28 – Resistance

We travel back through the town, away from the tinkersmith and past the healer. I peek through the open door and see Amari pick up a glass jar and study its contents. She removes the lid and pulls the jar close to her nose. I quietly laugh when she jerks it away and gags.

“This way Neeka,” Isaiah says, motioning for me to follow. “I wanted to get them situated first, before I brought you two here.”

He leads us to a saloon where people sit and smoke flavored swampweed from hookahs and eat pear and pomegranate with their fingers. The wooden floor creaks beneath our feet and a few men cloaked in long robes and keffiyehs turn as we enter. A man with a wide, thin mustache serves krum from behind the bar. Others stare at us as we enter the establishment, their eyes shifty and wide.

Isaiah leads us into a back room where a couple of bruisers are playing Atomic Toads. One man shuffles the cards while the other rearranges his stack of quill. I start to wonder what I might do in a place like this. Perhaps tend bar? Perhaps something a little more unsavory. I wonder what Isaiah thinks of me. He knows I plan to return to Eden to kill Solomon. How can he think I would have anything but contempt for a place like this where people while away the hours, accomplishing nothing.

The two big guys stand as Isaiah approaches, and I think maybe there is about to be a scuffle. Then, they embrace and slap each other on the back.

“We thought you were a goner,” one man says.

“You’ve been gone over two weeks,” says the other. He stands almost a foot taller than Isaiah, but his childish grin makes him less intimidating.

Isaiah introduces us and the men smile at me before turning to Braam.

“Well, would you look at that, Jeter. He’s even bigger than you.”

Jeter scowls at Braam and I wonder if there is going to be a standoff between the two giants. Braam just smiles and offers his hand to Jeter who reluctantly accepts the handshake.

“I would trust these two with my life,” Isaiah says. “In any fight.”

The men nod, and without a word, they slide their table aside and push a secret panel on the wall to slide open a hidden door. They lead us through a low-lit tunnel for about a hundred paces or so and open a door at the far end. We find ourselves outside again, in a gorge which I assume is on the edge of town. Up above is a large rock overhang that partially hides the area, and some type of netting stretches from the overhang to the other side of the small gorge. The netting is the same color as the surrounding terrain, and I imagine any airship would have trouble spotting the activities below it.

“Another combat arena,” I whisper.

“No,” says Braam, looking around and assessing the environment. “This is something else.”

“It’s a training ground,” says Isaiah proudly, as if it is a meal he has prepared for us.

I see men and women, many of them as young as me, practicing combat with various weapons. Two young men fight inside a circle carved out of the ground. Their wooden practice swords occasionally find their mark and one of them winces with pain.

A girl with thick brown hair tied back in a knot practices with her bow. She’s rather good and hits the bullseye every time she lets loose an arrow. A middle-aged man with a lashtail stands apart from the others. He slices a wooden target in half with a crack as loud as thunder. I’m officially impressed.

At the far end of the grounds, I see several people performing some kind of strange, group exercise. The leader yells at them, pushing them harder. Sweat pours from their faces and their shirts are soaked. One girl falls to the ground, from exhaustion, I assume.

“Let’s go big guy,” I hear Isaiah say to Braam. “If you’re gonna be with us, you have to prove your worth.”

“I don’t have to prove anything,” Braam grumbles.

Before Braam realizes what’s happening, Isaiah strikes like a snake, spinning behind him and grasping him around the waist. He tangles his legs with Braam’s and manages to throw him off balance – a feat that seems impossible given their size difference. But where Braam has raw power, Isaiah has clearly studied how to use an opponent’s weight against them.

The crowd forms quickly, and I see money changing hands as they place bets. Isaiah moves with precise efficiency, each step calculated, each grip placed exactly where it needs to be. He catches Braam in an arm lock that would cripple a smaller man.

But Braam isn’t a smaller man. He breaks free with a roar that reminds me of the arena, his movements carrying the weight of countless life-or-death battles. Isaiah darts away, but Braam catches him with a glancing blow that makes him stumble.

“Come on Isaiah,” shouts one man. “Show him that fancy footwork!”

“My quill’s on the big one,” another calls.

Isaiah lands three quick kicks to Braam’s legs, trying to weaken his base. Braam absorbs the hits like they’re nothing more than mosquito bites, then surges forward. Isaiah tries to slip away, but Braam’s reach is too long. One massive hand closes around Isaiah’s arm, and suddenly he’s airborne.

The impact when Isaiah hits the ground drives the air from his lungs, but he still manages to wrap his legs around Braam’s neck in a clever counter. For a moment, it looks like he might have found an advantage.

Then Braam stands up.

With Isaiah still attached to his neck.

“Impressive move,” Braam rumbles, his voice barely strained despite the chokehold. “But now what?”

He drives Isaiah into the ground with enough force to shake dust from the ceiling. Isaiah’s grip loosens but doesn’t break. His face is red with effort, but there’s a grin there too – he’s enjoying this despite being outmatched.

“Come on Isaiah,” someone shouts. “Don’t let this plugtail come in here and beat you!”

“Let’s go big guy!” another voice calls. “I got my quill on you. You’re my new best friend!”

