Chapter 1: Liam

 Liam wiped his hands off on his denim overalls, leaving behind a stain of soot. With a sigh, he snapped his harness onto the ropes and plunged into the darkness of the tunnels. One of the miners operating the pully overhead eased him down, one ratchet clink at a time.

He tried to enjoy the feeling of not standing for a moment. It was one of the few breaks his tired legs would get. And he marveled at the sensation of having his spine stretched all the way out, not hunched over how it would be for the rest of the day. But his descent came to an end all too soon, and then a foreman was berating him for wasting time.

Without a word, Liam unclicked his harness and followed the path of torches deeper into the tunnels. Some rocks caught the glint of light, while most were opaque and seemed to suck the light from the torches. The darkness was like a wet blanket, weighing down on Liam’s spirits as he tried not to think of the millions of tons of rock overhead. It likely wouldn’t come tumbling in. This section had been carved out for years and hadn’t had a cave-in since its first days of being mined.

Before long, Liam heard the uneven clinks of pickaxes against stone. Another foreman, decked in similar overalls to Liam’s, handed him a pickaxe. “First water break is in two hours. Get on with it.”

Liam didn’t bother with a reply. No use. Instead, he found his spot on the wall near one of his friends, Simon Vyner. Simon gave him a brief nod between strikes of his pickaxe. Liam returned the greeting, then started mining.

It was grueling work, breaking stone and carving these paths. But someone had to do it. Liam’s family still owed the town’s Governor a combined eight years of work to pay off their debt, but there was no use dwelling on it. At first his muscles cramped and protested, but he ignored them. Then his lungs wheezed as he tried to get a decent breath through the poor air.

Finally, he settled into his rhythm, and then the hours slowly passed as he watched the wall move, bit by bit.

Lunch came and went, uneventful. It was the same cheese and bread it always was. Then back to work. He had one more water break halfway through, then finally his shift ended. They had dug one pace further from where they started that day.

As he set aside his pickaxe, his ears perked up at the head foreman’s voice. “This is unacceptable. We’re nowhere near the Emperor’s new quotas.”

“We’re already working them have to death,” came another foreman’s voice. Liam turned the corner, stepping past a set of wooden support beams to where the two foremen were talking in an office with an open door.

“Find a way!” The foreman snapped, then stormed out of the office. “And what are you gaping at, slack jaw?” he asked upon seeing Liam.

“You’d be better off hiring more people than working us harder,” Liam said, the weariness of the day weighing heavy on him and loosening his tongue.

“The hell you say to me? D’you know who you’re speaking too?” A piece of spittle flew from the foreman’s mouth.

Liam wiped it off his cheek. He wanted to say more; his fists clenched. But he couldn’t. His Mom couldn’t bear to see Liam hanging in the gallows for insubordination, and even if the foremen were generous, he couldn’t risk more time as an indentured servant. His families combined eight years was already far too many. He’d never get to achieve his dreams if he was stuck here in Shal Rial, the cesspool of Roseland.

“Apologies,” Liam said, lowering his eyes to the foreman’s mud-stained boots. “I spoke out of turn. I beg your forgiveness.” The words could have been barbed, the way they caught in his throat and hurt as they came out. But Father had always said a real man knew when to be humble, when to shut up and say the right thing, even if it hurt.

“Hmph.” The foreman scanned Liam up and down. “You’re a strong enough lad. You’ll earn your forgiveness if you help me with an errand.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Liam said, then risked a glance up. “What shall you have of me?”

“Follow, boy,” the foreman led the way to the lift, which was reserved only for the foreman and other officials in the town. Liam had ridden in it once when he was younger, on a similar errand. “How old are you?” The foreman asked.

“Nearly twenty,” Liam said. The lift gave a jolt as it started moving upward.

The foreman nodded absentmindedly, then produced a small notebook and a pen from his pocket, in which he scribbled a few notes. Liam wasn’t at a good angle to see what it was about. After a moment, he looked up. “We’re expecting a messenger from the Central Command sometime tomorrow, likely a courier or scribe. I’ll need you to haul some these barrels of ale down to The Tumbling Rosebud, make sure the courier is seen after and the like. Can’t have Central having a bad impression of my work, eh?”

“Of course not, sir.” Liam would play his part and agree with whatever the foreman asked. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he could be home and get on with the things he actually enjoyed doing.

Once they were out of the mines and in the surrounding compound, the foreman directed Liam to a keg of Roseland Amber Ale. “From my personal collection,” the foreman remarked. He rode on horseback while Liam pulled a cart along. It would have made far more sense to strap the cart onto the horse, but Liam wouldn’t question the man.

The one bright side to this unexpected endeavor was that he’d be taking the supplies to The Tumbling Rosebud, and it being a Friday, there would surely be at least a few fights tonight. Normally Liam didn’t have the spare money to get into the inn, but if he played his cards right, he might be able to linger and catch at least one of the fights before the barmaids spotted him and kicked him out.

A surge of excitement came with that thought. Normally he was relegated to peering in through windows at awkward angles, craning his neck and straining his already fatigued back for the just the slightest glimpses of the fights. And even that was risky, the tavern owner, Miss Abella would have him strung out if she caught him climbing around the roof.

 A bump on the road jostled the keg and nearly caused it to spill. Liam tilted the cart and got it back on track, but the foreman gave him a scornful look at told him to watch it. Liam did, after that, careful not to let his daydreams get away from him.

And a few minutes later, as his tired muscles started begging for a break, Liam had a drop of sweat roll down into his eye, stinging and making him squint real hard. But he couldn’t take a hand off the cart to wipe it away, since the cart took both hands to push and the foreman was walking alongside, not wanting to waste a moment.

Once they finally arrived at The Tumbling Rosebud, which was the largest tavern in the small town, the foreman had a stablehand watch his horse while Liam took a moment to look over the old tavern. It was one of the oldest buildings in the mining town, which was itself only about fifty some years old, so he’d heard. The Rosebud was built of long horizontal logs stacked and stained dark, and with a shingled roof of deep green tile. The front had a deck with a few rocking chairs and boards of Stones set up between them.

Since the night was still young, the deck’s sole occupants were two old men with white beards, both absorbed in their game of Stones while they smoked on pipes. A gust of wind wisped the smoke from their mouths, much in the same way it caught the smoke coming from each of the three chimneys atop the three-story tavern, which also served as an inn for visitors. Not that Shal Rial had too many visitors.

