Chapter 28 – ‘A Game Of Static Patterns’

…The Pit was a riot of noise and activity, its tiered benches packed to overflowing. On all sides men yelled and waved their arms frantically, placing bets, dark, faceless figures in the dim red light, while down below, in the intense white light of the combat circle, the two men crouched on their haunches, in the wa shih stance, facing each other silently.

Axel Haavikko, sitting on the front bench between Fest and Ebert, narrowed his eyes, studying the two combatants. They seemed an ill-matched pair; one Hung Mao, the other Han; one a giant, the other so compact and yet so perfectly formed he looked as though he had been made in a GenSyn vat. But there was a stillness, an undisguised sense of authority about the smaller man that impressed at once. He seemed immovable, as if grown about a central point of calm.

‘The Han’s name is Hwa. I’m told he’s champion here,’ said Fest, leaning forward and speaking into his ear. ‘Seventeen bouts, he’s had. Two more and it’ll be a record.’

Axel turned and yelled back at Fest. ‘And the other?’

Fest shrugged and indicated the small Han sitting next to him. He leaned forward again, raising his voice. ‘My friend here says that no one knows much about him. He’s a local boy, name of Karr, but he hasn’t fought before. He’s something of a mystery. But worth a bet, maybe. You’ll get good odds.’

Axel turned to look at the other combatant. Crouched, Karr was taller than most men. Seven ch’i, perhaps. Maybe more. Standing, he had been close to twice the size of Hwa; broad at the shoulder and heavily muscled, his oiled skin shining slickly in the brilliant whiteness. Such men were usually slow. They depended on sheer strength to win through. Yet Axel remembered how the crowd had gone quiet when the giant entered the arena and realised that Karr was something unusual, even by their standards.

For a moment he studied the tattoos on Karr’s chest and arms. On each arm a pair of dragons – one green, one red, their long bodies thick and muscular – coiled about each other sinuously. Their heads were turned inward, face to face, wide, sharp-toothed mouths snarling, huge golden eyes flashing. On his chest a great bird spread its wings, its powerful, regal head thrown back defiantly, its cruel beak open in a cry of triumph, a terror-stricken horse held fast in each of its steel-like talons.

Axel looked away, feeling suddenly quite awkward. His silks, his braided hair, his necklaces of silver and jade. Such refinements were an impertinence down here. There was no place for such subtleties. Here everything was bared.

It was warm in the Pit and unbearably stuffy, yet he shivered, thinking of what was to come.

‘Look at him!’ yelled Ebert, leaning close to join their conversation. ‘Meat! That’s what he is! A huge sack of meat! It’s a foregone conclusion, Haavikko! I’d not waste a single yuan on him! It’ll be over in seconds!’

‘You think so, Ebert?’

Ebert nodded exaggeratedly. ‘See our man here.’ He indicated Hwa. ‘I’m told he’s a perfectionist. An artist. He practises eight hours a day. Sometimes doing nothing but repeating one single movement.’ Ebert laughed and his grey eyes gleamed red in the dull light. ‘Such training pays off. They say he’s so fast you daren’t even blink while he’s fighting!’

Axel shrugged. Maybe it was so. Certainly there was something different, something obsessive about the man that was quite chilling. His eyes, for instance, never moved. They stared ahead, as if in trance, boring into his opponent’s face, unblinking, merciless in their focus. Whereas the other…

Even as he looked he saw Karr turn his head and look directly at him.

It was a fierce, insolent gaze, almost primitive in its intensity, and yet not wholly unintelligent. There was something about the man. Something he had seen at once. Perhaps it was the casual, almost arrogant way he had looked about the tiers on entering, or the brief, almost dismissive bow he had greeted his opponent with. Whatever, it was enough to make Axel feel uneasy with Ebert’s brusque dismissal of the man. On balance, however, he had to agree with Ebert; the small man looked like an adept – as perfect fighting machine. Height, weight and breadth were no concern to him. His strength was of another kind.

‘Of course,’ continued Ebert, raising his voice so that it carried to the giant, ‘brute strength alone can never win. Intelligence and discipline will triumph every time. It’s nature’s law, my friends!’

Axel saw the giant’s eyes flare, his muscles tense. He had heard and understood.

He leaned close to Ebert. ‘I’ll wager a hundred yuan that the big man wins.’

‘Okay. I’ll give you five to one.’

‘You’re sure?’

Ebert laughed arrogantly. ‘Make it two fifty and I’ll give you ten to one!’

Axel met his eyes a moment, conscious of the challenge in them, then gave the barest nod.

Just then, however, the fight marshal stepped out into the combat circle and the crowd hushed expectantly.

Axel felt his stomach tighten, his heat begin to thud against his rib cage. This was it, then. To the death.

The two men rose and approached the centre of the circle. There they knelt and bowed to each other – a full k’o t’ou, heads almost touching. Then they sat back on their haunches, waiting, while the marshal gave their names and read the rules.

The rules were short and simple. One. No weapons were permitted but their own bodies. Two. So long as the fight continued they were to keep within the combat circle. Three. Once begun the fight could not be called off. It ended only when one of them was dead.

