Chapter 2
Sam slipped the cloak off and removed the mask. At just over fifty he looked like someone had draped a battered, rough 'Sam' shaped leather suit over younger, more muscular body. His opponent was a former Klatchian Foreign Legion sergeant whom made a better living pounding on weaker men than himself. Vimes had dealt with these sort of men all his life, but tonight he was going to have to make a show of it.
The plan had been in motion for months now. Vimes had appeared in random bars around Ankh-Morpork, looking drunk and itching for a fight. Soon, he was approached by some seedy fight promoter, who for immunity from the long arm of the law, could arrange for Vimes to earn a bit of extra booze money in the pits. He scrapped with dockers, iron workers, hard men, wannabes and even seasoned prize fighters, and each time he made short work of them. Soon he was pulling in huge crowds, and huge crowds means big money, and big money means the scum floats to the surface. He would stagger in and slur with expertise but nobody noticed the bottle of Bearhuggers he carried to the pit was actually filled with water.
Now he had all the scum in one pond. Every nob, soft-jaw, silver-spooner, greasy socalite and gold digger involved was sat in the private areas nearest the arena. Vetinari was, as protocol demanded, there to ensure that the toffs were afforded a 'socially acceptable' arrest. They didn't know this, though. Members of the watch were carefully disguised as ushers, vendors, and spectators. (In this case, Nobby Nobbs had to scrub up to look 'poor').
He watched as Achmed limbered up. He had learned over the years that to beat a man, you must know him, and a person's eyes were like a manual. Vimes figured this man had seen 'real' war, where the heroes are the lucky, clever or cowardly. He'd seen his mates come back in buckets, or they'd gone mad and now sat in hospital under heavy sedation during thunder storms. This evil bastard had loved it though. The blood, the violence and death had liberated his mind of its sanity. His attacks would be swift and brutal, no fancy kung flu, each blow was designed to end a man. Sam glimpsed a faint web of scarring on Antchovi's right arm, Igor handy work and weak bones.
'Time, gentlemen!' Lars shouted. 'Now remember the rules! Give them a nice, dirty fight and come out swinging. Achmed, you ready?'
The Klatchian grunted, then spat on the saw dust covered floor.
'You ready, copper?' Lars leaned a little closer to Vimes and whispered. 'A lot of folks here don't want you walking out of here, be a sport and don't dis...' There was a sickening crunch as Sam Vimes head butted Lars square on the nose. He looked at Antchovi and grinned menacingly.
'Git talked too much. Shall we?'
Lars crawled to the edge of the pit, where he as pulled over by his cronies
The big man walked forward, raising his bandaged fists to cover his temples.
'I'll take that as a yes then?' Vimes said, doing likewise.
It started with a dance, like two cockrels, circling each other looking for the opening, which Vimes helpfully gave his opponent. He dropped his guard enough for Achmed to slip a blinding jab in, causing Vimes to stagger back and stumble to his knees.
Vimes saw blood dripping into the sawdust. 'Good!' he thought. 'Let's see if the shark takes the bait'.
'This is de infamous Sammy Vimes, commander of the city watch?' Achmed mocked, still pacing around the pit. 'A puny, old man who takes a baby punch? No... I think you try to trick Achmed! You who are called devious bastard in any tongues!' He punctuated the sentence by kicking sawdust at Vimes.
Nobby, who had skulked his way to the pit side and hissed to Vimes. 'C'mon sir! Hit the bugger! Oh...' His voice lowered further. '… bout 'nother five mins for the wagons!' A large stone hand clamped down on Nobby's shoulder.
'Riff-raff at da back, you 'orrid vermin!'
Some of the toffs grinned and sneered as the 'peasant' was accosted.
'Oi! Gerroff me you garden ornament!' Nobby howled in protest, making a scene. He winked at his boss before being troll handled back to the cheap seats.
Vimes clambered back to his feet, wiped the blood from the cut above his right eye.
'You got me, Achmed! You're clever, for a sand dancer!' Vimes grinned.
The world seemed to slow down for Vimes as his brain registered the muscles in the Klatchian's right shoulder twitch, but instead of moving left he bobbed right. The lightning fast left hook of Achmed sailed through thin air, and Vimes answered with a dazzling right cross. He felt teeth crack and shift under his covered knuckles and a wet pop as the jaw gave out.
'A sandpeddler with a glass jaw? Well, bugger me!' Vimes excaimed smiling, although his eyes said different.
Achmed swayed like a reed in the wind, but Vimes still had to play for a bit of time.
Sam closed in again, his guard down, hoping the brute would try another swing, but man's eyes were glazed over, he was out on his feet. Vimes danced a jig in front of Antchovi, who simply stood with hs eyes trying to see each other.
'Come on! Fight you bast...' Now Vimes' head exploded in pain and the world faded in and out of his mind. He had fallen for his own trick, and Achmed stood looking demented. He snapped his own jaw back into it's socket tested it gingerly with small movements and then laughed.
'You are old, Vimes. I am bull and you are my cow to do with as I please!And what do bulls do to cows, old man?'
Vimes answered with a flurry of punches each aimed at vital organs, but his vision was clouded by black and red blotches and a swollen eye. Achmed swatted the wild punches away with ease, his fingers jabbed at Vimes' throat, causing the copper to choke breifly. Worried eyes watched for the sides as the mighty Sam Vimes was having his ass handed to him. Even Vetinari leaned forward in his plush seat, his expression grave.
Vimes' mind raced as he realised he was a sitting duck, and staggered blindly around, only to feel another explosion of pain in his lower back as Achmed caught him with a vicious kidney punch. Then he felt a warm, fetid breeze across his neck, his mind for a split second was crystal clear. The bastard was behind him, and he was loading up for another shot. Every instinct told Vimes to move, but he forced himself to stand for an extra moment until he heard a grunt.
Sam exploded into a twisting drop spin, prayng he would hit something, and he did.
The room went as silent as a crypt, except for a high pitche moan, and through blurred vision, Vimes made out the rough picture of his knuckles buried deep in Achmed's crotch, but now the rage of pain had taken Vimes over, and from his crouched position, launched himself upwards, at the last second whipping his hand out in a collosal uppercut, Vimes felt fragments of shattered teeth shower him, along with blood and with a soft splat, what he later found to be the Klatchian's tongue.
The giant fell with a sound like heavy doors being forced by something bigger and heavier, and in his pain and blood induced blindness it was only the waft of fresh air (or as fresh as you can get in Ankh-Morpork this close to the docks) that informed him of the arrival of the 'Heavy Division'. Detritus, Blue John and Dorlf lumbered into the room, Detritus a massive troll, was dwarfed by Blue John, an even bigger one, with Dorlf, the golem, as a braintrust for the two.
'Right... First to move gets swatted!' Rumbled Blue, casually bending the iron girders above him out of the way to make room. 'You is all arrested!'