The foreman returned from inside, evidently having spoken with Miss Abella, then he led Liam around back to one of the staff’s entrances, where he had Liam leave the cart and carry the keg by hand. It was heavier than anything ought to be, and Liam grunted under the weight. The foreman seemed to take a small pleasure in that, damn the man.

Liam followed him through the kitchen, which was mostly empty, save for three cooks yammering as they chopped up veggies, presumably for the stew. The foreman led him down another hallway and into the taproom, where all the kegs were kept.

“That shelf, there.” The foreman pointed. Liam heaved it up onto the shelf while the foreman watched. “Good work, lad. For your efforts.” He flipped a copper mark over to Liam. Probably pocket change for the foreman, but it was halfway a treasure for Liam.

Liam bowed his head in thanks and made his way into the tavern proper. A fair few people occupied the main room, which had a bar in the middle with a three patrons nursing drinks and a barkeep reading a book by candle light. On the far wall, a few poker tables were arranged, though only one was occupied with a group of three, hazy spindles of smoke catching the light from the window Liam had often used for peering in.

On the wall opposite that, the fight ring. It took up most of that section of the room and was raised above the ground by five feet so anyone in the tavern could easily see the fight. It was unoccupied now, naturally, but come an hour after sunset, and it’d be a different story.

For his part, Liam went to the bar and got a mug of the cheapest ale, which his copper mark covered, then he sunk down into a booth in the corner, hoping to avoid notice until the fight starts.

The next few hours came and went uneventfully. Liam spent the bulk of the time watching the newcomers slowly fill the room. Most stopped at the bar to order drinks, then found tables round the fight ring.

The challenger for tonight, Dan ‘the Grizzly’ Newsome made a brief appearance around an hour before showtime, stopping at the bar for water then following his coaches out to one of the training areas out back. The Grizzly was well-named: he was a bear of a man with arms like logs and huge jowls hanging from his chin. Despite his size, he seemed light on his feet, and his eyes scanned the room even as he waited for his water.

A bit later, the defending champion of Shal Rial arrived, John Johnson. He didn’t have a fighter nickname, but then he hardly needed one since everyone in town knew of him. John Johnson was a taller man, with tan skin that stood out from the pale skin of most Roselandi’s. Liam had heard rumors that he was of Galician descent, but they were only rumors. Regardless, John Johnson was as tall as the Grizzly, but trim and athletic compared to the Grizzly’s large and domineering.

A young barmaid slid into the booth opposite of Liam while he was watching John Johnson parade around the tavern. Liam could barely hear her over the noise of all the patrons in the now-full bar, cheering for their champion, but she said, “who’s your money on?”

Her name was Ariel, and she was one of the barmaids that Liam knew best. Short, thin, and with dark hair that fell like a curtain around her face, she was pleasant to look at but never let anyone get close, whether emotionally or physically. Still, she could be fun to talk to.

“Johnson’s the favorite,” Liam replied, “for good reason. He could run circles around the Grizzly. And Johnson’s a damn good boxer.”

“But?” Ariel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“But the Grizzly weighs more than two carts of coal, I heard he won his fight up in Miv Yun last week by submission. Heard he choked the fella out from behind in the first round of three. Barely took a hit.”

“A grappler?” Ariel asked, intrigued. “I haven’t seen a grappler come through in, damn, almost a year.”

“Neither has Johnson, by my reckoning,” Liam said, he took a sip from his nearly empty mug. “If Johnson can keep him away, it’s his fight, but if the Grizzly gets on top of him, I don’t see Johnson getting out. Then it’s only a matter of time, hm?”

“So your money’s on the Grizzly then?”

“If I had money,” Liam muttered. He drained the last of his mug. “Will Miss Abella be prowling about tonight, you think?”

“Slim chance of that,” she replied. “She’s got some sweetheart in from down south, so like as not she’ll be entertaining him all night.” Ariel brushed her hair out of her face, fixing her green eyes on Liam. “But if you did have money, you’d put in on Grizzly, even though Johnson’s the favorite, five to one?”

Liam nodded. “The way I see it, Grizzly’s the favorite. I give him a seventy-percent chance of winning. Johnson isn’t used to grapplers, and the Grizzly’s not so slow as he looks.”

“I’ll bet my money then, and I’ll get you another beer as thanks,” Ariel said.

“Don’t hold it against me if it works out wrong,” Liam said. “But thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Ariel retuned a moment later with a new full mug, and to Liam’s surprise, it wasn’t the same cheap ale he’d been drinking. No, this was a darker ale, with more pronounced hops and a more complex taste. And more alcohol. Liam had a sneaking suspicion it was from the foreman’s private keg, which put a smile on Liam’s face.

But then before he’d even finished half of his mug, the lights were dimming, and the rowdy patrons grew quiet as they filled in around the ring. Liam climbed up to the back of his booth where the top of the chair met the wall was a little alcove, the perfect place to sit and have an unobstructed view over the heads of all the other spectators. He had chosen this booth with care, having discovered this spot after much trial and error over the years.

Soon the room was as close to silent as it would get – which wasn’t much. There were still whispers abound and the clinks of forks on plates, but then the tavern’s announcer, Bartholomew Tibern climbed up onto stage, wearing his preposterous glittery purple jacket and with his grey hair slicked back in an absurd style.

“It’s time!” He shouted, to which the whole the bar erupted into cheers.

Ariel slipped out of the shadows and climbed up next to him in the booth, nursing a mug of her own. “Miss Abella won’t see us up here, in the shadows as we are,” she whispered.

“Fighting out of  Miv Yurn!” Bartholomew continued, in his exaggerated screaming voice, “in the red shorts, weighing in at two hundred and forty-five pounds, and standing six feet two inches tall, Dan ‘the Grizzly’ Newsome!”

He paused for cheers as the Grizzly appeared from a door in the back and climbed on stage, the man seemed larger than life now, wearing only a set of red shorts and small red gloves. He cracked his neck as he paced across the stage, glaring at anyone he could make out in the audience.

“And defending!” continued Bartholomew, “fighting from his home town of Shal Rial, in the blue shorts, weighing in at two hundred and twelve pounds, and standing six feet one inch tall, John Johnson!” This garnered far more cheers, and Liam even allowed himself to clap a little. His figurative money may have been on the Grizzly, but Johnson was a fan favorite for a reason. His charisma was undeniable.

Johnson ran onto stage, arms held high as he did a few laps, screaming in excitement. After the showboating abated for a moment, the referee, a retired miner with an impressive red beard, made his way on stage. The referee spoke to the two fighters quietly while all of the bar’s patrons got their drink and food orders in place.

