Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [143]
“None!” Cauvin shouted. He’d never beaten another orphan to death—except … except … But those times didn’t froggin’ count. Those froggin’ times had been froggin’ kill or be killed. He’d done what he’d had to do to stay alive, and if the Hand had watched—If the Hand had liked what it froggin’ saw—
“Don’t lie to me, Cauvin. Were they bigger than you? Older? Or did you take the easy way and brain the little ones while they slept?”
For his answer to that accusation, Cauvin vaulted the wall, using his unweighted hand for balance. He closed fast, getting inside Soldt’s reach before the spy knew what was coming. He chose his target—the point under the man’s chin where his tongue was rooted. A solid blow there could kill a big man … a bigger orphan.
After ten years of smashing stone and regular meals, Cauvin figured he was a bit heavier, a shade slower, and a froggin’ lot stronger than he’d been in the pits. When he surged in close and unwound a punch at Soldt’s jaw, he expected the man to froggin’ drop like a poleaxed pig and—maybe—not get up again. He figured, too, that he could live with his guilt. Froggin’ sure, he’d had lots of practice.
Cauvin missed. Everything had gone the way he’d expected it to, but suddenly there was his froggin’ fist clean to the right of Soldt’s smirking face. He pulled his fist back and unloaded it a second time in less than a heartbeat. No way could Cauvin miss a second time but, gods all be froggin’ damned, Soldt twitched left and Cauvin’s punch didn’t so much as ruffle the man’s sheep-shite hair.
Shame, embarrassment, frustration—each was more than Cauvin could froggin’ bear. He attacked without thought or plan and found himself facedown in the mud before he’d known he was falling.
“That was your best?”
froggin’ sure, it had been, but Cauvin tried again. If there’d been a froggin’ tree to pin Soldt against, Cauvin knew he could have bloodied the man’s face for fair, or if the stone wall had been more than waist high in the corners … If, if, and froggin’ more ifs. There wasn’t a froggin’ tree, the wall was only waist high, and Soldt dodged each of Cauvin’s punches, all the while tapping Cauvin on his chest and shoulders, even his sheep-shite chin. Taunting taps that said if I’d wanted, I could hurt you here and here and HERE.
Rage made Cauvin reckless, careless. After he’d landed in the muddy grass a third time, he growled and leapt at Soldt like a froggin’ mad dog. He saw the moves that dropped him—sweeping arms and countersweeping legs—but had no defense against them. The way the Hand taught fighting—The puds he’d fought against, there’d never been much need for froggin’ defense.
He got up, eyeing Soldt’s legs. Maybe he could kick out the man’s froggin’ knee …
Or not. It froggin’ sure seemed that as soon as Cauvin was upright and thinking about kicking, he was on his back again, hurting this time because he’d landed wrong. His knee buckled when he tested it, but he managed to stand with most of his weight on the other leg. Cauvin had the strength and wind for another go, what he lacked—suddenly, unexpectedly—was the will.
“I’m beat,” he conceded. “Compared to you, I’m no froggin’ fighter.”
“Compared to me, I wouldn’t expect you to be. You like to fight, Cauvin; I like to win. Center yourself. Stand so your weight can go down either leg in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. You’ll find it easier to keep your balance.”
Cauvin had had enough of playing Soldt’s sheep-shite fool. He said, “Swallow your froggin’ suggestions and froggin’ choke on them. It’s over, I’m beat,” adding a suggestion that Soldt lie with his mother and a few yard animals.
Soldt responded with a sigh. “That won’t work, Cauvin. You can’t goad me the way I’ve been goading you all day. Lord Torchholder’s chosen you and chosen me to ready you.”
Captain Sinjon had spoken similar words three nights past. Cauvin hadn’t liked hearing them in the krrf-scented Broken Mast and liked them no better in the cold,