They scuffle for another minute, Isaiah using every trick he knows, but Braam’s raw power proves too much. When they finally separate and square up again, Isaiah lands two more precise kicks before Braam unleashes a controlled flurry of punches. Each one finds its mark with practiced accuracy. Isaiah staggers back, clearly dazed but still standing.

“You might as well give up,” Isaiah manages through heavy breaths, attempting one last strategic hold on Braam’s leg. “I can still break it if I twist just right.”

“Break it off for all I care,” Braam says, his voice barely strained. “I’ll just have Jeremiah make me a new one and I’ll stick it so far up your ass you’ll taste the hydraulic oil.”

“Isaiah!” I scream, still not totally sure what is happening.

“Stay out of this,” says Isaiah, but there’s less confidence in his voice now.

“Listen to him,” Braam says before easily breaking the hold. He drives his knee into Isaiah’s ribs with carefully controlled force – enough to end the fight but not enough to cause serious damage. Isaiah yelps and releases him completely. Both men scramble to their feet, but while Isaiah holds his side and struggles for breath, Braam looks like he’s barely started.

Before they can continue, I step between them. “Stop it! Both of you!”

The crowd groans and starts to complain over my interference.

“Easy, easy,” Isaiah says holding his hand up to the crowd, using the interruption as an excuse to catch his breath. “She’s right. The girl is right. That went far enough. I just wanted to see. I wanted to feel him out. You can’t really know a man until you fight him. Now I know.”

“You don’t know Bobblegash,” says Braam, but there’s respect in his smile. “I was just getting warmed up.”

“I’m sure you were,” Isaiah admits, rubbing his ribs. “And I’m glad you were holding back.”

“What is wrong with you two?” I ask. “The last thing we need is unnecessary injuries.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Isaiah.

“That was fun though,” says Braam, helping Isaiah steady himself. “What is this? A makeshift training ground? A fighting pit?”

“We do a bit of fisticuffs with each other for entertainment, but that isn’t the end goal. It’s not the primary purpose.”

“What is?” Braam asks.

“Insurrection,” Isaiah says, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Braam and I look around to see if anyone else has heard, but no one seems surprised by the word.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Isaiah tells us of an uprising that has been in the works for over a year now. He tells us of a secret network of information, shared between some of the outposts and how everyone is playing a part. Some outposts train fighters while others gather supplies to make weapons.

“That’s why my friends gave you the side eye when I first introduced you. They don’t know what we’ve been through together.”

I feel so many emotions about this. Excitement. Fear. Shock. Finally, there are others who will help in my mission to rid the world of that tyrant, Lord Solomon. But can they be trusted? Are they competent? Will they let me wrap my fingers around Solomon’s neck, or will they want to try to steal the vengeance that is rightfully mine?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Braam shouts, his voice still steady despite the recent fight. “This is a ridiculous plan.”

“On the contrary,” says Isaiah. “It’s a very well thought out and carefully organized endeavor.”

“You finally make a place that is safe and prosperous, where people are free, and you want to throw it all away on some silly idea you can overthrow Solomon.”

“We can’t have freedom without sacrifice,” says Isaiah.

“Do you have any idea how powerful Solomon and his army are?” Braam’s voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen that power firsthand. “Solomon has a 6000 man army, ship cannons and blunderbusses and shocksticks. What do you have? Less than a hundred men here? A few arrows and some flimsy hand weapons.”

“You don’t know your history,” Isaiah says. “You don’t know the story of the nine-hundred Israelis who held off the fifteen-thousand Romans, or the three-hundred Romans who held off the entire Persian army? You don’t know the story of the outmatched rebel alliance who defeated the death star of the Empire?”

“Those tales are fables and if they are true, they are rare. What usually happens is powerful forces, like the one Solomon has, utterly destroys the opposition.”

“Just think about it,” says Isaiah. “We could use a fighter like you.”

Braam stomps off without a word. His frustration observed as he slams the tunnel door, the sound echoing through the gorge.

I look at Isaiah and he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

I run my hand over the arsenal of weapons. The steel feels cool on my hand, the wood feels thick and solid. I imagine the stakes going through the heart of Solomon, the blades slicing his throat. I can see it all so clearly it almost feels like it is happening.

“I take it you’re in,” he says.

I answer him with a smile, excited others want to rid the world of Solomon as much as I do.

I spend a couple more hours there, learning what all the weapons are. Some I’ve never seen. Some I’ve never heard of.

My favorite moment in this secret location is when Isaiah introduces me to his double-headed axe.

“This is my mistress,” he says of the weapon. “I love her like a woman. And I missed her almost as much as I missed Lydia.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He runs his finger along the sharp blade. It’s smaller than most axes but just as deadly.

“I didn’t take you for an axe guy,” I say.

With one quick motion, Isaiah spins around and tosses his axe. It spins through the air and connects with one of the wooden targets across the field, splitting it in half.

I smile at him. “I guess I was wrong.”

As I watch him retrieve his axe, I think about Braam’s words. He’s not wrong about Solomon’s power. But he hasn’t seen what I’ve seen, hasn’t lost what I’ve lost. Sometimes the most dangerous opponent isn’t the strongest one – it’s the one with nothing left to lose.