“They doin’ three rounds or five?” Ariel asked.

“Three rounds of five minutes, as I understand it,” Liam replied. “They go until knockout or forfeit.”

Ariel yawned. “I wish they started earlier. Say, don’t you gotta be up in the morning for work?”

Liam shrugged. “Sure. But I only need a few hours of sleep.”

Ariel shook her head in disbelief. “Can’t imagine how you get by on so little.”

“Fighters,” Bartholomew bellowed, “Are? You? Ready?” A beat. “Fight!”

The two fighters advanced, tapping gloves, then Johnson struck first with a jab toward the Grizzly’s face. The Grizzly slipped past it, then pivoted around and threw a right hook of his own. Johnson danced out of range, but then he was back with another jab in the blink of an eye.

“Gods, they’re fast,” Ariel whispered.

The two continued circling each other, throwing testing jabs and feints. The Grizzly made as if to shoot in for a takedown, but it was only a feint that he cleverly turned into a jab. It caught Johnson on the shoulder, but a flicker of annoyance gleamed in his eyes. Johnson threw a kick that caught the Grizzly in the leg and staggered him, but he switched his stance around and continued circling.

“Now that I didn’t expect,” Liam whispered. “Not too many fighters can switch between orthodox and reverse-lead like that.”

“What does that mean?” Ariel whispered.

“It means he might be even better than I thought.”

As if on cue, the Grizzly suddenly shot forward, dropping to a knee as he caught one of Johnson’s legs and pinched it tight to his chest. Liam watched intently; it wasn’t every day you got to study the technique of a good grappler. The Grizzly buried his forehead in Johnson’s ribs, knocking him off balance, then the Grizzly stepped out with one foot and pivoted hard, slinging Johnson to the ground.

But Johnson was quick, and he was back on his feet before the Grizzly could capitalize on his takedown.

“If Johnson can stay off the ground like, he might wear the Grizzly out,” Liam whispered.

The Grizzly threw another jab, then a cross, but Johnson slipped them easily. Then Johnson returned with a shot of his own, a left hook that hit the Grizzly hard.

The crowd roared with an, “oowee!” as the Grizzly stumbled back, throwing an errant punch in the hopes of keeping Johnson off of him. It didn’t work. Johnson was the faster of the two, and put it to good use.

He swept the Grizzly’s feet out from beneath him and the man’s feet flew into the air as he crashed onto the ground. His arms shelled up over his head as Johnson followed him to the ground with a hammer fist. The crowd’s roars grew deafening, but then the bell rang, ending the round before Johnson could finish him.

Both fighters returned to their corners, while barmaids surged onto the floor to replenish drinks and clear away empty plates. Liam took another swig from his drink, sparing a moment to look at the patrons on the floor. One man in the back caught his eye, a dirty looking fellow with bandages wrapped around his head and covering one eye. His good eye was glaring at Liam, which gave him a little jump. Liam turned away from the man, keeping his focus on the ring and trying to figure out who that man was. A foreigner? Or just someone from out of town? And why was he glaring at Liam?

The fight resumed shortly, and Arial returned to her seat next to Liam. The second round was less eventful; both of the fighters were being more cautious, and they were breathing much harder. Their skin glistened with sweat, and blood dripped from above one of the Grizzly’s eyes.

When the second round ended with far fewer punches exchanged, the crowd booed, and the referee warned the two that he wanted to see more action.

The bell rang for the third round and Johnson came in quick with a kick to the head. The Grizzly blocked it and returned with a liver punch, which doubled Johnson over, then the Grizzly followed with a knee to the head, which missed by only an inch. Johnson was angry then and threw a flurry of blows toward the Grizzly’s head. The Grizzly blocked them, but only barely.

“Wait a second,” Liam whispered, “he’s baiting Johnson.”

The Grizzly stumbled back under Johnson’s rain of punches, yet none were connecting. Johnson threw harder and harder until the Grizzly slipped out of the way and was behind Johnson. His hands wrapped around Johnson’s waist as panic filled his eyes, then the Grizzly lifted hard and threw Johnson over his back, slamming the man into the ground and knocking him out in an instant.

Cheers erupted in the crowd, even as many people hung their head from a losing bet. Everyone loved a good finish to a fight. Liam clapped along and Ariel whistled.

“Well, you were right,” Ariel said. “And good thing too, I bet all of this week’s wages on it.”

“How much did you make?” Liam asked.

“Five notes and three crowns,” Ariel said smugly.

Liam tried his best not to be envious. He wished he had money to bet, but all his wages from the mines just went toward paying for his families home, or the food they ate. Any spare change he got usually went toward new clothes. Tonight had been an indulgence. And speaking of, he’d probably ought to get home.

He made to stand, but Ariel grabbed his arm. “You won’t stay for another drink or two.”

“Fresh out of money,” Liam said, holding his palms out to her. “But I’ll try to sneak in again next weekend.”

“Fair enough,” Ariel said. “Get home safe.”

***

When Liam arrived home, he didn’t head inside. Instead, he circled around to the small backyard they had, where he had constructed a few makeshift dummies from bits of old leather sacks and filled them with dirty rags.

Liam dropped to one knee as he shot in toward the dummy, grabbing it’s leg and hugging it tight to his chest, then burying his head into the dummy’s ribs. For the next hour, he worked on that one takedown he had seen the Grizzly do. It wasn’t everyday you got to see a good grappler, and Liam wanted to memorize the takedown before he forgot.

He intended to only practice for a few hours, but all too soon the sun was peaking over the horizon, and Liam guiltily realized he never slept. Still, he climbed in through a window and laid in bed, so his Mom wouldn’t know.

Below, you will find the first Few chapters of To Dance on strings of shadow. This book is in its First draft. Remember, anything here is subject to change in the future.

Chapter 2: Stranger on the Road

Only an hour later, Liam stumbled out the door, wiping sleep from his eyes and taking a heavy drought from the kaf his Mom had brewed. It did little to help – it was like trying to stop a cave-in with a twig – but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt. And once he was back into the monotonous act of mining, he could forget himself and let his body work while his mind wandered.

Down the sloping path and onto the main street he walked. He gave a quick smile or wave to his neighbors, who lived in small shacks much the same as his families. It was hot here in Shal Rial, in the south of Roseland, and sweat soon beaded on his forehead. It didn’t help he was wearing thick denim overalls, but he’d wear through anything lighter too fast for it to be worthwhile.

