Curiosity Killed the Temple

"Five gold scodas to the man who can knock down the champion!"

The promoter smiled with gold teeth flashing. By his appearance one could tell his chosen profession was quite profitable, despite the fact that he was offering a good-sized purse for the man who could knock down the champion fighter. He looked around at the circle of spectators. Eyes avoided his or heads just shook no.

"Come, come. I offer a fat purse to the man who can put the champion on the ground."

His eyes scanned the crowd again. His smile was slowly fading as no one took his offer. Beside him the man growled and leered for effect. A tall, beefy man with oiled, sun-bronzed skin, he wore knee-length breeches and carried an ugly round face made uglier by brutal beatings.

The shorter man looked disappointed as no one dared to take his offer. Then his eyes stopped at the rear of the throng where a man stood head and shoulders above the rest. The face was deeply tanned with a black patch over the left eye. His good eye was looking intently the promoter's way.

"You in the back there," said the promoter, pointing. "Five scodas if you can get the champion to land on his bottom."

There were muffled chuckles.

"Make it ten and I'll knock him down."

His voice was deep and carried over the surrounding din. The champion growled a curse and beckoned the one-eyed man to come forward.

"Ten it is," said the promoter

The crowd moved aside to allow the one-eyed man to come forward. Wide-eyed looks and whispers followed his movement. The promoter stared intently. Even the champion's leer disappeared.

The man was a giant by any standard. His attire agreed with his perpetual frown.

His leather harness, pantaloons, boots, even the scabbard and belts were as black as the crude mane of hair that hung loosely past his shoulders. He removed the broadsword that protruded over his left shoulder. Next, he removed the harness to expose his barrel chest and broad shoulders. His arms were deeply ridged and corded, his thighs as thick as tree trunks.

He dropped his sword and harness next to the promoter. The promoter looked into the man's eye, also black, and suppressed a shiver. His toothy smile was gone.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Mak," answered the dark man.

"The challenger-Mak!"

The crowd formed a circle around the combatants. Without warning, the champion attacked first by stepping forward and swinging a right fist at the other's face. Mak dodged the blow and barely missed the next as the champion coupled his opening move with a swing from his left. Mak sidestepped and waited for another move from his opponent. The crowd broke out in curses ands jeers.

The combatants circled. The champ took another right swing. He had to step in and reach up. Mak stepped back with his right foot and turned slightly, balancing himself on his right foot, bringing up his left foot and driving it forward. The champ, not expecting such a move, caught it fully in the stomach, driving the wind out of him with a loud cry. He fell back against several spectators who managed to keep him from landing on his rear.

The champ straightened, glaring. He growled and charged. Mak brought up his left arm and snapped it straight out. He had the advantage of reach and used it quite well. The full force of the blow caught the champ on the forehead, stunning him momentarily. Mak stepped forward, balanced himself on his right leg and lashed out with his left. The toe of his boot raked across the left side of the champ's face. The champ went down on all fours. Mak's left hand chopped across the back of the champ's neck. The latter went down. The crowd went quiet.