Draft 3 – Updated 30 April 2026 (C019/D003)
The order of events now unfolding was familiar to LT. Both fighters were in the pit and betting was underway. In a bit, the emcee would introduce the fighters to make it official. That would be followed by a pause allowing stragglers to get their bets in. The fight would start shortly after that.
The emcee, entering the pit, was also known to LT. His name was Toxic. At least, that’s what he was known as here at Two Bears. His real name, his family name, was undoubtedly much less interesting.
Toxic was a rotund man with a large round head. He wore a tall-crowned top hat that was wrapped in a thick velvet band. Attached to the band was a vintage silver buckle featuring an open-mouthed grizzly bear that was roaring and baring its teeth. Even a small amount of movement from Toxic caused the top hot to lean toward the side with that heavy buckle.
Toxic’s silvered-blonde hair snaked out from under his brim, spraying wildly over his ears. Bushy eyebrows bookended two deep vertical creases running up from the bridge of his nose and an equally bushy chevron moustache perched on his upper lip. He crossed the pit ignoring the fighters and made his way to a table set up on the low tier at the far end.
While Toxic conducted his business with the timekeeper, LT tracked the old man stalking Hunter.
“It’s my last one,” he heard the sausage hawker say to Butcher. “But I’ll be right back with more.”
LT tapped the left pocket of his jacket, where he felt the comforting bulge of his jerky pouch. Butcher complained about something, but LT wasn’t really listening.
The stalker was too old and too obvious to be an assassin. He didn’t seem like a pickpocket either. He might be someone with a score to settle. Then again, Hunter was an elf. The stalker could just be an asshole with an attitude problem. There was no shortage of men like that in these mountains.
Toxic finished talking to the timekeeper and went to each of the fighters in turn. Having sat pit-side previously, LT knew he was talking to them about rules. Weapons would be the main point. He would also warn Two Blows against using her tusks.
The stalker seemed to be trying to get a look at Hunter’s face. That made sense. Elf hunters looked alike. Similar clothes. Similar hair. No facial hair or tattoos. They even used the same names and backstories. Ask personal questions and they all said the same thing—right down to the names of their wives and tads—if they said anything at all.
Why they did that wasn’t entirely clear. But the brotherhood knew that elf hunters were more than hunters. They were also emissaries for the Beloved Council, spies with a need for anonymity.
Hunter was no longer moving. He had stopped to watch Toxic introduce the fighters. The old man had stopped as well, keeping a discreet distance back.
“Quiet,” Toxic said, straightening his hat before raising his hands above his head to signal the crowd to silence. “Shut the fuck up!” he said louder, to those who did not heed his call.
Most of the crowd fell silent. But a lone voice carried on. It was a loud-talking drunk who had his back to the pit and was in the midst of telling a story.
“Will someone shut that cocksucker up,” Toxic pointed, “so I can start this fucking fight.”
The drunk was hushed by his friends. He turned to see the emcee’s lethal glare and pressed his lips together in silence.
“If you’re all done bragging about the dick you sucked last night, mister,” Toxic’s voice boomed through the pit, “I’m gonna introduce the fucking fighters now.”
The loud mouth zipped his mouth and gave Toxic a thumbs up as laughter rippled through the crowd. The emcee straightened his top hat over a final malignant glare and then got straight to work.
“Over here,” he said, gesturing to Two Blows and sauntering toward her stool, “we’ve got our defending champion.”
Scattered cheers erupted but were cut short by a palm thrown up with the force of a viper’s strike.
“Undefeated . . . so far . . . today,” he glared at one of the silenced cheerleaders, daring him to further interruption. “From the heathen tribes right here in our own Blue Mountains.”
He stopped before Tooplo’s stool and looked down. “She don’t know her own age”—he sneered—”but is . . . by my estimation”—he made a show of examining her up and down before turning back to the crowd—”somewhere in the vicinity of forty years old.”
Toxic turned his back on Two Blows and strolled back toward the middle of the cut-stone pit, hand still upheld. still demanding silence.
“She stands”—he glanced down at his notes—”seventeen hands and a finger tall. She weighs thirty-two stone. And she is fighting under the name of Tooplo the Swiner.”
His hand came down and the crowd roared. Chants of Two Blows, Two Blows started up again. Toxic gave them a few moments to get it out of their system, before straightening his hat and raising his hand a second time.
“Our challenger,” he bellowed, turning to the young man on the stool across from her, “is this damned stupid boy over here.”