He left the neighborhood trail and continued out of town toward the mines, which were only a quarter of a mile outside the town proper. Fields of wheat undulated in the wind, but otherwise, there was nothing out here. Not many folk worked on the weekends, but Liam did. It’d add up eventually. If he worked every weekend out of the year, for four years, it’d save him a fifth year. He could make that sacrifice, if it might get him closer to his dream one day.

As he approached the crossroads ahead, he saw a fellow on horseback idly looking around with a telescope. The man looked to be in solid shape, and he wore a sword on his horse’s saddle, so he must’ve been military. Beyond that, a wide-brimmed hat covered his short black hair, but it didn’t cover his grim eyes or his hardy face.

“Excuse me, lad,” the man said, waving to Liam.

Liam blinked a few times as he headed over to the man. “Uh, hello?”

“I’m not from ‘round these parts,” he said. His accent reminded Liam of someone from further south, near the Galician border maybe. “Is Shal Rial that way?”

Liam nodded. “Uh huh. And pardon, but you’ll like as not need credentials to get in. Being a military-owned town and such.”

“I appreciate the warnings,” the man said. “But it won’t be an issue for me. Name’s Warren. Warren Chambers.” He stooped down from his brown horse to offer Liam a hand.

Liam shook it tentatively. “Liam Atwood, at your service mister.” When in doubt, kiss ass. Especially around military men.

“None of that now,” Warren said, reaching into his saddle. The sword caught Liam’s eye again, this time he noticed it had been wrapped up in bandages, so many that he didn’t the fellow would be able to draw the sword without unwrapping it. Odd.

Warren produced a piece of paper, which he deftly unfolded. “I’m here on a bounty. Looking for a ‘Bloody Tam.’ Medium sized fellow. Killed three folk down in Miv Devar.” So Liam had been right about the South. “Light skin, brown hair, dark eyes. You see him, you come found me, hear? I’ll be staying in The Purple Daisy for a week or so while Duster here rests.” He patted his horse fondly. “Come ask for me if you see him, same goes for any of your friends. Remember, Warren Chambers.” He handed the wanted poster to Liam. “I got extras, you can keep that one.”

“Thanks, mister,” Liam said, bowing his head.

Warren Chambers nodded his head and made to go, but then a thought occurred to Liam. “Say, are you the courier from Central that the foreman was talking about?”

“Something like that,” Warren said, a smirk crossing his face.

“He’s got a keg of nice ale for you over at The Tumbling Rosebud.”

“What’s the foreman’s name?”

Liam shrugged. “He’s new. Can’t say I know.”

Warren nodded. “Well thanks. I’ll be off.”

Liam turned and continued on to the mines.

***

Liam fell asleep only two times before his lunch break, which was better than he expected. Both times he was reprimanded by the foreman on shift, old Thomas Marky, a different one than the new fellow from yesterday. The first time he got a paddle to the ass, and the second time he lost his free lunch.

That was okay with Liam. He didn’t mind going hungry for the afternoon. He used his lunchbreak to nap, which was his plan all along.

When lunch break was over, he did feel a bit refreshed. He got to work with his pickaxe, striking the stones and tearing them up. You always looked for cracks in the rocks, weak points to expose and speed things up. Sometimes he supposed fighting must be the same way. Strike at the weak points.

Not like he really knew. Seeing as he’d never gotten to do a real fight. The closest thing to that was when he was little, and a few bullies had made sport of beating him up once a week. Liam had been little then, had no chance of fighting back. He was still little now, only about five foot eight inches, but he was stocky, and he had muscles from years of mining to compensate, so it wasn’t all bad.

He realized he had drifted off again and struck the rocks in front of him again. What he really wanted was to be a fighter. And not some amateur fighter like Johnson or the Grizzly. No. Liam wanted to be the best damn fighter in Roseland. He wanted to get to Ser Vien, the capital, and join the Professional Fighter’s League, where the real crème of the crop fought.

Mom always said that was just a pipe dream. Dad always told him to get back to work. Ariel always told him most fighters in the PFL started when they were five and trained all day like it was their job.

Liam didn’t have the luxury. All he had was training in his backyard at night. But he’d be damned if he was going to let something stupid like where was born determined what he got to do with his life. Wasn’t fair, but life never was. Liam would work off these stupid contract years, then once he was a free man, he’d find a way to get to Ser Vien, and that was that.

“Get back to work,” Thomas Marky hollered, “no more slacking or today won’t count toward your hours!”

Liam nodded. Perhaps staying up all night wasn’t such a bright idea after all.

***

When the day had run its course and the mines’ tunnel had lengthened by another pace, Liam was finally allowed to leave. He found himself outside, not quite remembering the act of walking out of the mines. I really ought to get some sleep. He dragged his feet through the dirt of the trail in to town, keeping his eyes down and out of the setting sun before him.

His mind drifted while he trudged onwards, replaying the fight from last night for the fiftieth time. Gods, but that had been a good fight. Shal Rial usually only had amateurs come through, but the Grizzly had been legit. Most people on the amateur scene, people like John Johnson, specialized in one thing. Johnson was fast on his feet and had a few decent punches. But the Grizzly, well he’d been able to strike and grapple. It was a real treat to see that, like finding a nugget of gold in the mines.

Something was nagging at him. He stopped walking, listening to the wind whistle past the stalks of wheat. There was… he was missing something. He racked his befuddled mind. It didn’t have to do with Ariel. No. What else of note happened last night?

The one-eyed stranger, with the bandages on his head.

Liam dug into his pocket and snatched out the crumpled-up paper that Warren Chambers had given him earlier. He unfurled it and inspected the portrait. Light skin, dark hair, brown eyes. Or… Liam held up a finger across the man’s right eye and tried to imagine it was a bandage. He gasped.

That was him. Bloody Tam.

Liam took off in a dash. A murderer in Shal Rial? Where did Chambers say he was staying? The Purple Daisy. Liam’s tired muscles ached at the sudden burst of energy, and he nearly stumbled twice, but before long he was hurrying into town.

Although ‘town’ was hardly an apt, description. It was more a loose collection of buildings. Only some thousand people lived here. Liam went past the grocer, past the school, past the sheriff’s office, and past a few houses until he found the Purple Daisy, one of the smallest taverns in town.

Liam barged inside; the foul scent of smoke assaulted his nose while his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. He blinked as he found his way to the bar where an old fellow with sun-dried skin and a white mustache gave him a disapproving look. “What brings you in here like that, boy?”

“Is Mr. Warren Chambers here, sir?” Liam gasped, out of breath.

