’t expecting any fighting for another good few dozens of miles. They had no defenses set up, no trenches dug in, not even a way to give even the feeblest resistance against the flying metal behemoths dropping bombs and troops on their position. No weapon designer could have ever predicted the need to shoot down anything higher or more resilient than dragon-mounted cavalry, which couldn’t fly higher than a few hundred meters while in combat, and which a single well-placed rifle bullet could bring down.
For the few months during which Osnya alone possessed airships, the Lunists may as well have been fighting an alien species. Until Lunist spies got their hands on the blueprints and a lucky artillery shell brought down an airship bombing a Lunist city, after which, it only took them a few months to have their own flying behemoths airborne, and it was back to an all-out slugging match again.
Still, the airship had saved his nation, and helped mend it after the war was over, allowing trade and travel at an unprecedented pace, a single ship capable of taking hundreds of passengers and dozens of tons of cargo across the world in a mere two weeks; and unlike its seafaring cousin, it mattered little if there was land or ocean below it, so long as it had somewhere to refuel.
It was also statistically much safer than ocean or land travel (little wonder, as unlike sea or earth, pirates and outlaws cannot stay in the air indefinitely), and he probably had as much time onboard airships as the airmen (sometimes still jokingly referred to as “sailors”) that were currently cheering on the two fighters, yet he still had to overcome a chill of nervousness and a cold tendril of dread wishing to pull him back each time he stepped on one.
Which was why he was happy this particular ship had four engines, mostly to allow it to withstand its monster 200 ton maximum load, each of them roaring merrily away above him, bellowing thick plumes of candy cotton-like white smoke into the fiery-orange clouds of sunset.
If one engine should malfunction, you still had 75% of your power to land somewhere safe, while with most airships that had two, or even only one engine for smaller craft, you really couldn’t do much of anything except hope there was smooth ground below and the air bladder didn’t deflate too rapidly. At least on a seafaring ship, one had life rafts or even the option of holding onto a piece of timber and hope there was shore or another ship nearby.
It was why he always sought distractions while on such journeys. And thankfully, these rowdy, yet amiable airmen were more than happy to oblige with their impromptu boxing tournament.
The rules were simple: standard boxing rules, except that whoever knocked his opponent down (only) once or forced them out of the “ring”, consisting of a white chalk circle measuring five meters in diameter, won. After all, even drunken airmen recognized the need to limit injuries among their crew.
As participation required betting, Tyras had wagered a hundred black Krata and a tin of sugary biscuits he’d bought in port for personal consumption. The first mate, whom the captain had assigned as the unofficial bookkeeper, looked almost lustfully at Tyras’s ebony cane, the saiga’s beady eyes analyzing the masterfully engraved dragon head with tiny red jewels for eyes embellished upon the pure silver handle. He probably expected Tyras to be as careless and daring with his gambling as his fellow airmen and wager that priceless artpiece. He’d seen the crew wager and lose jewelry they’d bought in port for their sweethearts, expensive leatherbound books, fine tobacco and hefty coin pouches or large notes, and few of the crew seemed to be well off enough that such things could be easily replaced.
He was analyzing the moose fighter closely. He would win this, he knew. He’d been watching him closely since the first fight. The man was well muscled in a way which was more suggestive of frequent and disciplined physical exercise rather than manual labor like the other denizens of this ship, with muscles built like from an anatomy book, mostly lacking fat, and his hooves lacked the chips and scratches which hoofed mammals like he had in place of calluses as a result of blue collar work. He suspected the moose was a military man, perhaps he’d even fought in the Burning Steel War, a suspicion confirmed once he’d seen his fighting style a couple of days earlier:
The footwork was that of a knife fighter, never planting his feet, constantly moving, dodging rather than blocking, and keeping a much broader distance than the other fighters with his nature-granted long limbs, which drew jeers and accusations of cowardice from the spectators who had wagered against him.
He didn’t hit often, dodging, weaving and dancing around his opponent, until a window showed itself and he delivered two or three crushing blows to the nose, chin, solar plexus, ribs or the liver, his gloved fists hitting with the precision and power of a knife, then retreating before his opponent could properly even register that he was being hit.
To the ox’s credit, he’d lasted the longest of all of his opponents. After getting caught by the rival pugilist’s knife-like flurries four times in a row, he tried keeping his distance himself, even getting a few hits in, something only two other fighters in the two day duration of the “tournament” had managed.
