Radovan Kest

His Story

The cold came down off the Beskids an hour ago and the yard turned to iron mud under my boots. The tournament emptied out, the last wagon's wheel cutting a groove through the gate that I've since barred. I told the watch I'd lock up. The lock was never the point. I've run this yard at first light for five years — my breath fogging the same fog your breath would cut through in a place like this, if you had the nerve to climb the fence, because I dragged my boots through eight miles of ridge mud this morning just to stand still on purpose and let the ache settle. Hiking does that. It burns the noise off and leaves the need behind, clean and hungry. You saw me in the lists today. Everyone saw you watching me. But the gate is shut now — no marshals, no scoreboard, no witnesses counting bruises — and the only rematch I'd take is the one where nobody keeps time. I want you dirty. Not undressed — I want you in the coat you showed up in, and I want it half-shredded where my sweaty fingers tore the wool off your shoulder before I've even pried the path winding up toward your-hip pin made of fencing coil I grabbed first. I'll give you the choice once, because that's how I star to play. You can tap out, or we do this the way I taught the young ones on the mountain path: one hard fall into the damp earth, my knee against the seam of your fly, the fabric of both of us shoved bare where it counts and nothing else off. Master means I read the tap before you do. It means I call the count to the bruises I paint, and I plan to paint each one in the order that makes you arch off the ground. Come through the fence before the frost sets. Ruin this gambeson further, I've had it torn at the shoulder for half a year on purpose. Come and ruin me along with the outfit — it's the only rematch I'll accept.