Starlight Over Detrot
Act 3 Chapter 4: Lets Get Ready To Rumble!
While we live in a world of hoof-cannons, kinetic spells, and Weapons of Mass Discord, there are always times where the sheer convenience of a hoof or claw simply cannot be beaten. At times, in the course of any dubious exchange, the fighting must get down and dirty. Thus has developed a commonality amongst every sapient form of life: Martial Arts.
From the pegasi ‘Rolling Thunder’ kata, to the zebran ‘Zetaro’ style, to a griffin discipline that translates clumsily into ‘Tear-Your-Face-Off-And-Eat-It’, martial arts are designed to play to a species’ strengths in close combat. In the end, they all roughly boil down to ‘wailing the tar out of an opponent because civil negotiation has broken down and a baseball bat is not close to mouth,’ but for that, a surprising amount of ingenuity, meditation and thought has been placed into each such activity.
For instance, the draconic style which translates roughly to ‘Breath of Terror’ emphasizes a form of controlled hyperventilation. Since most dragons are known to breathe fire, acid, ice, and/or any one of a hundred other dangerous magical exhalations, a master of the Breath is said to be able to expel an endless stream of violent death at any would-be assailant.
As with any martial art, knowledge and practice are not without a hint of personal risk, mostly in the form of strained muscles, broken bones, or electrocution from training. In the case of ‘Breath of Terror’, though, a slight possibility exists that even a skilled practitioner might explode in battle. Some dragons – especially adolescent dragons - consider this a good thing in the grand scheme; to kill one’s opponent by detonating in their face is still to kill your opponent, though older dragons value their remaining lives more highly. There exist, however, legends of dragon lords who were able to blow themselves up repeatedly in the heat of battle and live to tell the tale.
Since equines have, throughout their history, been prey to a vast range of larger, more naturally armed, more aggressive species, one would think they would have perfected the art of hiding more quickly than the art of close combat. Not so. Equine hoof-to-hoof techniques are considered some of the most vicious, since ponies have had to kick their way out of a list of stomachs down through the ages. Skilled Earth Ponies shatter boulders with a kick; A Pegasus can leave lightning or ice in the wake of a strike with focused weathermancy. Even the mightiest of hydras and manticores should be at least a bit wary of the shouting miniature horse wearing a karate gi, lest he find himself with a lethal case of indigestion.
-The Scholar
The trip across the city was quiet enough, since Slip Stitch was taking a long skirting road around the middle of the city. Quiet with Stitch was a relative term, since he insisted on playing the ice-cream jingle at full volume most of the way.
A couple of times, as we approached certain checkpoints, he ordered us into the back between the freezers. None of the guards stopped us for long, but as we approached Sky Town I could feel Mags getting a little bit agitated.
Out the windows, great floating cloud structures tethered to the buildings loomed like dark thunderheads in the ever-present dusk of the eclipse. A few black dots swept and swooped around them in orderly patterns, like flights of small birds, but the distance was deceptive. They were definitely griffins, organized and on patrol.
A griffin war party in Detrot, unmolested and unchallenged by the powers of the P.A.C.T. or police? Something about that struck me as fundamentally wrong. Still, it wasn’t any more wrong than anything else that’d happened recently.
The griffins hadn’t bothered with a barricade around Sky Town, but as soon as we turned down one of the avenues boxed in on both sides by tall buildings, a group of no less than eight war-makers in full battle gear dropped out of the air, landing in front of Big Betty. Stitch slammed on the brakes, bringing her to a halt less than three inches from the lead bird’s upraised talon.
Their leader was, if anything, a little smaller than his compatriots, which was odd for a griffin, but if you’ve spent any amount of time around warrior cultures you start to realize that the little guy who manages to make it despite his size is the one to watch out for. He had enough scars crisscrossing his face to look like a crossword puzzle and splotchy brown feathers had been torn out in clumps all around his mane. His tartan wasn’t familiar, but he hadn’t ordered his crew to attack, either.
“Oi! Ponies! Get out ye motor! Noice and slow!” he ordered. “If ye be armed, keep yer jaws shut and ye legs where Oi can see ‘em!”
Mags ducked under the collar of my coat and I carefully opened Big Betty’s door. The steps rattled into place and I descended slowly, keeping my head up, but the brim of my hat down so they couldn’t see my face in the shadows.
“You friends of the Tokan or the Hitlan?” I called out.
The group exchange a glance with one another, then the lead griffin asked, “What be it to ye if we be?”
Deciding to take a chance, I pushed my hat back and stepped into the light.
“Their High Justice would like a word,” I said.
The tall griffin to the left of the leader immediately snatched for a shotgun strapped across his back, but his superior was fast as greased lightning. He reared up on his back legs and smacked him across the beak with a quick one, two, three punch that had my aggressor hitting the asphalt like a bag of wet cement. The leader growled, putting his claw on the bigger griffin’s throat as he struggled to rise.
“Oi knew ye was bought, Calipan,” the war-maker snarled at his pinned foe. “Ye be sneakin’ out at noight, sniffin’ around. So, ye be the one tellin’ them Black Coat boyos where be our patrols, eh?”
Calipan tried to snap his beak at the other griffin’s leg, only earning himself another crack in the nose. The other griffins stood back, seemingly impassive to the little drama taking place.
“What ye owe the Tokan, Draven?” Calipan snarled. “They try to own us! We own they High Justice, we owns them! Black Coats be wantin’ ‘im! Give’em over and we have the Black Coats kill them Tokan scum!”