Laughter rippled through the audience. The Company men, in particular, enjoyed that joke. A feeble chant of Lee Ray, Lee Ray caught, flickered, and quickly died out.
“He’s one of our own. From right here in Two Bears. Nineteen years of age. Stands eighteen hands tall and weighs thirteen stone. He’s today fighting under the name of Lee Ray Otis.”
Outside of his small group of gray uniformed supporters, few seemed to have much faith in Lee Ray Otis’ chances against Tooplo the Swiner.
“Turn that sandglass over, Delmont,” Toxic instructed the man at the anvil. “You got that long to place your bets,” he told the crowd. “When Delmont rings that anvil . . . the fight will start. When he rings it again . . . the fight is over.”
Then he held his hands up one last time.
“Show ‘em that hammer, Delmont,” he said to the anvil man, who lifted his heavy hammer into the air to raucous cheering and laughter.
The emcee pointed warningly, his finger passing over the crowd in the stands. “If any of you drunk assholes so much as touches the floor of this pit . . . or either fighter . . . before the anvil rings . . . Delmont has clear goddamn orders to brain you . . . with that fucking hammer.”
More than half of the crowd said the words “with that fucking hammer” in time with the emcee and laughter filled the pit, raining down from the tiers and the men in the trees. LT grinned as Butcher laughed through a mouthful of sausage beside him.
Hunter had not moved. He appeared to be taking in the show with everyone else in the tiers. His stalker had also stopped, appearing to have shifted his focus to the pit as well.
When the sand in the glass ran out, the hammerman pounded four sharp notes on the anvil. The two fighters came to the center of the ring. Toxic gave them final instructions. They touched fists. The emcee backed up. He straightened his top hat. Then signalled the fight to start.
Fists raised to protect their faces, the two fighters closed. The human was younger and had a reach advantage. Tooplo was thicker, stockier. The younger fighter came in too close and too fast. Then he threw a left jab that was just a bit lazier than it should have been.
“Oops,” LT said.
“What?” Butcher asked, glancing at LT, then back to fighters in the pit.
Tooplo turned her head to the left and absorbed the young fighter’s blow with her right shoulder while simultaneously throwing a cross. Her punch started below the young man’s jabbing arm. It came up over her opponent’s elbow and landed hard on his chin. The energy of the blow was multiplied by the momentum of the boy’s young body moving into Tooplo’s heavy fist.
As the punch landed on his chin, the young fighter’s right hand started to come around at shoulder height aiming straight for the swiner’s exposed ear. But long before it landed, Tooplo ducked under his cross and bent over at the waist—waiting for the young man’s brain to figure out what she and LT both already knew.
As his right fist sliced through the air over Tooplo’s back, his eyes rolled back in his head. His weight still moving forward, he fell unconscious onto Tooplo’s back before rolling off and crashing to the ground.
“Oh,” said Butcher. “I see.”
Tooplo turned to her stool, head bowed, as the crowd cheered and chanted her name. One of Lee Ray’s men leaned over the edge, about to jump into the pit to aid him, but was held back by his friends. Toxic moved forward to check on the unconscious fighter.
LT saw Hunter move again. The old man was focused on the events in the ring. Hunter hopped down a tier and slid between some bodies.
The anvil rang, announcing the end of the fight. Lee Ray’s friends jumped into the pit. Tooplo reached up, took her robe, letting it fall to its full length while her brother danced a victory dance on the wall above her. Two Blows. Two Blows. Two Blows.
One blow. If he were a betting man, LT’s money would have been on one blow. No way she needs more than one punch against an opponent that young.
The ring was cleared. The saloon dancers reappeared. And the hawker returned with more sausages. Butcher was hungry. So he bought a few and shared them with his travel companion. The food and the fight made LT thirsty for shine, but he knew that drinking now would be unwise. They still had business to conduct with a man who made Toxic seem like a preacher’s wife.
Hunter, who was below and to his left, caught LT’s eye. The stalker was back to searching. He was scanning the crowd moving in their direction. LT understood what was expected. Hunter would have read the old man’s colours by now. So he would have an idea as to his intentions.
“See that guy in the shine hat with the twine band?” Butcher asked.
“The one tracking Hunter?”
“You saw that.”
“He ain’t exactly hiding it.”
Butcher nodded. “What do you think he’s up to?
“I don’t know. But we should find out.”