Axel could feel the tension in his bones. All about him rose a buzz of excitement; an awful, illicit excitement that grew and grew as the moments passed and the two men faced each other at the circle’s centre, waiting for the signal.

Then, suddenly, it began.

The small man flipped backward like a tumbler, then stopped, perfectly, almost unnaturally still, half crouched on his toes, his arms raised to shoulder level, forearms bent inward, his fingers splayed.

Karr had not moved. He was watching Hwa carefully, his eyes half lidded. Then, very slowly, he eased back off his knees, drawing himself up to his full height, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

Hwa feinted to the left, then sprang at Karr – bounding forward, then flipping his body up and sideways, one foot kicking out at the big man’s groin.

There was a roar from the crowd. For a moment Karr was down. Then he was up again, his feet thudding against the canvas flooring, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth. Hwa had missed his target. His foot had struck Karr on the upper thigh. The skin there was a vivid red, darkening by the moment, and as Karr circled he rubbed at the spot tenderly, almost absent-mindedly.

‘He’s too slow!’ Ebert hissed into his ear.

‘Wait!” Axel answered. He had been watching Hwa’s face; had seen the surprise there when the big man had bounced up again. Hwa had thought he’d had him. He really had.

Hwa crouched again, in the classic ch’i ma shih, the riding-horse stance, moving side to side from the hips, like a snake. Then he moved his feet in a little dance. From the tiers on all sides came a loud, low shuddering as the crowd banged their feet in applause. A moment later Hwa attacked again.

This time he ran at Karr; a strange, weaving run that ended in a leap. At the same time he let out a bloodcurdling scream.

But Karr had moved.

At the instant Hwa leapt, Karr ducked, rolled, and turned. It was a movement that was so quick and so unexpected from such a big man that a huge gasp of surprise went up from the crowd. As Hwa turned to face him again, Karr was smiling.

Surprise turned to rage. Hwa attacked a third time, whirling his body about, thrusting and kicking, his arms and legs moving in a blur. But each blow was met and countered. For once Hwa’s speed was matched. And when he withdrew he was breathing heavily, his face red from exertion.

The crowd roared its appreciation.

‘It’s luck!’ yelled Ebert next to him. ‘You see if it isn’t! The Han will have him soon enough!’

Axel made to answer, but at that moment Hwa launched himself again, flipping over once, twice, like an acrobat, then feinting to left, right, then left again. He was only an arm’s length from Karr when the big man acted. But this time Karr moved a fraction too slowly. When Hwa kicked Karr was off balance, striking at a place where Hwa had been but was no longer.

The crack of bone could be heard to the back of the tiers.

Hwa struck again at once, his foot kicking out once, twice, forcing the broken arm back at an impossible angle.

Axel gasped, feeling sick. Beside him Ebert gave a yell of triumph.

Hwa moved back, getting his breath, a look of satisfaction replacing the frown of concentration he had worn until that moment.

The Pit was tense, silent, waiting for him to end it. ‘Shau’, he said softly, looking at Karr. Burn.

Karr was down on one knee, his face a mask of pain. Slowly, very slowly, he got up, supporting his shattered arm with his left hand. For a moment he seemed to look inside himself. His breathing slowed and his fear cleared. With a grimace of pure agony he wrenched his arm back, the click of bone against bone the only sound in the whole arena. For a moment he swayed, then seemed to gain control of himself again and tucked the useless hand into the cloth belt at his waist, securing it.

‘Come,’ he said, lifting his chin in challenge to the smaller man. ‘It isn’t over yet.’

The words were like a goad. Hwa exploded, twirling and somersaulting, kicking and punching in a furious rain of blows that went on for minutes. But Karr was up to the challenge. With his good arm and both legs he parried everything Hwa threw at him, weaving and ducking and turning with a speed and agility that surprised everyone. It seemed impossible for a man so big to move his weight so quickly, so subtly.

But Axel, watching, saw how much it cost him – saw, beneath the mask of outward calm, the agony as Karr flipped and jumped and rolled, avoiding the constant flood of blows. Saw it in his eyes, in the faintest movement at the corners of his mouth. Watched until it seemed impossible that Karr could take any more.

And then, just as Hwa was drawing off, Karr counter-attacked for the first time.

Hwa moved back, his full weight resting momentarily – perhaps for the only time during the contest – on his back foot, in hou shih, the monkey stance. And as he moved back, so Karr rolled forward, pushing up off the floor with his good arm, his wrist straining and flexing, the whole weight of his huge frame thrust forward into Hwa.

He caught Hwa totally off balance, his legs wrapping about the small man’s neck, his huge weight driving him down into the canvas.

For an instant there was silence. Then, as the big man rolled over, there was a groan of pain. Karr sat up, clutching his arm, his face rent with pain. But Hwa was dead. He lay there next to Karr, pale, unmoving, his back, his neck, broken, the back of his skull crushed by the impact of his fall.

Axel let out a shivering breath. Beside him Ebert was suddenly very quiet. On all sides the Pit was in uproar.

‘Magnificent!’ Fest yelled into Axel’s ear. ‘They were giving odds of thirty five to one! It’s the biggest upset in five years, so my friend here says!’ But Axel was barely listening. He was watching Karr, filled with admiration and respect for the big man.