“Now slow your horses, boy.” The bartender set a glass of water down on the bar. “Drink that, then talk.”

Liam glanced around, but he couldn’t see Warren at any of the tables. He gulped down the water, spilling a fair few drops onto his shirt and nearly choking on the last gulp. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, caught his breath, then managed to do something resembling composing himself.

“It’s urgent, is Mr. Warren Chambers here? I have something important to tell him.”

“Chambers,” the bartender muttered as he scanned through his guest book. “Ah yes. He checked in this morning. Haven’t seen him since. Said he might not be back until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Oh,” Liam said.

“You can leave a message if you like,” the bartender offered.

“Tell him… tell him Liam found the man he was looking for. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Liam thanked the bartender and left him a copper mark that he really couldn’t spare, then he was back outside. Only the last bit of the sun was still above the horizon, and the sky fading to darkness as most decent folk would be getting ready for bed.

Liam supposed he could head home. Or…

Liam unfurled the wanted poster once again. He wished he could read, to see what all the notes on the bottom said, but he did know his numbers, and what he thought was the reward said fifty crowns. That was… a lot, to say the least. Probably, more than enough to buy his family out of their indentured servitude contracts.

But Bloody Tam was a murderer, and Liam just a miner. What chance did he have against a killer? It would be foolhardy. And Mom would yell at him just for considering it.

Maybe… maybe Liam could go to The Tumbling Rosebud, just to see if Bloody Tam was still there. And to warn Ariel. Yes, that would be the right thing to do. Ariel liked to flirt with customers for extra tips, she needed to know to be careful around him. And then his report to Warren in the morning would be more accurate.

Before Liam had fully made up his mind, his feet were already heading in that direction. It wasn’t a far walk. He did get turned around once, but he accounted that for his lack of sleep. He dipped his head into a trough of water and gave himself a few slaps to the cheek to wake up, then he headed inside of The Tumbling Rosebud.

Being a Saturday night, the place was quite busy. People were everywhere, shouting and hooting and hollering. All the pokers tables were full and nearly every seat the bar was taken. Barmaids scurried about the place while the delightful aroma of cooked mutton wafted through the air. Liam scanned the room, looking for either Ariel or Bloody Tam. Unfortunately, the first person he locked eyes with was Miss Abella.

“And what the hell are you doing here?” She stormed over to him, a huge wooden spoon in her hand. Miss Abella was a larger woman. Or big boned, as she called it. In some ways, she resembled a cow, though Liam would never tell her that. All that was to say, if she struck him with her spoon, it would hurt. Grown men had been known to quake in their boots when she threatened them with a spoon. “If you’re not buying anything, you can’t be here. Paying customers only.”

“I have an important message for Ariel,” Liam squeaked.

Miss Abella held up the spoon menacingly. “You’ll have a full three seconds to scurry.”

“Wait.” Liam’s eyes grew wide. “I’ll buy something.”

“With what money?”

“Can you put it on my tab?”

“Tabs,” she growled, “are for people who are good for their money. Not scoundrels always sneaking into my fights.”

“Please, just two minutes, I promise I’ll leave after that,” Liam said. He sorely wished he had held onto the copper mark from earlier.

“Aye, more drinks!” Came a shout from a nearby table.

Abella glared at him for another second. “Two minutes.” The she stormed off to refill drinks.

Liam scanned the room again. Come on, come on. She had to be in here somewhere. Most of the barmaids had blonde or brown hair, Ariel had black hair. She had to be…

Liam froze. There she was, talking to Bloody Tam.

The murderer lounged in his booth, the sole occupant, while Ariel talked to him, leaning on the table and smiling to him. They were on the far end of the room, with a sea of tables and people between them. Liam began edging his way around the tables, thinking perhaps to get in Ariel’s line of sight.

But when he glanced back, Bloody Tam was staring at him with his one eye. Liam froze again. Bloody Tam slowly held up a hand, then dragged his thumb across his throat in a clear gesture. Then he tilted his head toward Ariel.

Liam backed up slowly, his hands held palm outward. Please don’t. He mouthed, eyes wide as his throat when dry and his heart hammered in his ears. What was he to do?

By this point Ariel had taken notice, and she looked back and forth between Tam and Liam in confusion. Bloody Tam sat a stack of copper notes onto the table, then whispered something to Ariel. She nodded and sat down at the table with him.

Liam clenched his jaw. What is she doing? He glanced around the room. There had to be someone else who had noticed the situation. Surely someone could…

Warren Chambers. He was in the booth next to Bloody Tam, his wide brimmed hat had obscured his face earlier, but now his eyes met Liam’s, and he gave a sharp shake of his head.

Well, if Warren was here, maybe the situation was salvageable. Liam took a deep breath, then another step back toward the door. All Liam could do was try not to agitate Bloody Tam. He’d have to have faith in Warren being able to catch Tam before he hurt Ariel.

Or maybe Warren just needed a distraction – an opening.

Bloody Tam gave him another glare then, this time his hand creeping down to his belt while the other casually draped across Ariel’s shoulder. The message was clear. Leave now.

Liam grabbed the nearest table full of food and diners and flipped it over. Plates clattered to the floor and beer sloshed everywhere while the patrons looked at him in disbelief. Before they could process what had happened, Liam dashed to the next table and flipped it over the same.

“Hey!” A fat man at that table shouted, rising to his feet. He made to swing at Liam, who ducked under the it. The fat man came off balance and crashed into the next nearest table, and the Tumbling Rosebud was fully in chaos.

Shouts of anger rose up as more people’s meals were ruined. At least four folks tried to attack Liam, who hid under the nearest table and crawled for the door.

“Liam!” Came Abella’s voice. Liam shivered at that, and his heart pumped faster than a miner’s during a cave-in.

But then he was out of the chaos of the tables in the middle, where no less than three fights had sprung up. He turned his attention to Bloody Tam’s table, where Warren was holding a rag to Ariel’s head.

Bloody Tam was nowhere to be found.

Miss Abella stomped toward him, smacking one hand with the spoon in the other. Behind her, Liam could make out Bloody Tam sprinting for the door.

Liam charged at Miss Abella, who lifted her spoon to destroy him, but he dove under her, sliding right between her legs as he collected a host of splinters on his arms and neck. But then he was past her and coming to his feet, just in front of Bloody Tam. He didn’t have a knife, thank the Gods, but light glimmered off his hands. Brass knuckles. One punch might kill Liam, if Bloody Tam knew what he was doing.

And considering his name, he probably did.

