“Is that really the best you’ve got?” The Hunter spat a wad of bloody phlegm and barked a laugh at the slope-shouldered man squared off in front of him. “I’ve felt gentle breezes that hit harder.”
Hernan’s broad shoulders hunched and his lips pulled back into a snarl. “Hijo de puta, I’ll show you hard.” His massive fist shot toward the Hunter’s face with impressive speed…for a human. The Hunter saw the blow coming and swayed aside to let Hernan’s strike connect only with empty air. He blocked the follow-up gut punch then struck out with an uppercut that cracked against the man’s black-bearded chin. When Hernan staggered, the Hunter planted his boot in the man’s chest and shoved him hard to send him sprawling on the wooden deck between the cells.
“Joder!” Elbagallo’s curse rang out loud in the close confines of the brig. The Hunter glanced over his shoulder to see the scar-covered brute stagger to his feet, shaking off the effects of his collision with the planks following the Hunter’s grappling throw. He spun, arm whipping around to strike at the side of Elbagallo’s neck.
But his blow never connected. From the corner of his eye, he saw the dark figure vaulting over the downed Hernan and diving at his waist. The Hunter was forced to pull his attack against Elbagallo and twist out of the way of the tackle that would have taken him off his feet and buried him beneath a mountain of muscle.
Comal was fast; he very nearly managed to change course at the last moment. But not quite. He plowed past the Hunter and crashed into Elbagallo. The two of them went down in a tangled heap of flailing limbs and growled curses.
“Hah!” The Hunter glanced first to his right at the downed Hernan, then at the flailing Comal and Elbagallo. “You’ll have to do a lot better than that if you want to—”
He ducked beneath the bucket he’d seen Hernan reaching for. It sailed past his head to crash against the deck beams, shattering and raining splinters down on Comal’s back.
“—land more than a lucky blow!” the Hunter finished, spinning toward the rising Hernan. The sailor was back on his feet, glaring daggers and rolling his shoulders.
The Hunter just grinned and beckoned for the man to bring on the attack. Hernan complied. But he didn’t charge as Comal had. He advanced slowly, light on the balls of his feet, balance steady. Fists raised and shoulders loose. His eyes took in the Hunter’s armored form and grinning face—both virtually untouched, save for the one punch Hernan had landed to draw blood from his already healing lip—and his expression darkened. Grew ugly, threatening. The look of a man who had killed before and was seriously considering doing it again had his orders not prevented it. But Captain de Gris had said nothing about not beating the tar out of La Travesía Eterna’s lone prisoner.
Hernan waded in with short, quick jabs. Speed over power, with a relentlessness made dangerous by his brawny size. The Hunter had faced his share of brawlers in the past—including Lord Apus, a bloody demon!—and within seconds, he knew Hernan was among one of the most skilled. Everything from the way he pivoted just right with each punch and kept himself fully in control while trying to work the Hunter’s face and body to soften up his defenses screamed of an experienced pugilist.
But the Hunter was far from out of his depth. Hernan’s speed was impressive, true, but he was merely human. Facing off against a Bucelarii. Alone, the sailor was no match at all.
The Hunter blocked, twisted, and evaded each punch with insulting ease, letting Hernan overextend or overexert himself. Or, alternatively, let his frustration over his lack of success lure him into committing too much power to his blows. His counterattacks dismantled Hernan’s defenses, knocked him off-balance, or struck some tender spot Hernan had to pull back to guard.
Still, Hernan demonstrated admirable restraint. He didn’t wade in with fists flying and teeth bared, but kept his head, his breathing even and timed to lend maximum power to his punches without sapping his strength. He couldn’t push the Hunter backward—the Hunter simply planted his feet and let his hands and reflexes do the work—but he refused to give ground, either. He kept the pressure on, never giving the Hunter more than a moment’s opening.
Suddenly, the sailor feinted a lunging low punch to push the Hunter back a half-step. When he did, he found himself seized by strong hands. Comal and Elbagallo had gotten to their feet with surprisingly little noise and now attempted to restrain him. That was all the opening Hernan needed to step forward into a powerful right-handed over-the-shoulder punch.
Unfortunately—for both Hernan and Comal—the Hunter had noted the way Hernan’s eyes flicked past his shoulder a heartbeat before his sudden change in tactics. The intention behind the strategy had been clear as day to a seasoned fighter like the Hunter. He’d allowed Hernan to push him back, let Elbagallo and Comal seize his arms. All so he could plant his feet and use Elbagallo as an anchor to hold him steady as he hauled hard on Comal. The sailor, caught off guard by the sudden surge of strength, stumbled forward. Right into the path of Hernan’s blow. Hernan couldn’t fully pull the attack in time. He roared in pain as his knuckles slammed into Comal’s skull, while Comal sagged, his grip on the Hunter’s arm loosening.
That was all the opening the Hunter needed to spin and reach his free arm up and around behind the man’s thick, scarred neck. His knee planted into Elbagallo’s gut, doubling the man over, and that was it. The Hunter had him in a grapple from which he could not escape. A quick wrench and Elbagallo’s neck would snap.
“Hah!” A hearty laugh burst from the Hunter’s lips. “I win. Again!”
“Para nada!” Hernan barked.
The Hunter didn’t understand the exact meaning of the Isletta words, but the refusal in Hernan’s tone was plain.
“Please!” He glanced over his shoulder at the sailor. “Tell me you didn’t almost break one of your fingers on his skull.” He nodded with his chin down at Comal, who was on his hands and knees, barely conscious.
Hernan scowled and clenched his right fist—though not without a visible wince. “Never let a small thing like that slow me—”
The Hunter snorted. “Brave, but bull shite.” He slapped Elbagallo’s bent-over back companionably. “He’s dead from a broken neck. Comal’s all but out of the fight. And you couldn’t take me with two hands, much less one. Call it, Hernan.”
After a long moment, the sailor rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he growled. “You. Win.” He looked as if the words tasted like fish left to rot on a dungheap.
“Damned right.” The Hunter grinned, released his grip on Elbagallo’s neck, and stepped back. “Though this time, one of you actually managed to land a blow.”
“What comfort.” Elbagallo’s growl dripped sarcasm.
The Hunter chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You drew blood. Better than can be said for most who’ve faced me over the years.”
