Doran’s legs went numb somewhere along the way, and he felt like a wooden marionette by the time he climbed the stairs to the platform. His feet seemed to know what awaited him there, because they kept sticking to the planks, forcing him into a jerky dance across the stage until he stopped in front of a pair of boots large enough to house an elephant.
When Doran craned his neck up—and then up some more—to look Demarkus in the eyes, he was grateful he’d used the bathroom recently. Because a few of his internal parts simply let go, surrendering before the fight had even begun.
After Demarkus finished sizing him up, which didn’t take long, he beamed as if Doran had given him the best wedding present ever. “So this is my challenger?” he asked with a grin.
“Daro the Red, Chief,” said Four-Eyes. The man still had an arm wrapped around Doran’s shoulders. “The girl’s pilot.”
“And her lover,” Demarkus added.
“No.” The clarity of Doran’s voice surprised even himself. He glanced at Solara and said, “Her friend.” It felt strange calling himself that, but if combat with a seven-foot-tall pirate chief didn’t upgrade them to friends, nothing would.
Demarkus scratched his chin. “How old are you, boy?”
“Old enough. Eighteen.”
The pirate brought both hands together and studied Doran like a proud parent. “I command a thousand men. Seasoned fighters with three times your grit. And do you know how long it’s been since someone challenged me?”
Doran shook his head.
“Five years.”
That’s because your men are smart, Doran thought.
“You’ve got more guts than sense,” Demarkus said. “I respect that. Traditionally, the challenged party chooses the weapons, but I defer that decision to you.”
Doran turned to Four-Eyes for a translation.
“He’s giving you the advantage,” Four-Eyes whispered. “What’s your weapon of choice? Pistols? Staffs? Clubs?” When that didn’t yield a response, he added, “Long blades? Spears? Pulse rifles?”
“None of that,” Doran whispered back.
“Good man.” Four-Eyes gave a respectful nod. “Bare fists, it is!” he announced to the crowd below, eliciting a chorus of cheers.
Demarkus rested one meaty palm on Doran’s shoulder, then gave it an encouraging shake that rattled his teeth. “Excellent choice. That’s how a real man fights.” He lowered his head and murmured, “I like your spirit, boy. I’m going to try not to kill you.”
If that was supposed to make Doran feel better, it didn’t work.
Demarkus strode off toward the boxing ring, leaving Doran to face Solara. She rushed forward and grabbed him by the upper arms. Her fingernails bit through his shirt, but the contact barely registered. Soon he would know real pain.
“Are you insane?” she screeched. “He’ll kill you!”
The wires in Doran’s brain must’ve crossed because that made him laugh. “Not on purpose.”
“Call it off. I’ll get out of here some other way.”
Doran sobered up then, focusing on her eyes—not the bruises staining her skin, but the rings of color where her honeyed irises morphed into green. “If you manage to escape,” he said, “and that’s a big if, it won’t be tonight—your wedding night. Do you think marriage is a joke to this guy? He’s going to…you know…” Doran’s gaze faltered for a moment. “Expect things from you.”
Solara’s eyes flashed. “I can defend my own virtue, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s not like that. He wants me in the engine room, not his bed. He only married me so I’d have to stay.”
“That’s not much better,” Doran said. “Look around. Do you feel safe?”
“I’ll figure out a—”
“Damn it, Solara. If I don’t do this, you could be stuck here forever. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then let me fight him.” He shook her off before she had a chance to fuss at him again. “I know I’ve got no shot against this guy. But I can’t just walk out of here and leave you.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he scrubbed it away with his shirtsleeve. “You’re the one who said I could be decent if I wanted to, so quit trying to talk me out of it. I’m about to piss myself as it is, and you’re not helping.”
Solara chewed on her bottom lip. Just when it seemed she was about to argue, she told him, “Men his size are slow. Guard your face and stay light on your feet. Hit the soft parts—belly, kidneys, throat—not the face, or you’ll break your knuckles. You won’t knock him out, but maybe you can wear him down and trip him. Then kick him in the head before he gets up. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty.”
Doran nodded, taking it all in. With that strategy, winning the fight almost sounded possible. Or at least that’s what he told himself when he turned and joined Demarkus inside the ring.