“Oi owes the Tokan me honor, ye damn fool! Oi sleeps tonoight because Oi know where be moi debts!” the griffin called Draven growled, then swept his pistol out of its holster and brought the weighted handle down on the side of Calipan’s head with a crack that I felt in my chest. Calipan went limp.
Turning to me, Draven sighed and wiped a smear of blood off the end of bottom of his gun with two claws. “Pardon, boyo. Toiny proivate matter needed taking care of. So...ye be the one we be hearin’ all these funny stories of, eh?”
“I suppose I might be,” I murmured, glancing up at Big Betty where Stitch still sat, watching the scene. “I’m afraid I’ve been away for the last week or so and just got back into town, handling my own ‘private matters’. I’m here looking for a little pegasus.”
“Well, ye be the High Justice of the Tokan and Hitlan. Oi see no blood on ye face, but...Oi’d be a mad-griff if Oi didn’t know who ye was,” he said. “Lil’ pegasus ye say? Most ponies be leavin’ when the Tokan and Hitlan comes.”
“Yeah, well this one is kind of...distinctive, get me?” I pulled my lip up and jabbed a toe at the teeth on one side of my muzzle.
“Och! He be meanin’ the demon!” one of the other war-makers—a young female with bright red plumage—piped up.
Draven gave her a dirty look. “Oi know that, ye nit! Oi was tryin’ to get some information ‘afore Oi told’em!” he snapped, giving the unconscious Calipan a good kick in the back. “Get this sack o’ shite back and stick’em in a box somewhere for the sarge to deal with.”
His friend swallowed and lowered her head, her beak clicking shut as she went about the process of loading Calipan onto her back.
Turning back, Draven gave me what I think he meant to be a cheerful smile. It never works all that well with a beak meant for tearing flesh off bone. “Now, then...ye be friend o’ the wee mad pony, eh?”
“If you mean a pegasus with weird teeth, a funny scar on her chest, and a penchant for meat, yeah, that’ll be her,” I answered, waving for Limerence to get out of Big Betty.
“Tich. Aye, that be her, then,” he snorted, turning back to his patrol and twirling his fist in the air. The rest of them took off, flying back towards the cloud structures. “Erm...now, look boyo...Oi can’t leave me patrol, but Oi gives ye a pass until ye gets the roight blood back on ye face.”
Reaching back, he made a tiny cut on his foreleg with the edge of his axe. I stood still as he dabbed a bit of it on his talon, then leaned forward and drew a symbol on my forehead. Limerence was just clambering down and paused to watch the process before dropping onto the pavement and dusting off his vest.
“Shall I need something similar?” Lim asked, pointing at his face.
Draven shook his head. “Ye stays with yer friend here, ye’ll be foine. Don’t go for a wander and have a care who ye speak to. The mad pink truck and the cutter goes back the way he comes. Ye walks from here. Oi’m only givin’ this pass to the two of ye. Anygriff touches ye, tell’em Draven has a blade wi’ their name on it.” He pointed down the road the way he’d come. “Yon little pegasus be most likely at the bar. Four blocks in, two up. Only place wi’ the lights on.”
With that, he took to the air, coasting off in the direction of the cloud buildings hanging above Sky Town to rejoin his squad.
I reached up to touch the coolness on my forehead, but Limerence caught my hoof.
“Don’t, Detective. You deal with griffin tribals, you get used to having blood on you,” he murmured.
“I’m blessed not to have to do it very often, then, I think,” I said.
“Detective!” Stitch called down from the cab of Big Betty. “Mightn’t I be off? I’m afraid the telephones in this area are likely to be out, so you’ll be needing to make your own way to the Vivarium when you are done here.”
“That’s fine, Stitch. How’d you know that was where we were going?”
“Stories, my friend! You hear the stories, but often it’s the ones telling them that are important! Now, I must go. Keep safe. You and your little tribe lady there.”
Mags poked her head up and smiled, waving her talons at the coroner. “G’bye Stitchy!”
“Good bye, my dear! Take care of the Detective for me, would you?”
I felt her nod.
“I be!”
----
Limerence and I walked side by side into Sky Town. Mags had retreated to my collar, where she was peering around in all directions. There was a noticeable deficit of pegasi, particularly for what was ostensibly a very mixed-species portion of the city. That worried me a bit, but I’d seen previous emergencies that sent everypony running into their homes with doors shut and windows barred. Speciesists would never admit it, but ponies are known to be a bit skittish.
Giving my hat to Mags to cover herself, we followed the directions that Draven had given us. I’d expected at least some interest, but strangely enough no-one seemed inclined to bother us. A few bright, golden eyes peered out of windows or down from clouds, but all went back about their business within moments.
“You mind explaining something to me?” I asked. Lim shrugged and I took that as a sign to continue. “Alright, so that Calipan fellow tries to turn us in to the P.A.C.T. for a reward, but we’re walking down the boulevard free as you please. Where is the P.A.C.T.? He can’t have been the only opportunist.”
Limerence nodded his horn at my forehead. “It is a simple matter of politics. We were not protected when Mister Calipan attempted that little maneuver. High Justice only grants you immunity from violence between the Tokan and Hitlan. It gives you a measure of protection amongst others, so long as you wear the blood. Particularly those who would call themselves allies of the two great tribes.”
“So Draven just...slapped on a fresh coat of protection, then?”
“As I understand it, he pledged his own tribe’s protection upon you as ‘guest’ for the duration. It is a bit less formal than High Justice and shan’t protect us from those who are his most direct enemies. It would be seen as shaming his tribe to kill us.”
“Ugh, griffin politics make City Center look positively cheery.”
“Quite.”
----
The Pit.
