Rend Stripclaw's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

The next morning, the line outside Rend's ring stretched past the tailor's shop. Word had spread fast. Rend had beaten every local challenger. Now the whole island wanted a turn. Prowlers pushed at the ropes, waving old shirts they wanted back. Rend stood in the center and looked at the mob. He could not fight them one by one. Not this many. Not before the crowd lost patience and tore his ring apart. "Too many," Patch said. The elelion swept his trunk toward the pressing bodies. "You strip one, five more shove in. You'll drop before the board fills." His friend's ears flattened. Patch wore no clothes to lose, but he still looked worried for Rend. Marcus Strongpaw shouldered through the ropes. The bear had lost his jersey to Rend once, and it still hung near the top of the board. Now he wore a fresh one, number nine bright on his chest. He did not look at the crowd. He looked at Rend. "They want you tired," Marcus said. "They'll take turns till you can't lift your arms. Then someone strips you clean." He cracked his knuckles. "I want that someone to be me. Not them." Rend understood. His plan came fast. He climbed onto a bench and raised his hands. "One match," he called. "Winner takes my spot. Winner faces me." He pointed at the mob. "Fight each other first. I strip the last one standing." The crowd roared and turned inward. Prowlers grabbed shirts and grappled. The mob became a brawl. Rend stepped back and watched them thin themselves out. Marcus grinned and waded in, throwing bodies aside. Shirts flew. Shorts tore. The bench filled with stripped cloth. One fighter remained. Marcus stood over a pile of beaten challengers, chest heaving, jersey ripped at the shoulder. He turned to Rend. "Now me," he said. Rend met him at the center. They locked arms. Marcus was stronger, but the brawl had drained him. Rend twisted, hooked the torn jersey, and ripped it free. Marcus tried to grab back. Rend spun him, stripped the shorts, and dropped both trophies on the board's new rail. The board slid out another notch. Marcus stood bare in the dirt. He did not vow revenge this time. He breathed hard and nodded. "Better," he said. "You're smarter than last time." The mob fell quiet. Rend had not fought a hundred prowlers. He had made them fight each other and taken the winner. His board held Marcus's second trophy now, hung beside the first. But a shape moved at the back of the crowd. A gray wolf, the one who beat Rend long ago. He held a torn scrap of cloth to his mouth and chewed it slow. He swallowed. Then he stepped forward and pointed at the trophy board. "Cloth doesn't count," the wolf said, "if there's none left to hang."