Bloody Tam snarled and pulled one fist back as he came forward.

Liam shot forward to meet him, dropping to one knee and grabbing Tam’s leg, just as the Grizzly had done the night before. Liam clung on like his life depended on it, which he supposed it did. Frantically, he pushed forward as hard as he could, running Bloody Tam into the nearest wall.

Tam grunted under the impact, then tried to hammer at the back of Liam’s head. It was a bad angle, so but the pain still made him buckle. Liam redoubled his efforts, pinning Tam against the wall as hard as he could.

Tam kept hammering away at Liam’s head, and one blow must’ve hit at the right angle, because suddenly light exploded in Liam’s eyes and he forgot what was happening. He stumbled back, his legs no longer doing what he asked of them, and then he felt another sharp pain as he crashed into the floor.

Then there was darkness.

Chapter 3: Aftermath

Liam groaned as he came too, a throbbing pain emanating from the back of his head. He rubbed his eyes open, surprised to see he was still in The Tumbling Rosebud. It looked different, though. More candles and oil-lamps than usual shone from every corner of the room, and the place had cleared out.

Barmaids swept the floors, picked up pieces of broken glass, carried plates with half-eaten meals to the back, and rearranged the tables. Miss Abella was mixed in with the lot of them, overseeing their work.

Liam groaned again as he sat up and rested against a booth. Warren Chambers sat nearby, sipping on a glass of bourbon, and reading a book held in one hand. Next to him, Bloody Tam was bound to a chair by a coil of rope, his hands stuck behind him. Tam appeared only half conscious, his head lulling forward and his eyes unfocused.

Warren glanced up. “Oh good. You’re awake.”

“What—” Liam started, then shook his head. “Is everyone okay?”

Warren nodded. “You and Tam here took the worst of the injuries. There were a few unhappy customers, until I told them their tabs would be covered. Other than that, Miss Abella seems quite unpleased.”

“So you caught Tam?”

Warren glanced at the bound murderer. “You did most of the catching, lad. I had things in hand, but your help was appreciated, nonetheless. You’re lucky it was me and not another bounty hunter, though. Some folks wouldn’t take too kindly to such things.” Warren drained the rest of his drink. “I’ll give you a portion of the bounty.”

Liam blinked. A portion? Even a portion might be enough to buy out years of his contract. Maybe his risk had paid off.

“Ah, don’t go lookin’ too hopeful now. A portion is all. Should be enough to cover the bill.”

“The bill?” Liam asked.

Miss Abella appeared with a long piece of paper held in hand. “This’ll be yours, then.” She handed the paper – the receipt – to Liam. He couldn’t read the individual lines, but it was rather apparent that Miss Abella had categorized and noted every single thing that had been destroyed in the mayhem. As he reached the bottom of the list, his eyes bulged. The total was fifteen crowns.

“As I said,” Warren continued, “I had things well under control. But seeing as you created the distraction, the responsibility does fall to you. Still, you should be proud lad. That was a brave and valiant thing you did. Not many would try to stop a murderer.”

“Rum foolish, you ask me,” Miss Abella snapped. “What if he had a knife, or a sword? You could be dead, boy. Once you’ve paid your bill, I don’t want to ever see you in here again. And I mean it. I’ll be filing an order with the sheriff. You show up ‘round here, it’ll be a night in his jail for you.”

Liam glanced down at the bill, then back at her, then back at the bill. “Okay,” he said numbly. His thoughts were running a little slow when you added up the lack of sleep and then the getting-knocked-out part.

Liam gingerly climbed to his feet, wincing as his knee flared with pain. Could she really ban him from the only place with fights in fifty miles? It was her inn, so he supposed so.

“What are you doing?” Miss Abella twittered.

Liam continued over to the bar, not gracing her with a reply. He grabbed a glass, then a bottle of the nice bourbon she kept on one of the taller shelfs. A scoop of ice, then a hefty pour. He set the bottle back, then took a deep swig of the drink. The drink burned it’s way down his throat, leaving him warm and awake.

“You can add that to the bill.” Liam wiped his mouth off, then walked over to Warren, who had an amused look on face.

“Now you—” Abella began.

“Quiet,” Liam said, holding up a hand in her face. “Five minutes, then I’ll leave.”

Miss Abella opened her mouth to retort, but something she saw in Liam must’ve stopped her. “Five minutes is all.” She said, then turned away.

Liam turned back to Warren, who marked his page in the book, then reclined in the chair and crossed his arms as he looked up at Liam. “Yes?”

Liam took another deep swig. “Firstly, thank you for subduing him while I was out. Secondly, thank you for splitting part of the bounty to help me cover the bill. I’m grateful, truly. Thirdly, I hoped to ask a favor.”

“And what would that be?”

One last swig, and he finished the drink. This might be his only chance. “Will you take me on as an apprentice? I mean to be a fighter. A real, professional fighter in the Pro Fighter League. And not just some undercard wannabe. I mean to be the champion. You’re a military man, so you know how to fight. You could train me and together we might take on the best of the best in Ser Vien. I’ll work harder than anyone else. I’ll listen to your instruction. I’ll never take anything for granite. What do you say?”

Warren was silent for a moment. “Granted.”

“Pardon?” Liam asked, hope flickering in him.

“The phrase is, ‘take anything for granted,’ not granite. But the answer to your question is no. Sorry. I don’t do that sort of thing. I’m only a bounty hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. Best of luck, lad.”

“Oh,” Liam said. His mouth went dry. “I see.” He swallowed. “My address is 213 Fairfax Way, if you don’t mind to drop off my split of the bounty.” He set the empty glass on a nearby table and trudged towards the door. “Thanks, anyways,” he called, not bothering to look back.

***

Warren watched the lad go, surprised to feel a pang of guilt licking his heart. He hadn’t felt guilt in years, not since…

He shook his head, no use dwelling on that. He caught the innkeeper’s eye and tapped his glass. “One more, please.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, bustling behind the bar to get him another.

Warren stroked the beard on his chin as he considered it. The lad (Liam, was it?) had given a nice speech. And he had seemed passionate. He meant to be champion in the PFL? Most fighters in that roster had been training since they were three, and Liam must’ve been nigh on twenty, if Warren’s perceptions weren’t getting too rusty.

Abella returned with his drink, setting it on a coaster before him. “You know,” she said, “it might be worth reconsidering the boy. He’s a fool and a half, but he is a hard worker. He’s worked the mines since he turned eight. He and his family have contracts with the government, you see. He probably has a decade or more left. Neither his Mother nor his Father can work off their time, seeing as they both have caught Miner’s Lungs.”