That daft griffin had directed us to The Pit, better known as Pollick’s Interspecies Taphouse. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I was. At the end of the world, if one dive was going to keep its doors open, it was Pollick’s place.
So the story goes, Pollick was an idealistic young unicorn from some noble family out of Canterlot. He moved to Detrot during the boom years and found himself hard up for money. His father’s first wife—Pollick’s mother—was another pony, but his second was a griffin baker of considerable skill from old Griffinstone.
Pollick—having been raised in a dual species household—inherited some very interesting ideas about how the two species should coexist, not the least of which included some highly questionable varieties of entertainment. When he finally had his own place, he set out to make his mother and father proud.
Since then, the Pit’s success had led to a string of restaurants, pubs, and various other enterprises all across Equestria that kept him rolling in bits. Despite that, Pollick’s place survived as a major money pot and occasional tourist attraction for the vacationer with cash to burn.
After all, the entertainment was the reason the The Pit had survived the war and many dark times besides. It was a place of almost universal interest to a more rough-and-tumble brand of Equestrian; In my younger years, I’d proudly counted myself amongst them.
The Pit was one of the only places in all of Equestria you could go to see full contact mixed-species martial arts.
----
From outside, the Pit looked like a pub stolen out of an adventure novel. Log cabin-chic was a trend before the Crusades, but it had died out around the time flammability became an ongoing concern. It was the only building on the street that seemed to be doing any business.
Three stories high and as big as half a city block, it would give most regular log cabins a run for their money, but it still maintained a sort of homey feeling, despite the size. The trees that had been used to make the walls must have been great grandfathers of the woods; each one was thrice as big around as my barrel. They’d been tempered and treated with thick, sticky tar that glistened in the half-light of the eclipse. Through the gigantic, frosted glass window one could see a warm glow of firelight and moving bodies on the first floor, while a few individuals wandered about on the second floor balconies, sharing drinks and laughter.
On the swinging sign above the door, a rearing griffin had one leg draped around the shoulders of a young, smirking stallion. In the background, a dragon did battle with a zebra who was tumbling acrobatically through the air.
There was nopony watching the door, but then that was hardly surprising. The Pit never had a cover charge or a line out front, but you could guarantee good beer if you didn’t mind the possibility of getting torn fur or someone else’s teeth in it. If one sat ring-side, that could easily happen.
I felt a chipper smile break out on my face as we trotted down the empty street towards the bar where it sat between some cloud-anchored tenements.
“Detective, this place smells,” Limerence muttered, stopping outside the front door. He grimaced and waved a hoof in front of his muzzle. “It reeks of beer, vomit, and blood.”
My smile grew into a grin. “I know, right? Best thing in the world! I haven’t been down here in years. I wonder if Pollick still has that collection of body parts over the bar...”
“B-body parts?” Lim stammered.
“Oh, yeah,” I replied, waving a hoof as I trotted up to the door. “House rule used to be if you lose it, the house claims it, at least according to the rumors. I doubt Pollick ever really enforced a rule like that, but that didn’t stop him making friends with a good taxidermist. These days I doubt they keep anything bigger than a claw or a hoof—”
“Detective, what are we walking into?” he demanded, grabbing my coat-tails in his teeth to pull me to a stop.
“I could tell you, but I’d hate to ruin the surprise. Let’s go find Swift. Mags, keep your head down in here.”
----
Ahhh, a good bar.
It’d been so long since I was in one. Sure, the Vivarium served booze, along with a half dozen other places I’d been in recent months, but a proper bar isn’t about what they sell; it’s about how you feel when you’re there.
The Pit was good bar. Order food less than an hour before closing time and it would give you the trots. The beer was cold, though, and you didn’t have a menu of ‘microbrews’ or ‘hoof-crafted’ or any other poncy nonsense. There was beer and that was all.
I swept open the door, shut my eyes, and drew in a heady breath of the stale, rank air. It smelled like alcohol, sex, tobacco, Zapp, blood, cooking food, and...griffins. Lots of griffins.
I opened my eyes and stared around at the bar.
“Sweet skies,” I muttered.
“Why, pray-tell, are we in a griffins-only bar, Detective?” Limerence asked.
He wasn’t kidding.
The front room of Pollick’s was a single story with a low ceiling to discourage flight and wooden cross-beams every few meters hung with dangling, magical glow lamps, lending the whole place a dimly lit, intimate feel. The wooden bar, which stretched down the left-hoof wall up to a curtained doorway, was more scarred than a griffin battle-master. Above it, whatever strange things had caught Pollick’s fancy were arrayed on a little shelf that followed the bar; a few stuffed griffin or pegasus wings which were molting where the glue was thin, beer-cans from about twelve different countries, two shrunken changeling heads with flaking paint, and so on.
The tables and seating arrayed across the middle of the floor were a mix and match affair taken from the survivors of whatever thrift store Pollick shopped at when an appreciable amount of his furniture was broken.
And every single one of those seats was full of a griffin backside from what looked like fifteen or sixteen tribes, judged by pelts and clothing. The only ponies in the room were three bartenders and couple of waitresses who were keeping tight, strained smiles on their faces as they moved from table to table, taking orders and swatting grabby claws.
I couldn’t see what was through the curtained doorway, but I could hear cheering voices from that direction. Swift didn’t seem to be in the front room. I swallowed as several heads came up. One or two jiggled their friends and pointed in my direction. Soon there were many more eyes on me.
I was suddenly very aware of the blood on my forehead and my new magic-proofed vest. The former because it was, in practical terms, just a smear on my face and the latter because wearing it meant that—while I was surely in good standing if an opponent decided to shoot me with spellfire—I was decidedly unprotected against all those sharp talons, axes, clubs, and guns.