Yet the knife fighter had caught on the rudimentary trick quickly, and after a particularly clumsy jab on the ox’s part, the moose swept the attacking hand away, delivering a lightning fast jab to the eye meant more to daze and distract than hurt.
Then it was over.
In the blink of an eye, the moose was chest to chest with his opponent, trapping his right arm and delivering three uppercuts to the man’s liver as swift and powerful as artillery shots, the dull sound of gloved hooved fists hitting flesh intermingled with the engines like a stormy wave breaking upon the sand and rock of a wild beach sending a slight chill down the back of Tyras’s neck. No matter how bulked up one was with muscle and fat, there is no softening a liver shot.
A sharp growl of pain permeated the glacial air of 1500 meters of altitude. The cheers and jeers both stopped a second before the bovidae’s knee touched wood.
He’d lost. Functionally when he threw the cloddish punch, officially once his legs couldn’t support him anymore, yet he was too proud to show it, gritting his flat teeth and only taking a knee rather than letting himself fall flat on the floor.
“Knockout! It’s over!” The ‘referee’, a lanky jackrabbit with a powerful voice which belied his brittle frame, announced.
Half the crowd cheered and clapped, half quietly cursed and stomped their way back to their duties. Tyras was fairly certain a good half of the airmen wouldn’t be getting a warm welcome from their wives once back home. Probably would have to temper their drinking once in port simply owing to the hole now burned in their purses.
The moose smirked and took a bow before those still applauding (more relieved they hadn’t lost a week’s wages than genuine admiration) not unlike a stage dancer. He then turned towards the recovering ox and promptly helped him up, giving a reassuring pat on his meaty shoulder.
“You did alright, old boy,” he said with a white tooth-showing grin. “I pulled my punches, so just take advantage of your relief of duties and lie down. Still, I’d stay away from the grog an’ stick to lemonade for a few days.”
Tyras had seen similar behavior with all of his other defeated opponents. Showman as he was, he wasn’t one to deride or sneer at a crushed adversary like many a back alley brawlers.
“Ayo, matey,” he heard a voice coming from his right and turned to see the small, wiry frame of the first mate, the queer bloated nostrils characteristic of the saigas about level with his chest and the thin ringed horns just about higher than Tyras’s shoulders.
As alert as he was, it was little wonder he hadn’t noticed the saiga approach over the buzz of the crowd, especially from his right. An irksome itch from within his right eye socket reminded him of the reason.
“ ‘yer up against ‘im in two hours. Then we pull into port come morn’.” The petite herbivore looked around conspiratorially. “Capn’ thinks you’ll lose, on account ‘a the moose bein’ bigger, just as swift and… well, yer eye,” he winced in sympathy, That awful, pitying sympathy. “But I says he’s a right knuckle ‘ead. You gots fire in ye, you don’ let up. And I’ve seen an’ been in enough scrapes to know that matters more. Made a pretty penny betting on ye. Thinking I dump it all in the final bout an’ double me winnings.” he winked.
Tyras smirked and lightly slapped the herbivore on his thin shoulder.
“I advise against that, my friend. Not that I lack faith in the adequacy of my pugilism, but that gentleman and I are warriors of a similar caliber. It is unwise to drop all your winnings on a 50/50 chance. Correct me if I am mistaken, but you’ve won 500 black Krata, five full Crowns, off of me. Judging by your dispirited reaction at the end of three bouts I took no part in, you lost possibly a full crown, leaving you with 400 Krata. Pray, bet only a fourth of that, or better yet, leave well enough alone. I am certain your wife would appreciate your restraint.”
The air sailor’s eyes widened, then were shamefully downcast. He said or asked nothing. It was easy enough to form the conclusions, and one needn’t be a police inspector to do so:
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By how animated he had been during the fights, with joy and relief or grief and despair at a fighter’s defeat, he was a man to stake an entire week’s wages on betting. His work clothes were clean, yet he was the only airman he’d seen in the same clothes throughout the trip, and his watchchain lacked the timepiece meant to be its permanent companion. Clothes and watch were both doubtlessly sold or pawned to maintain his gambling illness and provide for his family with anything resembling dignity, whom he doubtlessly had and cared for if the well polished yet aged silver and black ring on his finger was anything to go by.