A dark-haired barmaid walked up. “He’s smart too. Comes and watches all of the fights that Miss Abella hosts. Nearly always calls the winner.” The barmaid smiled. “I’ve made a merry mark or two from his calls. He’s a good eye for fighters.”

Warren nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” The truth, that these country folk wouldn’t understand, was that Warren was a hollow man. After it happened, five years ago, he had taken to wandering, searching for a way out of his oaths. Training Liam would be the exact opposite of his current goals.

“The lad had a good takedown,” Bloody Tam said, suddenly alert. “Stronger than ox, he was.”

Warren gave him a curious look.

“Credit where it’s due,” Tam said with a shrug.

Warren drained the last of his drink, which numbed just a little of the pain he always felt. “Well, we’d best be going.” Warren adjusted Tam’s bonds such that the man’s hands were tied behind his back and his feet were bound in such a way that he could walk, but only at a slow pace.

This little town was so peculiar. Shal Rial was a mining town, and given the ‘Shal’ prefix, it was operated by Roselandi Central Command, so there was clearly something important here. But with only some thousand people, Warren couldn’t imagine what.

He could find out if he wanted to. But to what ends? It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was to turn in this bandit and find his next prey. Maybe the next one would finally be able to bite back.

The Sheriff’s office was only a short walk away. The squat building was pinched between two others, with a small wooden deck preceding the log cabin style composition that most of the buildings here shared.

Warren led Bloody Tam up the steps and tossed in into the nearest bench, where he tied him to a pole. Tam would be able to undo the bonds in about three minutes, but Warren only needed to poke his head inside.

“Sheriff Westcliffe?” He asked, as he opened the front door.

A young-looking man looked up from the desk on the left. “’Fraid not, mister. I’m his deputy, Mr. Tomwise Goleen. How can I help you?”

“I’m a bounty hunter. I’ve caught one of the criminals wanted in this area, I’d like to turn him in and collect my reward.”

“Well, let me see here,” the deputy said, climbing out of his chair and joining Warren outside. He looked Tam up and down and whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Bloody Tam himself.”

Tam sneered at Tomwise Goleen. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said in a mocking voice, “if isn’t a baby faced deputy, fresh out of Sunday school.”

Tomwise snorted, then looked back to Warren. “The warrant say anything about condition he arrives in?”

“Only that he’s alive,” Warren said.

Tomwise nodded. “Good, good.” He slammed a fist into Tam’s gut. Tam doubled over and wheezed. Tomwise turned his attention back to Warren. “Well, only problem is Sheriff’s out breaking up some bar fight or something. Should be back soon, but he’s the only one with keys to the jail or the safe with the money, so like as not you’ll have to wait here for him to return. I can keep you company though, least ways.”

***

Warren was about to win a hand of poker when he heard the scream. Across the table, Bloody Tam’s eyes grew wide, and to his left, Tomwise bolted out of his chair to the door.

Warren groaned, setting down his cards, which would have been a flush. He followed Tomwise to the door, where he saw the issue. Some wannabe bandit was holding up a girl a few blocks down the street. Two bandits, on closer inspection. A robbery, this close to the sheriff’s office? Shal Rial was an odd town indeed.

He felt a pang of pain as his oaths constricted around his heart. “I’ll help,” Warren said. “You watch him,” he told Tomwise.

He was out the office in an instant, sprinting toward the lady’s assailants. For the briefest moment, his right hand made as if to draw the straight sword at his hip, but then he stopped himself. That would be too easy. Better to give the enemies a chance.

“Hey!” Warren shouted. One of the bandits, clad in dark close and a with a bandana over his lower face, turned to face Warren. He drew a stiletto just as Warren reached him, stabbing forward toward Warren’s gut.

Conventional wisdom was that one should not enter a knife fight with only their fists, but Warren had long since stopped needing conventional wisdom.

He parried the knife with the metal vambrace on his left hand, then slid his right hand past the crooks’ armpit as he pivoted and got his hips under his opponents. With the practiced fluidity of ten thousand repetitions, Warren executed the Tai’ja throw and slammed the man into the ground. He still held the man’s wrist, the one with the knife, and used that to parry the coming attack from the second of the bandits.

The first bandit dropped his knife and Warren danced back as the second bandit swiped at him with his dagger. Warren dodged two more strikes as the man pushed forward, but then he overextended, and Warren dropped low and swept the man’s legs from underneath him. He used his right foot to pin the man’s knife-hand to the ground, then dropped his knee on to the man’s belly.

“Who are you with?” Warren said, ripping the mask from the bandit’s face. The man sneered at Warren, revealing a false golden tooth in place of one of his top-front teeth.

But then the second bandit was up and grabbing something from his belt.

Warren made to stand, but then a third bandit, one he hadn’t seen, slammed into him from behind and knocked him off his comrade. A smoke bomb flashed and covered the area, and for the first time in years, Warren felt the briefest flash of panic.

But then he heard the sound of footsteps receding, and by the time he was clear of the smoke, the bandits were gone. Part of Warren wanted to get angry. Once upon a time, he would have been furious. How did I miss the third one?

He had been certain of the two men, and then there was the…

Oh. So the whole thing had been a distraction?

Warren’s fears were confirmed when he returned to the sheriff’s office. The deputy Tomwise was dead at his desk, three small crossbow bolts sticking from his chest. Bloody Tam was gone. Damn. Warren had been outplayed.

On the desk he found a small chunk of gold, acting as a paperweight for the note that read, in poor handwriting: curtesy of The Goldtooth Crow Gang. Fuck off or die. 

Warren looked over to the poker table, which still sat uninterrupted. He flipped over Tomwise’s cards. An ace and a five. Nothing. He flipped over Bloody Tam’s hand. A royal flush.

Warren’s face twisted. Perhaps there was more to this little town than he had first considered.

Chapter 4: Big Trouble in Little Shal Rial

The sheriff arrived an hour later, and it took a fair amount of explaining to catch him up on the situation. At first, he had tried to arrest Warren, but the note from the Goldtooth Crow Gang had been enough to persuade him.

“You tried to turn in Bloody Tam?” the sheriff asked, stroking his white mustache. Sheriff Westcliffe was a big fellow, with a sizeable beer gut that overhung his pants and strained his buttoned shirt. “You must not be from ‘round these parts, hm?”

Warren shook his head. “I follow bounties from town to town. My last one in Miv Devar led me here after Bloody Tam.”