Silence gradually descended over the bar.
All those eyes felt like they were drilling holes in my forehead.
I grimaced and it might have looked like a smile if you had a severe, untreated astigmatism. Limerence edged in beside me.
“Well, Detective...your show,” he said out of the corner of his muzzle.
Forcing myself to move, I trotted for the nearest bartender. She was a slightly put-upon looking unicorn with sandy fur and one crooked eye who was half-way to pouring a glass and the whiskey was quickly running over, spilling onto the counter as she stared at me, open mouthed. Her horn shimmered as I approached and winked out, sending the bottle clattering to the bar.
The griffin she was serving hastily got out of my way and several besides on either side pressed back, vacating their stools like I’d just come into the bar on fire. I glanced at the guy who’d just hopped out of my way. He was the size of a truck, with a sword a meter long across his back, but when he looked at me, his eyes were full of an emotion I wasn’t entirely familiar with having aimed in my direction; fear. Real, authentic, bona-fide fear.
I had to resist the urge to go ‘Boo!’, just to see how many tails I could soil.
Grabbing the recently emptied stool, I slid onto it and propped my chin on my hooves.
“Morning, Miss,” I murmured and the bartender jumped. “You know who I am?”
Her eyes darted left and right, as though hoping I was talking to somepony else. After a moment, she nodded. Swift and I were going to have a very long conversation.
“I’m looking for a pegasus—”
Before I could finish, she pointed towards the curtain at the back of the bar, just as another cheer went up from behind it. There was a mare’s tail poking out between the curtains. Whatever was going on back there sounded like a riot.
“Y-you’ll have to talk to Mrs.Martini,” the girl muttered, keeping her gaze on the bar itself.
I touched the brim of my hat. “Thank you kindly. Can I get two beers?”
“Detective, I don’t need alcohol—” Lim started to say, but I cut him off.
“Lim, you will drink the beer and you will say thank you,” I growled, then turned back to the bartender. “What do I pay you with? I hear bits aren’t too popular these days.”
The girl was about to answer, but her muzzle snapped shut and her eyes widened as she peered over my shoulder. I heard a loud thump behind me, followed by the sound of moving metal. Gently freeing my pistol bit, I prepared for violence.
The bartender slowly sank below the level of the bar.
“Har’dy. Turn around,” Mags whispered, sliding down my back until she could drop out of the bottom of my coat, ducking behind my tail for cover.
Slowly rotating on my stool, I came muzzle to chest with a mountain of brown fur.
“Hey me boyo!”
I found myself mushed face first into that huge mound of fuzz, being squeezed by a pair of limbs that could double as industrial vices. My survival instincts kicked in and I let out a pitiful whimper, hoping my assailant would have mercy and not crush me to death before Limerence could figure something to do about the situation.
After a good five seconds longer than necessary, right as I was about to lose consciousness, the beast let go and I gasped for breath, holding myself up with one hoof on his chest.
“Sykes...I swear! What did I tell you about hugging ponies? We have bones, dammit!” I groaned, patting my chest to make sure nothing was broken. The big galoot just grinned down at me, cheerfully pushing my hat off so he could ruffle my mane.
The massive bastard looked good.
He’d ditched the ridiculous suit in favor of a familiar tartan and a lochaber axe across his back. His dark brown mane was well groomed with a bit of grease and a pair of feathers that looked like they might be his brother’s dangled from a leather thong tied in fur. Even his combat vest was non-standard, though he still wore his badge on a chain tucked into the front pocket.
He looked every bit the griffin tribal warrior and happier for it.
“Tch, me boyo, ye be an earth pony! Yer lot made o’ sturdy stuff!” Sykes cackled, then let out a yelp and ducked his head between his front knees. Reaching down, he snatched up a ball of flailing fur by the scruff of her neck. “Now, who be this bundle of trouble? And ‘owed ye be gettin’ in here?”
Mags dangled from his talon, making what I’m sure she thought was an intimidating growl. “Ye be leavin’ my egg pony alone!” she chirped, swiping at him with her claw.
I put a toe under her chin and raised her eyes. “Now, Mags...what did I tell you? If you’re going to fight a male, particularly one bigger than you are—”
She lowered her head, tail lashing back and forth. “Get between he back legs, get he bits in my beak and give’em a good rip. I remembers.”
“That’s right. Legs are only vulnerable if you get an artery, but the jewels are always golden.”
Sykes gave me a confused look as he set Mags carefully on the bar. She darted over and clambered up on my back.
“Oi’m glad she didn’ remember that lesson jus’ now. Still, egg pony, Hardy?” he asked as the noise in the bar started to return to a more normal level. None of the other griffins seemed inclined to get near enough to overhear our conversation.
“It’s just a thing she says...”
“Oh, did that slip your mind, Detective?” Limerence chuckled, taking a stool beside me. “Our foolish friend here sold himself to the Nursemaid’s Guild last week in exchange for being allowed into the hatchery during the crisis at the Moonwalk.”
Sykes’ eyes went as round as dinner plates. “Pull the other one, me son. It’s got bells on!”
I sighed and rubbed my ear fur as Mags dug her little claws into the back of my neck, protectively. “I’m afraid he’s not kidding.”
He let out a laugh that momentarily deafened me and I cringed as he smacked me on the back a couple of times.
“Bwaaahahaha! Detective Hard Boiled! A bloody nursemaid! That's rich!”
