Three Minute Sand Pit

The chill of the ocean breeze faded in the midst of the crowd. Dozens of faces, in the dark lit underbelly of a warehouse. Did she recognize any of them? Would they recognize her? The wraps were snug, but it’d be too much of a detriment to make them tighter. Dockmen drank ale at night. A hood and mask should be enough.

The host led her through the crowd. The bearded dwarf stood nearly half the size of most of the onlookers, but he passed like a noble at market square. The customer base of burdened laborers and seasick sailors came to such a place for two things. Drinks, and entertainment. They might stumble, but none would stand in the way of either. 

The Dwarf glanced to make sure she was following. “Hey kid, You know who’s in the Ring?” Rinn nodded. The description she’d gotten from Heb didn’t seem favorable. The bone-crushing Devil Giant from across the sea. . . Then again, Heb had the tendency to exaggerate. What choice was there anyhow? 

“Have you seen em though? Did a no-brain drunkard put you up to this?” Rinn shook her head. They stepped over a groaning man with a bloated face. “If it’s silver you need, I have a brother that pays well. . . It’ll be harder to work with broken bones.” Rinn shook her head again. Every now and again someone would take her for a youngin, but the host in a place like this ought to have thicker skin.

The sea of patrons opened to the edge of the ring. An uneven, ramshackle wooden barrier that someone had filled with sand. A firm ground would have been better, but she wasn’t unfamilia- Who was that behemoth? He stood a head and shoulders taller than the nearest dockman. A bony face, a giant ax strapped to his back, and a length of rusty chain belted around his waist. One thought dominated the rest. How could a man be so large?

The Dwarf must have noticed her pause of shock, “Omer the Giant. It’s an Orcish name, and they say he’s got the blood too. He beat the bloody hopefuls so hard this morning we needed new sand. What say ya now lad that you’ve seen th-” Rinn shook herself from the stupor, and hopped the barrier into the ring. Kill hesitation while it’s young.

“Rea- Well jump right in why dontcha! I’m trying to help ya lad, but yer making it difficult.” Rinn stared down at the dwarf. She almost wanted to reply, but beyond courtesy, it’d be pointless. If anything, the too-kind host might not let her fight. 

One of the servers, an older woman emerged from the crowd and whispered something to the dwarf. He turned toward a platform near the center of the room and ran a hand through his beard. He glanced back to Rinn. “Crazy mute. . . At least take some advice and rid yourself of that there” he pointed to the hilt on her belt. “Keep it white, For your own good.”

Another prodding by the server, and the dwarf turned to maneuver through the crowd; parting the sea of thrill-starved drunkards. Rinn steadied herself and turned to face the behemoth. Omer. He leaned on the rickety barrier with a pint in one hand and a leg of meat in the other, apparently absorbed in his dinner.

As if they could sense the start, ambient chatter diminished to whispers. They began to take notice of her, standing inside the ring. 

“Is E the one, or es e lost?”

“Kid with a deathwish. . .”

“Sure to be a quick end.”

“Where’d my ale go?”

Omer chugged the rest of the frothing pint and dropped his meal on the arena. Rinn tested her footing, shifting her weight from one leg to the next. The sand gave way easily under her small leather boots. She wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling, but it still unnerved her. A shifting surface was one more thing to manage. 

Omer yawned, then scanned her with a bemused expression before breaking into a smile. He turned slowly to face the crowd, raising his arms in a show of spectacle. “Run out’ve men have ya? I’ll break yer lads too!” a bit of a drunken slur tainted his voice. 

Rinn faced Omer, but in her periphery she spotted the dwarf. He’d climbed to the top of the platform, and he held a large cone in one hand. She tensed, then forced herself to relax. Any moment now. A bell rang, and the Dwarf’s voice reverberated through the room. “Minuet Start!” The behemoth advanced. 

In a typical fight, two parties would take a moment at odds to size up one another. Omer closed the gap without the slightest hesitation. Somewhere in the den, there was a bottlenecked vial draining sand. For him, time would be the only enemy. I just need to delay. 

Omer shot forward with an overhand right, no doubt intended for the head. Rinn dipped to her left, pivoting under the attack. One familiar movement linked to another, and she found herself jabbing left and right close to his ribcage. 

The strikes landed, but he didn’t budge in the slightest. Her knuckles stung. Her gut told her to backpedal right, and she managed to gain enough space to dodge a twisted jab from his left. His movements were predictable, -  slow on the windup - but the breeze on her face told her she was still cutting it close.

How long had passed? Ten? fifteen seconds? The spectators watched with an audible enthusiasm. 

“He’s a feisty one.”

“Still a goner.”

“Least e int’ prancin’ round like a dum rabbit.”

Rinn dodged, and then again. A sidestep left, and a drop right. Another opening appeared. She punched him square in the gut, but there was no give. Tight. As solid as a brick wall. Screw this. She narrowly avoided another hook and scurried out of range. 