Westcliffe nodded. “Makes sense. Still a damn shame. I was really warming up to Tomwise. Come.” Westcliffe led Warren out to the porch in front of the office. It was fully night now, the moon well into the sky and surrounded by stars. “If you’ll be staying in this area, there’s something you ought to know.

“No one, and I mean no one, crosses the Goldtooth Crows. Nothing good ever comes of them.”

“You’re telling me you just let a gang of murderers and brigands run amuck? What kind of sheriff are you?” Warren made no effort to conceal the disgust in his voice.

“There you go talking out of turn again,” Westcliffe said. Surprisingly there was no anger or vitriol in his voice. He produced a pipe and tamped it full of tabac. “The Goldtooth Crows are sponsored by some rich family in Ser Vien. Beyond that, they don’t do no disturbing of ordinary folk. We ignore them, they ignore us. Not such a band arrangement, now is it?”

“Bloody Tam’s murdered four people, last I checked. Maybe five now.” Poor Tomwise. He had been a chipper fellow. “Besides, they’ve robbed three different caravans headed for central out of this little town.”

“You’ve done your research haven’t you?” Westcliffe asked.

“You know what’s in those caravans,” Warren said. “If that continues to get stolen, Central will have soldiers teeming like ants down here. Hell, they may even send a Warlord, and no doubt you’d be prosecuted for incompetence.”

“Central has been getting their quotas, and that’s more than you need to worry about, bounty hunter.” Westcliffe took a drag from his pipe. “Now if you’ve any wisdom, you’d be leaving this town before the Goldtooth Crows work up the nerve to come finish you.”

“I’ll happily be on my way, as soon as I receive payment.” Warren spoke with confidence, but he knew he would be getting no bounty. Despite Tomwise baring the responsibility of failing to guard the prisoner, Westcliffe would place the blame on him.

“Now you’re just wasting both of our time,” Westcliffe went back into his office and slammed the door. A moment later, a lock rattled into place.

Warren sighed. Much as he wanted to leave this forsaken little town now, he had promised the lad Liam enough money to cover the tavern’s expenses. The banks would open in the morning and he could retrieve what he needed then. For now, he had nothing else to do, and he wasn’t sleepy.

He wandered through Shal Rial, wondering if any of these towns people knew what happened in the mines, far below where the average miner worked. He wondered if anyone of them knew that they worked in the world’s most prolific soulstone mine.

Sometime later, as he wandered through a neighborhood, he heard the sound of someone breathing hard, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of something hitting something else. Warren raised an eyebrow and crept toward the sound.

As he came around the building, he was surprised to find Liam hitting a boxing bag that had been strung up behind his house. The lad was drenched in sweat, dancing around the bag and practicing different combinations, seeing only by the light of four candles placed in a vague circle around him.

Warren watched for a moment. His form was sloppy, his technique bad, and his rhythm was off. Yet…

Yet Warren could sense a sort of all-encompassing passion in the way he hit the bag. Fury drove each of his punches and hunger kept his feet moving light. It was at least two hours after midnight, and didn’t the boy have to go to the mines all of the next day?

“Why do you practice instead of sleep?” Warren asked, walking toward him now.

Liam jumped, spun, then relaxed a hair when he saw it was Warren. He glanced around for a second, catching his breath. “When else am I too practice?”

You don’t need sleep?” Warren asked. “Good sleep makes for good practice.”

“I’ll sleep soon. I’ve only ever needed about four hours to everyone else’s eight.” Liam shrugged. “Father says it’s a blessing and Mom a curse. Regardless… I could toss and turn all night, or I could be out here. Improving.”

Warren nodded gravely.

“If you’ve come to drop off the money, you can just leave it over there, or on the doorstep, or whatever works. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.” Liam turned back to the bag.

“Your form could use work,” Warren said.

Liam paused.

“You’ve got bad habits. It would take twice the work to undo them and twice the work again the instill proper form and technique.”

Liam shrugged. “Then I’d do it, twice and twice again. And maybe twice more for good measure.” He turned back to Warren. “Are you trying to say something, or do you just delight in criticizing others.”

Warren chuckled. “Perhaps both. Let me see your jab.”

Liam squared up with the back. His feet were too far apart, his hands held too low, he threw the punch with all arms and no body or core to support it. It was weak.

“You could hardly hurt a fly with a punch like that. Nevermind an opponent,” Warren said.

“Then show me the right way,” Liam muttered.

Warren nodded stepping up to the bag. He squared up with it, falling into a stance that was as natural as breathing. He struck hard and fast, his left hand snapping out like a striking snake. The bag rattled and swung.

Liam’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”

Warren nodded. “Your problem, as I see it, is that you’re in too much of a rush to hit the bag. When you strike, you’re swinging around from overhead. That’s not right. Throw it from your shoulder, nearly a straight line. It should snap out and come back just as fast.”

Liam tried again, and it was a slight improvement.

“Yes. But it still lacks power. Where does the power come from, do you know?”

“From within me,” Liam ventured, bringing one hand to his heart.

“No,” Warren said flatly. He pointed to the ground. “It comes from there. The earth. Your feet push off the ground, and the harder you push, the harder the earth pushes back. You must take that force from the earth, guide it through your body, and into your hand.” Warren punched again, overemphasizing his push from the back foot. The bag rattled and swung again.

Liam punched again, but he still overextended and let his back foot come forward as he reached.

Warren shook his head. “Slower.”

Liam did it again, still wrong.

“Slower.”

Wrong again.

“As slow as you can go.”

Liam moved with exaggerated slowness, pushing off his back foot, twisting his hips, then his core, then his shoulders as he brought his right hand around and into the bag. Despite the lack of speed to it, the bag still swung from the impact.

Liam’s eyes went wide.

“You see?”

Liam nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Chambers. Thank you.”

“Mhm.” Warren looked up into the sky for a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll train you for one week. Well, six days. We’ll sign you up for a smoker at The Tumbling Rosebud. I’ll find someone your size. If you can beat them, I’ll take you with me to Ser Vien and we’ll give this a shot. If you lose, well.” Warren decided to leave the rest unsaid.

Liam’s eyes went wide. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“When do we start training?”

“Now,” Warren said. “I want one hundred slow jabs with good form.”

Warren would give the lad a chance; but it wouldn’t be easy. Warren had little interest in an apprentice, but Liz would have said to take the boy on. So Warren would give him a chance, technically, but he had every intention of grinding Liam into the dust. Either he’d give up, or he’d be a diamond forged under pressure.

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