Shutting my eyes, I swung back around and slumped onto the bar. The bartender had put two beers in front of me and scuttled off to the other end of the building. I grabbed the nearest one and sucked down three muzzle-fulls like it was the nectar of life.
“I suppose you haven’t heard what happened to the Nursemaid Guild, then?” I asked.
He sobered quickly, letting out a long sigh. “Aye, Oi heard. Only bits and pieces, moind. Sad t’ing, that. It be mostly...well, yerself, Esmerelda, and her daughter what survoive the Moonwalk. Enough to rebuild, but...well, wherever ye’ve stashed the Hitlan and Tokan eggs, it probably be safer wi’ barely any Guild to protect’em roight now.”
I rooted through my pocket and slapped down a heap of bits that probably would have made the bartender’s night a couple weeks ago, then got back on my hooves.
“I was worried that might be the case, honestly. You seen Swift lately? The guy that put this blood on my face told me she was here.”
Sykes glanced at my forehead. “Aye, that be Draven’s symbol. Oi know’em. Good bloke, he is. As for yer wee birdy—” He then turned to look towards the curtain into the fighting pit. I blinked a couple times at what else was strapped to his back.
“Hey! I asked you to watch that. Not adopt it!”
Sykes peered guiltily over his shoulder where he wore my chromed shotgun in a beautifully inlaid leather quick-draw holster. A bit of color came into his cheeks. “Awww, Oi were just lookin’ after the pretty t’ing. Honestly, Oi were!”
Reaching back, he tugged the weapon loose and held it protectively in both forelegs, gently stroking the barrel with an expression bordering on adoration. Glancing up at me, he did his best to give me a sad pout face. Ugh. Griffins and their shiny crap.
I reached out and grabbed the shotgun in my teeth, dragging it out of his arms. Mags hopped down so I could wiggle one leg out of my coat, sweeping it back to jam the shotgun’s stock into my gun-harness. Sliding the cocking mechanism into place, I made sure the safety was on, then pointed it at the ground and took up the trigger slack. He’d oiled the gun within an inch of its life and the whole thing gleamed like a Canterlotian whore’s jewelry.
“If I’m still alive come Hearth’s Warming Eve, I’ll give it back in a box with a big red bow,” I said at his crestfallen expression. “Right now, I need the hardware. We need to talk once we get Swift back.” Holding out a leg, I let Mags hop back into place, wiggling down the back of my coat.
“Aye, yer girly be here,” Sykes murmured, nodding towards the back. “Oi takes care of her, just loike last toime. Not as she needs it. Scary little beast she be...”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what does that mean?” Limerence asked, sliding his untouched beer away.
“Ye’ll see, says Oi.”
----
The eyes of every griffin in the room were on my back as we trotted toward the fighting pits. It was making my neck itch.
Just what had Swift been telling people while I was gone?
The cheers were nearing a fever pitch. I could only see a shapely backside in a long skirt poking out of the curtain. Her tail was a slightly off shade of green, same as Pollick’s. Come to think of it, same as the bartender’s, too. Pollick’s daughters, then. That explained why they were at their posts when the whole rest of the city was taking time off to lose its mind.
Sykes tapped her on the flank and one of her rear legs shot out, narrowly missing his nose. She yanked her head out of the curtain and snapped, “Hey, big boy! You want I should bust that beak in half?! I’ll do it!”
Her mane was a little disheveled and a bottle of bourbon was clutched in her hoof.
“Pardon meself Mrs. Martini. It be Oi,” Sykes said, cheerfully, adjusting his combat vest.
The mare’s expression softened. She had the face of somepony who’d been ridden hard and put up wet one too many times, a little tipsy and with eyes that wouldn’t focus, but her smile was genuine enough. “Oh...Sykes. You in to watch the fight tonight? Or just buy me some more drinks and tell me I’m beautiful? I could do with some more of that.”
“Heh, much as Oi’d like that, moi sweet, Oi’ve brought a couple friends,” he replied, jabbing his thumb-claw at me.
Her eyes darted at me, then she dropped her bottle of bourbon. Sykes caught it before it hit the ground. I was getting good at ingratiating smiles, but they didn’t seem to be working.
“Is that...oh Luna’s backside, really?! Him?!” she squeaked, turning her fearful gaze back to my friend. “Are you trying to get us all killed, Sykes? The Black Coats will storm this place in a heartbeat if they know the Justice is here! Get him out of here!”
“Now lass,” he started to say, offering her the bottle. She took it automatically and swallowed a mighty belt, then huffed and marched forward, pushing her forehead against his chest. She might as well have tried to move a wall, but the intent was clear.
“No, no ‘Now lass’ with me, you sweet t-talking *hic* bird! You get gone and take your stupid friends with you!” she grumbled.
Sykes sank onto his haunches as she futilely tried to push him back towards the door.
He gave me an apologetic smile, then put his arms around her, gently but firmly pushing her back. “Mrs. Martini, ye know moi kin will keep ye safe. That ye must trust. Moi friends be not here bringin’ trouble. Besoides, moi kin’s drinkin’ barter is good as every other, innit?”
She let out a loud harrumph and slumped onto her belly on the dirty floor. “I...I guess,” she muttered. “At least you lot pay your tabs... and you kept that crazy pegasus in line. I assume he’s here for her?”
Sykes nodded. “S’roight.”
Getting to her hooves, Mrs. Martini swigged the bottom of her bottle, then stared at it as she realized it was empty. Her eyes didn’t seem quite willing to focus in the same direction. “Well...well…*hic*...Could you at least wait till the fight is over? She thinks she’s still paying off all that furniture what she busted up when Greva and Elmer tried to claim one’a them bounties.”
