Before he’d realized he’d done it, Drem was standing over Fritha, Wispy sprawling on the ground. The sneer on his face quickly transformed into a snarl. His companions stepped away from the wall they’d been huddled around, seven of them, all giving Drem dark looks. The cloaked man pushed his hood back, revealing a shaved head and intense blue eyes.
‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ the bald man said.
Probably not, Drem thought. But what choice was there?
Drem didn’t like fighting. He hated it, in fact, thought it was pointless. He’d had one fight in his twenty-one years, when he was thirteen summers old, had broken the lad’s jaw. Sometimes at night he could still feel his knuckles slamming into flesh, the slap of meat, like a hammer hitting a steak, the crunch of jawbone and grind of teeth knocked loose. The memory of it made him feel sad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Wispy on the ground, and offered a hand to help him rise.
‘Walk away,’ Fritha hissed to him, taking a step towards the market.
Wispy gripped his hand and pulled himself up, grinning.
Ah, see. Da was right. Polite and friendly fixes most problems.
Wispy was still grinning when he punched Drem in the gut, doubling him over.
A crunch in the side of Drem’s head, white light exploding in front of his eyes, something cold slamming into his face.
Dirt. Realized he was face-down on the ground.
‘Uh,’ he grunted, pushing up onto one elbow, the world out of focus for a moment. He blinked, saw Wispy was standing over him, still grinning, holding Fritha’s arm.
‘You’ll regret this,’ she snarled and slapped Wispy furiously, raking her nails across his cheek. Wispy howled, spat a curse and put his fist in Fritha’s face; her legs suddenly went wobbly, only the trapper holding her up.
Drem punched Wispy between the legs, hard, saw his eyes bulge with the pain of it, then Drem was somehow on his feet even as Wispy was dropping to his knees, another trapper coming at him, swinging a punch. Drem didn’t like fighting, always avoided it, but he was big, taller than most, and stronger than most, too. He caught the man’s fist in his own, stopped it dead. Felt an anger flare in his belly at these men. At the pointlessness of this conflict. He could understand the white bear chasing him, the drive to survive, to protect its kill.
But this! For what?
He wrapped his fingers around the man’s fist, squeezing and twisting the wrist and arm, felt the crackle of finger bones snapping, the trapper yelling, and he put his knee into the man’s ribs as he bent at the waist to get out of Drem’s grip. More bones breaking, ribs this time, and the trapper collapsed to the ground.
‘Let her go,’ Drem said to the man holding Fritha.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then men were lunging at him from all directions, blows raining down upon him. He blocked a punch to his head, swept it away, threw a punch of his own, felt his knuckles connect with flesh, grunted as a fist slammed into his side, a kick to the back of his knee sending him stumbling forwards. The bald man appeared in front of him, grabbing Drem’s shirt and headbutting him in the face. An explosion of stars and the world spun, the salt taste of blood in his mouth and he was somehow on his knees. There was a lull, men pulling back for a moment, and Drem found he was close to Wispy, who was also struggling back to his feet. They both looked at one another for a long moment.
‘Fancy yourself a bear-hunter, eh?’ Wispy grunted, and Drem saw that his bear claw was hanging loose about his neck.
‘I’m going to take that claw and give you a new red smile with it,’ Wispy snarled.
Then those on their feet were moving in again, more blows, and all Drem’s hard work to reach this position was for nothing as he toppled to the ground, trying to curl up, cover his head with his arms. Distantly he was aware of screaming – Fritha? – wanted to do something about it, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, kicks and punches merging.
Slowly he became aware that the blows had stopped. He opened his eyes, saw boots in a half-circle around him, saw Wispy climbing back to his feet, and the man whose hand he’d crushed and ribs he’d broken dragging himself away. Fritha was leaning against the wain, a purpling bruise spreading across her jaw.
And beyond the boots around Drem there was another trapper on the ground, unconscious, a man standing over him.
Drem’s da.
‘Step away from my boy,’ his da said, voice tight, cold as frost-bitten iron.
‘Stay out of this, old man,’ a voice answered, a new pair of boots stepping over Drem. The bald man.
Old man? Is he talking about my da? The thought shocked Drem, even through the fog of pain that was pulsing through him, but as he looked at his da he saw a man whose hair was mostly grey, deep creases around his eyes and mouth, weathered and worn by living in the wilderness, his body lean and wiry.
He didn’t speak like an old man, though.
‘This is over,’ Olin said. His eyes flickered to Drem, then across the men before him, five of them still standing, by Drem’s counting, and finally back to the bald man. ‘I’ll ask you again. Step away from my son.’
‘I don’t take orders from the likes of you,’ the bald man said, taking a step towards Olin and spitting on the ground.
‘Not ordering, just asking,’ Olin said. ‘I’ll not ask again.’
Drem tried to get up, needed to get up, knew these men were not going to back down, and he didn’t want to see his da beaten to a pulp like him, or worse. But only his fist opened and closed, and one foot scraped the dirt. He dribbled blood and spittle.
‘We’re not finished with him,’ the bald man said, jutting his chin at Drem. ‘So fight us or leave, old man.’
Olin stretched his neck left and right, bones clicking. ‘I’ll fight you if you wish. But know this: I am old for a reason.’
‘Ha, listen to the o—’ the bald man began, but then he was staggering backwards and choking. Olin had lunged forwards and punched him in the throat, strode after him and followed up with a fist to the chest, and the bald man tripped over Drem and went sprawling. Others rushed at Olin, a burst of violence as punches flew, too fast for Drem to follow. He heard grunts of pain, a loud crack followed by an even louder scream, the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The chaos cleared for a moment, Drem seeing his da duck a punch and step in close, land a blurred combination of blows to the gut and head of Wispy, who it seemed had climbed back to his feet. An uppercut from his da lifted him from the ground and then he was lying in the dirt again beside Drem.
Men backed away from Olin, three left on their feet, panting, spreading in a half-circle. Olin stood with his feet spread, balanced, blood on his knuckles, a thin trickle of blood from a cut below his eye.
How is he still standing?
‘He’s broken my arm!’ someone screamed beyond Drem’s vision.