On the tips of her toes, she maneuvered herself to circle around the edge of the ring. It prompted boos from a few spectators, but she needed a moment to think. It wasn’t sustainable. Could she really finish the minute, then do it once more, and yet again? What choice did she have? Could she steal the rest?

Omer moved to corner her. When she feinted left, he held his ground and advanced a step further. Second by second, he corralled her closer to the wall. He’d probably seen countless “fighters” who’d thought they could survive the minute by running in circles. She needed time. One more opening might do it. . . 

He closed the gap with a straight jab. Much faster than before. Rinn pivoted right and leaned back; Quick enough to deflect the brunt of the blow, but not to dodge completely. Her left shoulder grew numb with pain. He maintained his speed. Another jab, followed by a succession of hooks. He wouldn't let her slip away. Her focus strained, she narrowly evaded the rain of blows. I’m Faster.

Another strike brushed her shoulder, and the opening appeared. She slipped under a hook and countered with a hard right. Positioning gave her full leverage on her back right foot, and a left pivot added force. She struck the bottom-left of his jaw, and the man staggered.

A moment of awe half silenced the ever-present spectators. A similar punch, with such good placement and a fair measure of luck, might knock-out the typical bloke; but it did little more than faze Omer. It peeled at his mask of concentration just enough to let the drunkard slip through.

Seven seconds passed with a stupor. His breathing is labored. Another three, and the jeers of the crowd drew him to his senses. Rinn maneuvered to the opposite end of the arena, and before he could close the distance, a bell rang.

Excitement buzzed from beyond the barrier.

“Nimble for a lad”

“Little guy actually survived. . .”

“Lucky Squirt”

“Feel like I’ve seen 'em somewhere before. . .”

The voice of the dwarf echoed above the chatter. Part of Rinn wanted a painting of the near dumbfounded expression on his face “w- We have a win by the challenger! One minute in the ring, and an upset to be sure!”

Omer eyed her with thoughtful hostility, rubbing his chin. “Yer got lucky, little stinger. Tis hard to squish a bug so small.” He’s still drunk. “Yer like a little bumblebee, buzzin around with one little sting.” That last drink should be hitting him soon. . . “Why not try yer luck again. Tis twice the winnin’s if ye win. . .” He’s still catching his breath. He’ll be slower, more prone to make mistakes. . . Another chance wouldn't come again. I can do it.

Once more, then yet again. . . The dwarf was in the middle of announcing the next fight, when Rinn raised her hand. He stumbled over his sentence and morphed it into a shaky question. “The Mute Lad wants to double?” 

She balled her hand to a fist to confirm it. One more minute. 

A buzz of excitement swelled in the room. At the same time, A distinct creeping feeling edged into her awareness. Someone was watching her. . . Not the hooded fighter brawling in the sandpit, but Her. A dockman at the edge of the barrier cheered with a cup of ale. The despondent faces of those around him highlighted the winner and losers of a bet. Did he seem familiar? Someone else. . . who is it?

Omer wore an almost giddy smile from across the way. “Yer ok as a bug, I’ll giv’ya that. Mer slippery than flys and ye got yer little sting.” Rinn gave her left shoulder a light massage. The numbness of the impact had subsided, and now it just throbbed with pain. “I ave squished lots of bugs. Ants, flys, and evn’ roaches.” this is doable. . . “Yer gonna be the first bee.”

The bell rang, and Rinn's mind recentered on the fight. He started fast. The fatigue and drunkenness on display dissipated. Was he faking it? No, it was a mask. You can’t keep this up. . . she read his rhythm. A jab and hook. Duck. Pivot. Deflect. Counter. 

Next, he would tos- Pressure wrapped around her right wrist, locking her in place. She felt herself lose contact with the ground. A shallow spring of fear welled to life on some level of consciousness, as she realized she’d been caught. He’d broken the rhythm. He caught her and pulled her up like a rag doll. “Have ye now little bee.”

“Fun while it lasted.”

“Bit of a letdown actually.”

“Did that to yourself squirt.”

His grip was made of iron. She scrambled to escape, but he socked her right side. *Crack*. A rib? More than one? A shout escaped her. “So yeh do have a voice!” he laughed. “If I had such a wimpy voice, I’d try ta be mute too” He wound up again. It’ll be the head or the gut. . . Either would be disabling. Possibly deadly. Losing is not an option.

She drew her dagger and slashed his wrist. His hand spasmed, and gravity saved her from a probable cracked skull. She scrambled away on all fours. Breathing hurt. Another Bell rang, and a spectator yelled. “RED FIGHT!” Sleeping sailors stirred awake, and patrons occupied by whatever else, edged over to see the commotion.

Omer looked at his dripping blood and laughed. “Woulda left you off with a broken face. Yeh got a nice blade, But mine’s bigger.” He pulled a strap from his back and gripped the massive ax in both hands. Changing a fight from white red doubled the stakes. Weapons, and one more minute.

“Poor lad’s goin’ to die.”