I took a step forward and asked, curiously, “Paying off what now?”
Martini smirked, setting her empty bottle back on the nearest table and straightening her skirt with one hoof. “Ayep. Your little friend...heh...she rolled four of my customers but good, Mister Justice. She paid that lot off after the first night. Still, I give room and board and the griffins have their own ways of paying for things. Little song-bird thinks it’s her pretty little poems what is paying for her to sleep here. I couldn’t exactly toss’er out after the first night, though. Customers like her an’ I think them Hitlan would trash the place if I told’em she had to leave...“
“What...exactly has she been up to, if not singing for her supper?” I asked.
She took a couple steps back, and held the curtain open for us. “Heh! Why don’t you come see? It looks like the last fight is starting.”
----
Sweat and blood, mingled together to produce a thick bouquet that set my heart racing. Oh, what a night for a fight!
The cheering from inside was almost deafening and the room was smogged with wisps of smoke from a hundred howling griffins, rattling their blades, shouting at the top of their mighty lungs and puffing at their pipes. It was a huge space, built to accommodate every species imaginable.
There were chairs for minotaurs, benches for yaks, and perches dangling from the ceiling for flying species. Nearly every available surface was packed with griffins from more tribes than I could name, though a few dedicated ponies were sitting in on proceedings.
The Decagon was a caged pit sunken into the dirt floor a little lower than the stands. Its white sands were already stained red in places, but a couple of blood caddies—griffins wearing crimson caps and carrying brooms—were quickly sweeping bits of feathers and other nastiness out of the fighting arena. The walls were just high enough that a pony on hoof couldn’t climb out
While Pollick had designated his place as non-lethal combat only, that never stopped a bit of bloodshed. You can’t get that many different species together for a brouhaha without the occasional gouged eyeball, split lip, or spurting artery. However, his medical staff was second to none in the fighting scene, so death wasn’t common in the Decagon.
That said, I didn’t see his usual nurses down there beside the ring. There were, instead, a trio of gorgeous griffin hens in thick feather makeup, wearing too-tight white shirts with big red-crosses painted on them in something that looked worryingly like encrusted gore.
Martini gave me a light bump with her shoulder and waved at several empty seats in the back row nearest the door. Leaning up to my ear she shouted to be heard over the crowd, “My personal seats! You get’em for now, then get out of my place when the fight is over! You understand me?”
“Not...entirely, but alright,” I called back. I don’t know if she heard me, but she gave me a sharp nod, then trotted back to the curtain and resumed her position.
Thank small mercies that none of the interest of the crowd was on us. They were all watching the ring with thick anticipation as Limerence, Sykes and I scooted in and climbed into our seats.
Down front, a tuxedo-ed old stallion I knew only as ‘Ref’ strutted out into the center of the Decagon as an old fashioned microphone dropped from the ceiling. Taking it in his hoof, he coughed softly and the crowd quieted to a dull roar.
“Laaadies and Gentlebeings! Pollick’s Interspecies Taphouse thanks you for coming out tonight! Before we get to our final bout, Mrs. Martini has asked me to remind you that all barter sales are to be finished before you leave the bar! We’ve got a special for those willing to trade for alcohol and snacks, but we aren’t accepting anything bottom shelf! No hard drugs, no blood debts, no bits!”
Ref waited a moment for everyone to absorb that, then went on, sweeping his hoof back through his thin white mane.
“Now, then! The fight you’ve all been waiting for! One of our long time combatants taking on a newcomer! I give you, the destroyer of Gethixis, the crusher of Tambourine, and the batterer of King Honey Comb! It’s...the Hammer!”
A door on the side of the ring slid open and a griffin the size of a truck padded into the arena. The Hammer might have been a head shorter than Grimble Shanks, but his muscles were less the practical, lean variety one sees on warriors and more the impressive, bulging sort that speak to longtime steroid abuse. Still, I wouldn’t have wanted to run into him in a dark alley.
Reaching the center of the ring, he bowed to Ref, then to the audience. His expression was quietly smug.
“For his opponent...She’s been with us for the last six days and has been in the arena for the last five, undefeated!”
“Oh Celestia, you can’t be serious!” I barked, yanking my hat off and holding it to my chest. The crowd was screaming now, so loud I doubt any of them heard me.
Ref continued, “The poet of power, she laid Sarkon low with a full body hold that had him limping for three days! Her words are sharp, but her teeth are even sharper! She’s a pegasus like no other, who eats her meat bloody raw! Proof that dangerous things come in small packages...I give you....Theee Deeemon!”
There was a long pause as the door on the opposite side of the arena opened and a brilliantly orange streak burst out, tried to brake in mid-air and instead tumbled end over end into the middle of the sands. She came to a stop at Ref’s hooves, lying on her back, gasping for air.
“Sorry, sorry! I’m here! I was in the bathroom!” The Demon sputtered, wiping sand off of her tongue with both hooves. The microphone caught every word.
She was minus her combat vest and weapons, but she looked well enough. Her right wing had about a dozen bandaids on it, but that seemed to be the worst of her injuries.
I swallowed, thinking of exactly what her grandmare was likely to do when she found out about this. The Hammer was a monster even by griffin standards. His right front leg was the size of her waist.
“Aye, now we foinally see a thing,” Sykes murmured from my side.
“Sykes, I thought you said you were taking care of her!” I snapped.
“Ye think Oi didn’t try and stop ‘er?”
“I think you should have...I don’t know! Brained her and left her trussed in a room somewhere!”
