Chapter 57
Two days after their real-world testing, the scrubs had an elimination fight. Kip could only hope that some of the boys he would have to fight today might still have bruises enough to inhibit them from mopping the floor with his face.
But hope wasn’t enough. He lost twice, quickly. He walked out onto the testing field again, flexing the fingers of his left hand lightly. It still hurt like small animals were gnawing at every joint and sprinkling salt on the flesh in between courses, but it hurt less than the beating that was to come. He stared at the youth across from him. Come on, turtle-bear, come on.
The wheels had come up Red, and Unarmed. Red was lucky, very lucky. Kip had just been practicing it last night with Teia. He could finally, finally make a stable red—though that was all he could do. He’d only figured out two ways to use the sticky stuff. One was flammable goo, and setting opponents on fire was decidedly frowned on. The downside was that the boy across from him, Ferkudi, was a blue/green bichrome, currently two places above Kip. There were about fifty people gathered around the circle, watching closely. Between injuries and nervous sponsors, there were now only twenty-eight scrubs left.
Ferkudi was short and thick through the chest, but strong as a bull, and deceptively quick. Kip had watched him fight, and the boy was better at grappling than almost anyone else. The fights that Ferkudi had lost, he’d lost because his reach was short. On a good day, and with the colors he had, he’d be in the top three or four fighters. It was just bad luck that he was fighting for position fifteen right now.
Kip shrugged his shoulders, rolled his head to stretch out his neck, and signaled that he was ready to fight.
The corner of Ferkudi’s mouth twitched. He thought he was going to destroy Kip in a quick hand-to-hand fight.
No reason to let the other guy know what cards you’re holding, is there? Thank you, Andross Guile.
Thank you, Andross Guile? Did someone slip haze into my breakfast?
The whistle blew and the circle was flooded with red light. Ferkudi came in straight.
Kip kept his hands up, between himself and Ferkudi so the boy wouldn’t see Kip’s eyes filling with red luxin. Then he threw his hand down and sprayed sticky red luxin at the boy’s feet.
They stuck, and Ferkudi almost fell over. He rebalanced, brought his hands in, and Kip sprayed them with red luxin, too, gluing Ferkudi’s hands to his chest. It worked just as Ironfist had taught him.
Red was sticky, but it wasn’t as strong as iron. Kip’s will was. He threw all of his desire for the boy to be imprisoned into that drafting.
Ferkudi obviously hadn’t been prepared for Kip to be drafting red, but Kip wasn’t prepared for it either. The color breathed life onto the flames of his rage. He wasn’t mad at Ferkudi, but red obliterated reason.
He closed the distance and, before he even knew what he was doing, buried his fist in the astonished boy’s face.
The late-night training sessions seemed to be doing something, because the punch went right where he wanted it to—he punched low, straight for Ferkudi’s chin; and exactly as Commander Ironfist had said, the boy instinctively ducked his chin, and Kip’s fist smashed his nose. With his feet stuck in red luxin, the boy toppled straight onto his back.
Kip sprayed red luxin around the fallen boy so he was stuck to the ground. He raised a foot to stomp on the boy’s head—and barely stopped himself as the whistle shrilled.
Frightened at what he’d almost done, Kip flung away the red luxin. Orholam’s beard, for a moment there, he wanted to kill the boy.
The red luxin disappeared, and Ferkudi sat up. “Oh,” he said. “I think you broke my nose.” He squeezed it gingerly, plugging its bleeding. “I ’idn’t even owe you could draff red. Nice!” He grabbed the bridge of his nose, took a quick breath, and pulled it back into place. Groaning, he punched the ground twice. “Oww, oww.” Blinking tears from his eyes, he extended his hands and some friends helped him up. “Nice one, Kip,” he said.
Just like that? No anger?
“Uh… sorry,” Kip said. “About your nose. The red sort of came over me.”
“Ah, it’s nuffin. ’Snot the first time.”
“Nor probably the last, you big ugly mug,” Cruxer said, coming up to join them. “Take a seat, Kip. I don’t think you’re going to have to fight again today.”
“Really?” Kip asked. He was exhausted. The long workouts, the late nights, then not sleeping, then when he slept only having nightmares. He was hanging on by one frayed thread. He threw himself down into a camp chair.
Crack! The back legs of the chair snapped and Kip felt a stab of panic as he lost his balance and toppled flat on his back.
Fatty.
The scrubs laughed. Everyone laughed. Kip felt his face turning red as pyrejelly. Even Cruxer was laughing.
Kip jumped to his feet, but then couldn’t move. Damn me. Just when I was making inroads. Just when I was starting to belong for once. Sick self-loathing shot through him, froze him. What could he do?
He hated them. He didn’t want to be part of this anyway. They could all go to hell.
Cruxer raised his hands. “That clinches it! Kip, I already knew you needed a new name among us. Kip is no Blackguard name, and we’ve seen that you most certainly need one.”
Was Cruxer making fun of him? What did he mean, “You need one”?
“I don’t understand,” Kip said quietly, wary of a trap.
Trainer Fisk was standing there, looking bemused. “I’m sure you’re not the only one. How many of you lot grew up in Paria?” Less than half raised their hands. “Well then, story time. Not everyone’s third-generation Blackguard, Cruxer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trainer Fisk glowered at the ground, as if he didn’t know exactly where to start. “When Lucidonius came, he was protected by thirty mighty men, some of whom he first had to defeat. Many of these men had been heroes and priests of the old gods and had names taken from those false gods, like El-Anat and Dagnar Zelan and Or-mar-zel-atir. They couldn’t keep their old names, so they took new names. Though some of them went nameless until they felt they’d earned a new name in service of Orholam. El-Anat became Forushalzmarish for a time, but then as the light spread beyond Paria, more of them took names that the locals could pronounce—or fear. So Forushalzmarish changed his name again, and went by Shining Spear. Now, the Blackguard names don’t mean quite what they used to now, because none of us is shedding a name associated with those old blasphemies. You can take a name, or not. If you’re given a name, you can choose whether you want to use it all the time or just among the Blackguard. Names generally spread widest that are best earned, and best fit their wearer. It’s up to you.”
“But I’m not a Blackguard yet,” Kip said. What if they gave him a name, and he didn’t make it in?
“The tradition is that if the name is adopted, it’s only used among your fellows until you become a full Blackguard.” Trainer Fisk shrugged. “But then we get children whose parents give them Blackguard names before they even come to the Jaspers… like Cruxer here.” He seemed amused. “So, Cruxer?”
“I say Kip is no Blackguard name, and I say he needs a good one.” There were some murmurs of agreement. “But what name?” Cruxer asked. “It’s got to fit, right?”
“Tiny!” someone shouted.
“Meh, too obvious,” Cruxer said. “So what’s he done? Arm-breaker, Will-breaker, Rule-breaker, Nose-breaker…” He paused for effect. “Chair-breaker.” The scrubs roared.
With a flourish, he said, “Kip, we dub thee Breaker.”
The scrubs cheered and laughed. It was the perfect Blackguard name: it could be used to laud or to lampoon. Kip rolled it over on his tongue. Breaker. Despite everything, despite how he could excuse how each of the incidents that led to him earning the name weren’t really indicative of his character, just accidents, he liked it. It sounded tough.
A reluctant grin broke over his face like dawn over Atan’s Teeth. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Among you, Breaker I am.”