“Don’t he move like that lass on Staff street?”

“The same lass that slit the govna?”

“Who now?”

Omer raised the weapon. A few steps forward put him into range, and he leveraged an arc in her direction. It’s heavy. It’ll slow him down. The signs of fatigue were finally beginning to show. She pivoted and slashed with a reverse grip. A thin line of red grew on his right arm, but the cut was shallow. Her arm still ached. She switched the weapon to her right. He’s become slower. Now I can touch him. 

Breathing hurt. She held her breath. Another attack. Omer grunted. He pulled at his weapon, but his footing wavered and he staggered past Rinn. It was as though his movements had suddenly become clumsy. She took the opportunity to stab him in the back. It penetrated halfway to his shoulder, but the force put painful pressure on her ribs. I’ll bleed you dry.

“Enough of it!” the Omer yelled. The expression on his face was more frustration than anger, but it changed moment by moment. He left the ax in one hand, and pulled the chain from his waist. What in the- In a surprisingly fluid motion, he flung the chain and it cracked where she’d just been attempting to approach. He made a pulling motion with his ax as if he were yanking it from another’s hand. “Put somethin’ in my drink! Din’t ya! Biggest mistake ya made all yer life.”

He really moved like a drunkard now. Still, despite his clumsy movements, he was like a hurricane. Any attempt she made to counter turned to evasion. By some miracle of dodges and weaves, she avoided the onslaught.

The chain streaked overhead and she ducked low to the ground. He’d been pushing her towards a wall, and her avenues of escape steadily dwindled. She took a handful of sand and chucked it upwards. A direct hit to the eyes. It blinded him long enough for her to dive past, and stab his calf. He turned to her with red eyes, and the onslaught resumed.

The time was drawing near, when the chain whipped around her leg. Rinn's world churned as her feet were pulled out from under her, and she fell hard to the thin bed of sand. The impact knocked her wind out, and her right side seared with immobilizing pain.

Unable to move, she faced the executioner’s fury. The ax fell. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, willing her body to move by some miracle. The brief moment felt like a minute. The trajectory on the weapon was set to her chest. Lethal without a doubt. Then, it moved. As if pulled by an invisible person, some unseen force, the weapon shifted.

It cut through the sea of sand and embedded itself in the wood under her right arm. The bell rang. The world felt unreal. Rinn took a deep breath. It hurt. Had her eyes deceived her? Had that been magic in play? It doesn't matter now. I’ve won. Bones had definitely been cracked. The fall had made it worse, so she kept herself to shallow breaths. 

She ley’d on the sand in throbbing relief, when a foreign thought entered her mind. “It’s not over yet kid.” What? The crowd was cheering. The bell had rung. Three minutes had passed. What else was there? “We’ve pissed off the giant”. . . We? Omer still stood over her. Bleeding fury. He pried the ax from the wood. Did he not hear the bell? 

“Don’t look so surprised. You made him a pincushion, and I cheated.” “Chea- Where are you?” A bitter laugh drew her attention back to Omer. “I’M Right here. Bout to squish you little bee.” He raised the ax overhead. “Dodge that, will you? I’ll be there in a moment.” Rinn rolled to her left, narrowly avoiding another untimely maiming.

She scrambled to her feet, but her right side throbbed with pain. It was difficult to stand straight. She staggered back to the edge of the arena as Omer slowly advanced. The bell rang again. She could see the dwarf frantically ringing it. “Rounds over!” Two gloved hands grabbed her from behind, hoisting her over the barrier. 

It was a tall man in a tattered trench coat. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss.” His voice matched the one in her head. Did he know her? How would he? More importantly, Omer was advancing. Rinn scanned the man. “Have a crossbow or something?” he didn’t look like it. She didn’t wait for a reply, and staggered in the opposite direction. The spectators formed an empty bubble around the two of them, naturally separating like water and oil. 

The man pulled a pouch from his tattered coat and threw it at Omer. Dust burst from the small bag. His face that had been a mask of frustration twitched. It melted into fatigue, and then his sandy bloodshot eyes closed. Omer - still bleeding from being stabbed - fell atop the barrier of the arena and began to snore. 

Rinn turned back, fairly stunned. A bag of dust was all it took? No. he’s a magician. . . “Who are you?” The man took a look at the sleeping warrior and turned to the crowd as if looking for something. “All in good time Miss. Shock and awe are fleeting things. Even for drunkards. You’d best quickly collect your gold.”

Rinn turned her attention to the crowd. They were in a fit of excitement, but somewhere in its depths, she heard her name. Staff street Battler. If the word spread too far, too quickly, she’d be stuck here in the underbelly of the warehouse. The whole fight would come to be pointless. 

She took a lingering look at the mysterious tattered man as she turned to the dwarf’s platform. Where did he come from? Why was he here? How much did he know? The pain in her side drew her mind back to the moment. It doesn’t matter. For now, however it had happened, she’d managed to win. Just keep winning.