“Believe me, boyo, Oi thought about it. Then she dislocated Edmund Gutslicer’s back legs in the ring. Oi ain’t be thinkin’ about it much more. That Hammer, though...he’s a nasty piece of work, he is.”
“She’s going to get herself killed,” I groaned, starting to get to my hooves to go down and stop the fight. Limerence put his leg across my back, pushing me down.
“Detective...unless you wish a riot on your hooves, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, into my ear. I sank into my seat, feeling helpless and irritated.
Meanwhile, down front, Swift scrambled upright and smiled apologetically at Ref and her opponent. Her wings were freshly preened, but her mane hadn’t seen gel in at least three days, so the spikes were quickly giving way to wild, magenta curls. Her tail was done up in a tight bun against her backside, wrapped in twine. Very practical, but not very stylish.
The Hammer towered over her, casually brushing a bit of sand out of his feathers as he took position on the opposite side of the field in front of a small white line in the dirt. His smug expression hadn’t changed as he tightened his back muscles, sliding into a bodybuilder's pose that made a couple of hens in the front row swoon.
Trotting over to the opposite line, Swift began shaking out her hooves one at a time, taking quick breaths as she went through some gentle stretching exercises. While the Hammer was flexing and posing for the audience, her eyes never left him, studying his chest and neck. Considering the difference in their sizes, I couldn’t see how it would matter. Even if she’d been an Earth pony, the Hammer was in a weight class with small planets.
“Now, let’s make it a good clean fight! No broken necks or spines, no punctured lungs, and no torn throats!” Ref declared, taking several steps back to the edge of the ring. “Rules are fight till submission, bone break, or unconsciousness! Tap, snap, or nap! Fighters...are you ready?”
The Hammer swung around to face Swift, his rear legs tensing as he nodded to Ref. At the other end, Swift wiggled her hips like a cat and a feral grin spread across her face.
I felt Mags crawling up to get a look at things and hadn’t the heart to push her back down. I was about to witness one of my best friends getting pulled inside out, after all.
Ref drew in a deep breath and shouted, “You may begin!”
For all that size, the Hammer moved fast. He went from a standing position to a mid-air pounce, all claws extended, in the time it took me to blink. It wasn’t a flashy move, or a particularly devious one, but griffins have a frightening quality about them when they’re coming down on you: five of their six ends are pointy. It’s a fairly effective evolutionary adaptation and attacks from above work well against most prey species.
Unfortunately for the Hammer, Swift hadn’t been a member of any prey species I’d ever heard of for some time now.
Rather than try to roll with his attack, she dove forward, leaving him pouncing on empty sand. Coming up behind him right as she landed, her teeth closed around the middle of his tail.
The sound he made was somewhere between a tire deflating and a pig getting cooked alive. He tried to yank his tail free, bucking his rear legs to shove Swift off. He was probably lucky he missed, or he’d have lost that particular anatomical feature.
My partner leapt into the air, beating her huge wings for altitude while maintaining a solid grip as she dove over his head, hauling the Hammer’s rear end over and splaying him out in a heap on his back. He laid there for a few seconds, a stunned expression on his face.
The crowd was shrieking bloody murder.
Swift landed beside him, folding her wings against her sides. Leaning over, she quietly offered him a hoof back to his feet. Giving her a narrow-eyed look as though seeing her for the first time, he took her leg and heaved himself up, then stepped a few meters back.
By all rights, Swift could have bashed his ribs in while he was down and the Hammer could have tried to take her head off when he got a grip on her, but Pollick liked nothing like he liked a show. I could see the Hammer re-evaluating his initial opinions on the ease of the fight.
All around me, griffins were crowing, “Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!”
On some unspoken signal, Swift and the Hammer began to circle one another warily, studying each other’s movements. She took one step forward, he took one step back. His wings tensed and she eased a couple inches to the left. Read, counter-read, adjust.
Just as the audience was getting a tad restless, the Hammer exploded out of his position in a forward charge, aiming to take Swift in the middle. Her eyes widened a little and she reared back, then bounced up using a quick beat of her wings. Both back hooves came down on his beak and she did a quick mid-air loop, dropping onto his shoulders as he skidded face first into the sand.
Leaning down, she hooked one foreleg around his neck and jammed her head alongside his, then tried to reach forward to lock in a sleeper hold. The big bastard’s throat was just too thick and as she struggled, he reached back and got a good grip on her mane.
“Aye, she pulled that on Glitza two nights ago,” Sykes said in my ear. “It work foine then, but that hen be not the Hammer!”
With a heave, he tossed Swift across the ring by her mane. She cartwheeled end over end, wings splayed out as she tried to get her balance in mid-air. I cringed as she hit the wall of the arena and slid to the ground, laying there with her rear hooves dangling in her face as she tried to sort up from down. The Hammer casually blew a few stray strands of magenta mane out of his claws and let that confident smile settle back into place.
“Heh, that be only the third talon Oi’ve seen laid on ‘er in the ring,” Sykes chuckled.
I was too busy leaning forward to watch to reply.
Swift pulled herself onto her side, then to her hooves, shaking a cascade of dust out of her hair. Still grinning at her opponent, she gave him a little dip of the chin and folded her wings in against her sides. The Hammer quirked one eyebrow, then fell back into his battle-stance, forelegs loose and ready, back knees bent and his wings spread for another attack.
He didn’t get the chance.
Blitzing across the distance so quickly it shot a rooster-tail of sand into the audience, Swift pulled up half a meter in front of her opponent. She looped into the air, letting her rear toe come up underneath his chin. At that speed, it turned her foot into a battering ram, snapping his head back.