“How about I talk to him?” Butcher offered.
“Why you?”
“Fits better with our plan,” Butcher explained. “You being who you’re supposed to be and all.”
LT considered what John was proposing.
“Keeps you from drawing attention to yourself . . . is what I’m thinking you’d want. If that story we’re telling Sewager is to be believed.”
He’s right, LT realized. “Sure. Go ahead.”
The stalker wore a shine hat with a brim wide enough to shelter under during a thunderstorm. It was old and worn. That it once been wrapped a wide band was plain to see. But that band was long gone, replaced by two strands of twine dyed dark blue and tied nice, finished with a knot from a woman’s hand. The man’s hair—all of it—was shaggy, fine, and white as spider silk. If his beard and moustache had once had a shape, they were well past remembering what it was.
“Herman,” Butcher called as the man was about to pass in front of him.
The man’s head flinched at the sound. But since the name called out likely wasn’t his, he chose to ignore the person who called it.
“Herman Tate,” Butcher insisted, hopping down to the tier below, forcing him to stop and engage. “How are you doing?” Butcher smiled broadly. “How’s Lorna and those grand-tads of yours.”
The old man was taken aback. “Sorry, friend,” he replied. “I ain’t him.”
“John Butcher,” he held out his hand, ignoring the protests. “From Three Mills.”
The old man took his hand. “Please to meet you,” he said, looking past Butcher, then back. “But I ain’t never been to Three Mills, mister. So if you don’t mind I’ll just be on my way.”
“That ain’t Heman Tate?” LT said, from the tier above.
Butcher and the stalker both turned their heads toward him.
“Herman Tate’s an honest fella.” LT continued. “This man here looks like a pickpocket.”
The word and its implications caused several nearby heads to turn toward them.
“Ah. Naw,” the stalker shook his head. “I ain’t no pickpocket, mister.”
He pushed his way past Butcher, but was stopped by one of the men whose head had been turned by LT’s pickpocket comment.
“Hang on,” the stranger said, putting his hand on the stalker’s chest, bringing him to stop. “You seen this fella pick someone’s pocket?” he asked LT.
Several men were interested now. They eyed the old fellow suspiciously.
“Ain’t seen him do it successful yet.”
“But you suspect him of being up to it.”
“Everybody else is watching the fight,” LT shrugged. “He’s skulking around behind them. All quiet and sneaky-like.”
A few heads nodded. Hands touched pockets while people checked their contents.
“I ain’t up to nothing beyond trying to get a look at an elfer’s face,” the stalker protested.
“What elfer?” the stranger demanded, looking around.
“One I seen earlier. Before the last fight.”
“Ain’t no point in that,” LT scoffed. “All them elves look alike.”
“This one’s different,” the stalker protested. “This one’s got white hair.”
“So? Lots of em got white hair,” the stranger challenged.
“Listen here son,” the stalker objected. “I’m nearly eighty years old. I ain’t ever seen but one elfer with white hair in my whole damn life.”
LT knew he was right. Elves with white hair were far from common in the colony. But hats and short hair hid that fact fairly effectively.
“So what if he’s got white hair?” the stranger countered. “You gotta score to settle with an elfer, you do it outside.”
“I ain’t looking to fight him. I just want to see if he’s who I think he is.”
LT was convinced of the stalker’s innocence, but now he was curious. “Who do you think he is?”
“Looks like someone who used to fight here back in the day.”
LT and Butcher looked at each other.
“Went by the name of Ghost.”
Ghost. LT had heard the name. It was before his time, but old timers loved to tell their jug stories.
“I heard of him.” The stranger frowned. “But he’d be more than a hundred years old by now.”
“So?” the old timer retorted, “Them elfers live forever.”
The stranger’s hand had dropped from the man’s chest. His eyes searched the crowd. “You really think it’s him?”
“I don’t know for sure,” the old timer admitted. “I ain’t seen him since I was a boy.”
The anvil rang four times bringing an instant hush.
“Thank you, for your prompt fucking attention,” Toxic’s voice sneered into the tiers, bringing everyone to order.
They turned to see him glaring into the seats, daring some smart ass to speak.
“It appears you cocksuckers are learning some manners,’ he said when no one took the bait. “Our de . . . fending champion”—he gestured to Tooplo—”From the heathen camps right here in the Blue Mountains. Of unknown age. Looks to be about forty but”—his head wobbled comically—”fights like a man in his twenties. Standing seventeen hands and a finger tall. Weighing in at fifteen stone. Tooplo the Swiner.”