He bid the airman farewell and went back to the crew quarters, going down a deck into the gloomy interior of bare metal and rough wood, illuminated by some pale gaslamp here or there. He heard the hatch above him open once again, and judging by the heavy hoofed pace and the pained groan, it was the defeated ox, excused from his duties to nurse his pains. Everyone else was on the upper deck, either readying the ship for landing in a few hours or engaging in dice or other entertainment while enjoying the open air.
Stepping into the crew quarters, he went past the rows of well worn bunkbeds and sat on a cot stretched out in a far corner for the singular extra passenger. A small footlocker next to it contained all the worldly possessions he had taken on this journey. He trusted that the lock was strong enough to deter the rudimentary lockpicking skills a few airmen doubtlessly had, and the captain had made it abundantly clear that if any man so much as touched their guest’s belongings, their pay for one month would be docked and they’d receive thirty lashes in front of the crew.
Tyras unlocked the box and retrieved a small gaslamp and a fur trimming kit. With that, he walked into the adjoining bathroom, which lacked even the basest of privacy, with a few rows of “squat pans” which were little more than an open pipe in the floor which disposed waste out of the airship, and a row of showers, to which each man had only two minutes a day due to the limited water supply. The smell was repugnant and Tyras went through it all with his snout in his lavender handkerchief. Upon reaching the row of sinks, he picked one where the dirty cracked reflective thing above it could still be called a “mirror” and set the lamp down, lighting it.
The cracked glass showed an unfinished jigsaw puzzle of the steppe lion’s face.
A single wood-brown eye stared back at him, its twin brother glinting sadly and colorlessly in the dying sunset-like glare of the lamplight. The right silver eye interrupted two parallel lines which went from his forehead, following a path through what used to be his eye, and ending just above the jawline. It was seven years old, yet it was still angry and red, surrounded by a millimeter or so of pink bare flesh where his pristine silver fur still refused to grow.
Every look in the mirror, every itch under his “eye”, every time he had to be a little more careful on the street or slammed his shoulder into a doorframe due to his now poorer depth perception, was a reminder of those hellish three days and nights. And every time, his excellent memory for once was to his disadvantage and made him remember one more dreadful fact about his ordeal. Now, he remembered the trifling detail of how torn and bloody his calves were from constantly running into thorny bushes, partly from panic, partly from his body having no time to adjust to the half loss of one of his five senses, confusing flashes and meaningless colored shapes vying for dominance with the singular left eye that now had to see him through the horror, his yet intact hearing picking up eager howls and the almost silent patter of feet that moved way faster than he could hope to-
“Stop.” He breathed, and the memory mercifully dispersed. A single deep breath and his heart rate slowed. He was getting better at this.
His reflection seemed brighter somehow and he allowed himself a smile, bringing out the streaks of champagne beige fur that went alongside his cheekbones and jawline. He was of far taller and leaner build than most of his species, standing two and a half meters tall and weighing no more than 110 kilos, yet his shoulders were broad and square, coming upon his slight torso in a pronounced V shape which spoke of strength beyond his size.
Despite his horrid scar, he’d been called handsome by many a young lady of size and species similar to his, yet, his heart was already set. He twirled the silver and black ring on his finger, letting it chase away the last of the darkness clawing at his thoughts.
With that, he set about grooming himself, as he always did before each battle, great or small, vital or inconsequential.
It wasn’t tied to any particular custom of his people, yet it felt like the right thing to do, cleaning his body and mind before a confrontation, a sign of respect to both himself and his adversary.
----------------------------------------
He barely dodged the thickly gloved hoof, feeling his fur swish back from the blows, each as swift as the lunge of a viper. He growled, keeping his guard up to defend against the longer jabs of his opponent, making him back off as one particularly good deflection promised a counterattack.
Tyras grit his teeth. The second round was nearing its conclusion, longer than any fights in this spit-and-sawdust flying pub had lasted, and they’d hardly laid gloves on each other. Tyras was too quick and his defense too fortified, while his cervine opponent used his tree-length jabs and swift legs to dance around his smaller, yet meaner opponent.
