The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📗

a more than commercial interest in the famous—well, semi-famous—Ben of Purkinje as well. Ben was vaguely aware that he enjoyed an almost legendary reputation for strength, among people who were interested in keeping track of such things.

      The Sarge came to stand in front of Ben. This time he put his foot on the box. At length he remarked: “They say you’re a pretty good wrestler.”

      “Me? No. This Ben of Purkinje maybe is. I don’t bother with that kind of thing.”

      “Don’t bother with it?” Brod screwed his eyes almost shut in puzzlement.

      “No.” Ben shook his head. “What’s there to know about wrestling? It all comes down to who is stronger, and there I always have the edge. Nothing like blacksmithing to build the muscles. Lucky for you, you had six men to help you tie me up.”

      The redness of the Sarge’s face seemed to be deepening. “Lucky for me? What by all the gods’ elbows can you mean?”

      Ben shrugged.

      By now a couple of Brod’s followers were starting to take an interest. Obviously they were fascinated by the prospect of watching a wrestling match between these two titans.

      Afterward, Ben was never quite sure just how the first specific proposal had been made, or by whom.

      “Think you could take him, Sarge?”

      “Gwan! Sure, our Sarge could take ’im. Could take anyone!”

      “Wrestling on a boat?” Ben, glancing nervously at the surface of the river so perilously near at hand, displayed apprehension at the mere idea.

      Either Brod was supremely confident in his own strength and skill or he was shrewd enough to realize that his authority might be adversely affected if he failed to meet this adversary fairly. For whatever reason, he made no objection when someone started to untie the old rope with which Ben’s arms were bound.

      Someone else suggested they tie a rope around Ben before the bout, so they could pull back their valuable prisoner in case he tried to swim away. Ben for a moment considered seconding the request for such a safety measure, confident that it would be denied. And sure enough the scheme was hooted down. No one could wrestle with a rope tied round them, could they?

      The rocky hills ahead were somewhat closer now, and the river was gradually becoming swifter and rougher here, with traces of white water ahead. Just a few such traces, along both banks, which were growing steeper, so that the passage between increasingly rocky shores, Ben thought, might at some point require careful steering. Better steering than even skilled boatmen could manage with these sweeps.

      The ropes were off.

      Brod was considerably younger than Ben. Ben, sizing his opponent up, was struck for the first time by the fact that this fellow was young enough to be his son.

      But he couldn’t really be … could he?

      Ben found that an ugly suggestion, but not one that was going to cause him a whole lot of worry. Besides bulk and apparent strength, there was very little resemblance.

      Ben moved out to the middle of the crude plank deck, rubbing his arms, stamping his feet to get the circulation going. Actually the blood was flowing pretty well already, but he wanted another chance to look around, getting a good view now of the stern of the boat, which had been behind him when he was tied.

      Brod, doing his own muscle-flexing, was grinning at him. “You were really a good wrestler once, hey pop?”

      “Did a lot better after I got my full growth.” Ben considered. “You probably will, too.”

      There was really no problem about room. A central space was quickly cleared of a litter of odd personal possessions and miscellaneous garbage. Basically the arena was a deck of rough planks, covering the central two-thirds of the craft. The crew grinning and making almost-secret wagers—no one wanted to offend the chief by betting openly against him—arranged themselves around the rectangle, while with a minimum of preparation the two contestants moved to diagonally opposite corners of the space.

      There rose a minor chorus of cheers, incoherent enough that Ben could not tell who they were meant to encourage.

      The two contestants began circling, stalking each other.

      Ben noted from the corners of his eyes that two of the gang who were currently supposed to be on watch, manning a couple of the large sweep oars, had abandoned their duties, preferring to keep an eye on the contest. The drifting raft was turning this way and that.

      Brod growled, shuffled his feet and flexed his muscles. Both feet and muscles were really enormous.

      Ben stood in one place, swaying slightly with the motion of the planks underfoot, doing his best to appear hesitant and uncertain, yet gamely determined. This was a clumsy blacksmith, wondering what to do. He looked wide-eyed, innocent in an ugly sort of way.

      Brod, quicker than he looked, lunged at him. The two men grappled, grunting and straining, coming to no immediate conclusion, each testing the other’s strength and skill. The watchers yelled incoherently. Ben felt sure that some of them at least were cheering for him. Not that he gave a damn.

      Ben and Brod broke apart, each backing up a step or two.

      “Don’t know no wrestling, huh?” The Sarge shook his pigtails in what might have been admiration. Ben’s fingers had left red and white imprints on his hairy arms.

      Ben seemed to be wondering what all the excitement was about. “Anybody can do this.”

      The Sarge’s face stiffened. He charged again. At the impact, a cheer went up from the onlookers; Ben, bracing his booted feet, took the charge without being driven back.

      “Don’t like the water, huh? ’Spect me to believe that?” Brod gasped between exertions.

      Ben said nothing, saving his breath. He had the feeling he was going to need as much of it as he could get; the Sarge was just about as strong as he looked.

      After the pair of them had made the round of the little arena a couple of times, struggling from fore to aft and port to starboard, Ben nodded to himself. He thought he now had his opponent pretty well