Cheers. Boos. And more of the chants: Two Blows. Two Blows.
“Her unlucky challenger is this big”—his emphasis fell hard on the word—”sum bitch over here.” He gestured to the other fighter, a massive human being with blonde hair and blue eyes. Then he paused a moment, to let the audience take the fighter in.
“From Lay Shoots lumbercamp. Twenty-six years old. Man stands . . . oh my god . . . Is this right Delmont?” Toxic turned the paper in his hand toward the anvil man, who nodded. Toxic let out a slow whistle. ”Folks, this man is a giant. Nineteen goddamn hands and three fucking fingers tall. He weighs”—Toxic shook his head in disbelief—”no less than nineteen stone.”
The announcement of the man’s weight brought a moan of wonder from the crowd.
“Fighting under the name of Chestnut Dan Skeever.”
Chestnut Dan raised hands over his head, thrusting a hairy chest skyward, holding a glass bottle with brown liquor in one hand. The crowd responded with a mix of cheers and boos. Chestnut. Chestnut. He tipped the bottle up, drained its remaining contents, and flung it toward the men in the trees.
The crowd was energized. From the sounds of things, most believed that Tooplo would win, but it appeared to LT that the Company men had money on the lumberjack.
“He’s drunk,” Butcher observed.
“Looks like it.”
“He’s big, though,” Butcher said. “If he gets ahold of her.”
“He’s scared,” LT proclaimed. “You don’t fight someone like Two Blows drunk ‘less you’re afraid to do it sober.”
The fighters came together in the middle of the pit. The emcee said his words and they bumped fists. The moment that happened, Tooplo crossed her arms in front of her body, signalling NO FIGHT. Then she turned her back and walked back to her stool.
The lumberjack turned his palms to the sky and shouted something after her. Boos and debris rained down into the pit. Toxic, who had backed off to the stairs, returned to the centre. He sent the angry lumberjack back to his stool and stomped over to talk to Tooplo.
“What’s going on?” Butcher asked LT
“Not sure,” LT admitted, shaking his head. “A weapon, maybe.”
“Lumberjack has a weapon,” the stalker put in.
“What does that mean?” Butcher asked.
“Once they touch fists, it’s an automatic disqualification.”
Toxic crossed to the lumberjack. He pointed at his boot, provoking a furious response. Whatever was being said, the lumberjack was having none of it. He waved Toxic off and shouted something across the pit at Tooplo, pointing and shaking his fist. Din and mayhem drowned his words out.
Tooplo perched quietly on the edge of her stool with her left foot forward and her right foot back, tucked under her seat. She appeared calm before the storm that was raging around her opponent’s stool.
LT knew that one of two things was about to happen. Either the fight would be canceled or the lumberjack would attempt to force the issue. As he pondered which of the two was most likely, the lumberjack bolted across the pit.
As his third step forward was about to touch the ground, Tooplo rose from her stool pushing off with her left foot. Two quick steps gathered energy before she launched herself into the air.
The lumberjack realized what was happening a fraction of a second too late. As he tried to lower his hands to block her flying knee, it plowed into his chin.
Two bodies crashed to the ground. The lumberjack landed on his back; Tooplo spun midair as a result of the contact, but landed balanced on her feet.
Angry boos turned to frantic cheers. The emcee rushed to attend to the fallen athlete while Tooplo turned her back and returned to her stool.
She reached up for her robe and draped it over her shoulders. She took a few steps back toward the fallen fighter, crossed her arms and waited. A few moments later, the lumberjack rolled over and struggled to a knee.
Brother Boar Skull called to Tooplo and she turned back toward him. He dropped to a knee at the edge of the wall holding a hand out, palm up. Tooplo, put a hand to her ear and drifted back in his direction.
The lumberjack looked up. He pulled something from his boot, shoved Toxic backward, and charged Tooplo from behind. Tooplo never turned to see him coming. But she stepped to one side, spun, and kicked him in the upper back sending him hurtling past.
His forward progress stopped at the immovable rock face. His limp body slid down, scraping his unconscious face on the bricks, until he landed on his knees. Then he drooped sideways like a sad sack of rice and rolled onto his back, limp knees bent awkwardly beneath. The knife meant for Tooplo was planted to its full depth in a lung.
The crowd gasped and fell silent.
“Fuck me,” Butcher whispered.