It was like trying to fight a spearman with a dagger. A thought flashed through his mind to use his Forte and reach out to read the man’s feelings and intentions, yet he chased the thought as quickly as it’d come. No. He was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not use concealed magic to get the upper paw. He saved that for situations of mortal combat, where gentlemanly manners led only to a blackguard’s blade in the throat, but if he was to win this bout of the most honorable of sports, he would do so on equal footing.
His patron goddess, Sapistia, was not just the goddess of Wisdom, but also of Justice and Honor.
However… there was no dishonor in merely equaling himself with his opponent. Focusing inwards, he drew on his reserves of mental energy, focusing them into where his right eye had once been.
The familiar feeling of nausea and disorientation at suddenly having his field of view doubled washed over him, for but a moment seeming to his new sight that the airship had capsized. Yet in the moment after, all was again clear. His right side vision returned, albeit, with a smoky blue tint, as if he was seeing the world through someone else’s eye, which, Tyras reminded himself, was exactly the case.
To his credit, his opponent had not pressed the full advantage of Tyras’s quite literal blindspot. After barely dodging another jab, the white lion did something quite unexpected: he switched from a left handed to a right handed stance.
Before the moose had time to acknowledge the unexpected change, the lion lashed out, left fist instead of right driving the rapid stinging jabs while the right remained in reserve for a more powerful blow. Two caught his opponent in the chin and cheek with a wet thud, then Tyras ducked under the responding hook and hit two uppercuts in the ribs, feeling meat and bone shift. With a strangled gasp of pain, the man attempted a thuggish backhand aimed for Tyras’s silver eye, which was promptly blocked.
A confused grunt escaped the moose as to how the one-eyed man had seen it coming before the same blocking hand launched into the jaw. A flurry of furious rights and lefts followed, driving him a mere few inches from the radius of the chalk circle.
He feinted with his right, only to drive a brutal left cross into the protruding snout, switching to the southpaw stance once again and delivering another series of powerful body shots meant to empty the lungs and twist the insides. One more good punch and he was done for.
It was then that something quite irregular occurred.
His right fist halfway descended in an arc like a headsman’s ax which would hurl the moose’s head back and force him out of the circle, but then, he wasn’t there anymore, and his gloved paw struck empty air. With nothing to pause his momentum, he went forward, right as a sledgehammer struck his gut. His innards writhed painfully and he tasted bile. He instinctively covered up, yet it made no difference.
Really, it had been a clumsy punch, and he had managed to duck below the worst of it and it only brushed his forehead, the pain superficial. Yet it had been enough.
In his struggle to keep his balance, his left foot went hard backwards. He understood his mistake before the referee could ejaculate “Out!”
Applause erupted. Tyras had been too singularly engaged by the fight to realize that the crew’s usual cheers and jeers had gone silent before the conclusion, all that had been audible being the blood pounding in his ears, the thump of fists on flesh and the endless, constant mighty mechanical growl of the ship’s engines.
Now, the airmen were clapping with the restrained ardor of an opera hall audience, congratulating both warriors.
The moose stood before him, one ham-sized mitt clutching bruised ribs, both snout’s nostrils bleeding, yet he remained as erect and dignified as a soldier immortalized in stone at his emperor’s tomb.
Tyras felt the beginnings of a shiner above his left eyebrow and a warm thin trail of salty liquid out of one corner of his maw. Thankfully, trying his fangs with his tongue, none felt out of place, in spite of his metal-tasting bloodied gums. The burning in his muscles only now made itself known and he released the sight in his right eye, watching sadly as half his world disappeared into blackness once more and the expected headache and nausea from using his Forted abilities had no delay, even for something as banal as seeing normally.
He took in a deep breath of the heavenly air that was found at 1500 meters, resting for but a moment his singular eye on the backdrop of the fiery sunset clouds, which for all its beauty reminded him of the burning cityscape of Luxodava, the whitewashed ancient buildings blazing away in a final defiant act of holy beauty after being shelled for two weeks straight by its own army in preparation for reconquest.
He shook his head, chasing away the grisly memory.
He ripped his gloves off and let them fall to the ground. His opponent did likewise. He looked up to the man who was a half head taller and many times more if one counted the great antlers he refused to trim, and shook his hand.
“Congratulations, good sir! Well deserved victory!”
“Thank you for the challenge. To tell you the truth really, I didn’t know how this fight should have ended were we not under such strictures!”