On damn near anything smaller, it would have been a knock-out blow, but the Hammer still stumbled backwards, dazed and clutching at his beak as blood dripped out of the side of it. He snarled and spat something fleshy on the wall.
I had to wonder what thoughts were going through his mind just then. Most likely thousands of years of griffin development were telling him the little colorful thing was tasty and made of meat. If he was smart, another voice was saying something along the lines of ‘bullets are small and those hurt, too’.
Swift was just landing and, like most pegasi coming down on unstable ground, she was looking at her hooves.
There was no grand pounce, or flashy leap from the Hammer. Bracing his back leg on the wall of the arena, he leaned forward and gave his wings one high powered beat. It turned him into a ballistic missile, screaming towards my partner.
I shot out of my seat, putting both hooves on the back of the bench in front of me.
With a caw of triumph, the Hammer caught her in both front claws, wrapping them around her barrel. Swift struggled valiantly as they shot up into the air, but she had no leverage, her legs flailing helplessly as she tried to elbow him in the ribs. She might as well have been kicking a concrete block for all the damage it was doing.
“Tha’s that then. Damn fool jus' lost it fer' 'imself, ” Sykes sighed and I started to kick my trigger into my teeth, ready to charge down and do...something. I hadn’t really thought much beyond that I didn’t want to watch Swift die in a pit fight, whatever guarantees Pollick might have had in place.
It was at that moment the Hammer made a fatal mistake.
He turned, hauling Swift higher, shifting his weight on top so that when they hit the ground, it would be with her underneath. It freed her wings and the first thing she decided to do was smack him on either side of the head. His ears must have been ringing like a whole orchestra worth of bells, because he immediately lost his balance and began to tumble out of his ascent. She slipped out of his grasp and, before he could gather himself to snatch a knot in her, swung around to bash him across the temple with both wings, one after the other. Each hit let off a crack of passing air that sounded like a snapping whip.
“Ha! Griffin body slam not so good on pegasus, now do it, eh?” Sykes cackled, scratching his neck ruffle.
The drop onto the sands was a solid five meters and the Hammer hit with a thump that echoed around the suddenly very quiet arena. Swift landed beside him a moment later, clutching a bloody spot on her side that looked like several talon marks. She was panting, her wings sagging as she sat on her haunches, one eye on the Hammer for any signs of life.
There were none. He was out like a light, bright red liquid dripping out of his nostrils.
Ref dashed out from the sidelines, slid onto his side, and began the count, punctuating each number with a slap on the ground.
“Five!... Four!... Three!... Two!... Ooone!”
The crowd exhaled all at once and a rush of screaming followed that I could feel right in my chest. I found myself on my hooves, pounding the seats in front of me, whistling like a maniac as all around me, the griffins threw feathers, betting scrips, and pieces of fabric. Swift picked up an especially pretty brown feather with a white tip and waved to the audience, before limping towards Ref to shake his hoof.
From the sidelines the medical hens dashed out to the Hammer, who was just then regaining consciousness. He seemed relatively alright, though he refused the stretcher, opting instead to stumble over to the wall and sink down against the door of the ring, wiping his forehead with the back of his claw as he watched Swift taking her bows. He smiled and shook his head.
“That’s it, ladies and gentlebeings! The Demon has done it again!” Ref shouted, holding Swift’s leg in the air center stage. “Collect your winnings outside!”
I felt a wing slide across my side, covering my body and pulling me in close to Sykes.
“Sykes, you and me have been friends for a long time, but—”
Tucking his beak against the side of my head, he whispered, “There be some unfriendly eyes tonoight. Ye want every griffin in here seein’ ye afore ye can get wee birdy?”
My cheeks heated up and I pulled my hat down over my face, hiding under the great downy blanket as the crowd began to file back into the bar. Mercy, if Taxi had been there I’d have had to kill myself.
Limerence was enjoying my discomfort as he studied one of the betting scrips. “Hmmm...the house take on this fight was considerable. I’ve got a bet here for three bottles of top shelf scotch at four to one odds against Miss Cuddles. I wonder if we might badger Mrs.Martini for a cut—”
“I just want to get out of here, Lim,” I growled. I’d lifted my hat a little and found Swift was no longer in the ring. “Where’d she go?”
“She be in th’ blood works, under the ring,” Sykes replied, nodding to a passing Hitlan. “We give a few minutes for all to clear, then Oi takes ye to ‘er.”
----
After a quarter hour, only a few small groups of chatting griffins remained in the fighting ring. None of them were paying attention to us, though I had no doubt more than a few of their friends in the bar were telling the tale of how the ‘High Justice’ had trotted right in through the front door.
I was starting to get jumpy when Mrs. Martini sidled up to us, a fresh bottle in hoof.
“Alright Sykes...You and your friends, on your bike. Hear me?” she said, gesturing across the arena towards door that said ‘Employees Only’. “Down those steps, get your little menace, and skat. You can go out the back.”
“Thank ye koindly, Mrs Martini,” he replied, rising from his seat and picking up her hoof, planting a gentlecoltly kiss on it.
Martini blushed in spite of herself and gave him a gentle swat on the side of the head with the bottle. “Shoo! Come back when you make some friends that ain’t such hot tickets.” Retreating to the door, she vanished through the curtain. I heard her say something muffled and the crowd in the bar responded with raucous laughter.
Sliding down from my chair, I stepped out from under Sykes’ wing and straightened my coat. “I’d appreciate if you never told Taxi that hiding me involved...cuddling up.”
“Me beak is sealed!” he replied, snickering.
With Sykes in the lead, Limerence and I worked our way around the outside of the arena to the entrance down into the Blood Works.