Fire Country

“Tell me,” I push.

“Look, Dazz…” Buff lowers his voice, a deep rumble that only I can hear. “…the thing about women is, when you want ’em they’re scarcer than a ray of sunshine in ice country, and when you don’t, they’re on you like a double-wide fleece blanket.” Now I’m the one looking at my unfinished drink, because, for once, one of Buff’s snowballs of wisdom is spot on. I thought I wanted the witch—because of her looks—but as soon as I got to know her I wanted to toss her out with the mud on my boots.

Using my knuckles, I knock myself in the head three times, exactly like I rapped on the witch’s door this morning before it all went down. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, I mentally command myself. “What are they saying?” I ask, repeating myself. Having not listened to my own internal advice, I feel like knocking my skull against the heavy, wooden bar a few dozen more times, but I manage to restrain myself as I wait for Buff’s response.

“Well…some of them are saying good sticks for you, she got what she deserved, Brown District pride and all that bullshiver. You know the shiv I mean, right?”

All too well. I nod. “And the others?”

Buff chews on his lip, as if deciding how to break something to me lightly.

“Give it to me straight,” I say.

He sighs. “You know tomorrow they’ll move onto the next freezin’ bit of juicy gossip, right?”

“Buff,” I say, a warning in my voice. I know what’s coming, so I tilt my ti

“If I tell you, promise me you won’t start anything—I’m not in the mood.”

Looking directly into his black pupils, I say, “I promise.”

He rolls his eyes, knowing full well I just lied to him. Then he tells me anyway. “Coker’s been saying the witch was too good for you, that she shoulda dumped your mountain-fearin’ arse a long time ag—”

I’m on my feet and breaking my false promise before Buff can even finish telling me. My stool clatters to the floor behind me, but I barely notice it. I get a bead on Coker, who’s between two of his stone cutting mates, laughing about something. Regardless of what it is, and even though they’ve probably moved on from discussing me and the witch already, I pretend it’s about me. About how I’m not good enough for someone in the White District. About how I’m lazy and good for nothing.

My fists clench and my jaw hardens as heat rises in my chest. Always aware of what’s happening in his pub, Yo says, “Now, Dazz, don’t start nuthin’, remember the last time…”

“Dazz, hold up,” Buff says, his feet scuffling along behind me.

I ignore them both.

When I reach Coker he’s already half-turned around, as if sensing me coming. I spin him the rest of the way and slam my fist right between his eyes. A two for one special, like down at the market. Two black eyes for the price of one. His head snaps back and thuds gruesomely off the bar, but, like any stone cutter, he’s tougher than dried goat meat, and rebounds with a heay punch of his own, which glances off my shoulder, sending shivers through my arm.

And his friends aren’t go

I shake my head and furiously try to blink away the dark cloud obscuring my sight, feeling a dull ache spreading through the whole of my backside. When my vision returns, the first thing I see is Buff hammering rapid-fire rabbit punches into one of the stone cutter’s, sending him sprawling. The area’s clearing out, with patrons scampering for the door, which is a good thing, because Coker gets ahold of Buff and throws him into another table, which topples over and skids into the wall.

Me and Buff spring to our feet simultaneously, cocking out fists side by side like we’ve done so many times growing up in the rugged Brown District. Buff takes Coker’s friend and I take Coker. We circle each other a few times and then all chill breaks loose, as the fists start flying. After taking a hit in the ribs, I land a solid blow to Coker’s jaw that has him reeling back, off balance and stu

I whirl around to find Buff in a similar position, standing over his guy and shaking his hand like he’s just punched a wall. The guy he was fighting was so thick it probably was like hitting a wall. We stand over our fallen foes, gri

Yo’s glaring at us, one hand on his hip and the other holding an empty pitcher. I shrug just as his eyes flick to the side, looking past us. The last thing I hear is a well-muffled scuffle.

Everything goes black for good when the wooden stool slams into the back of my head.

Ice Country by David Estes, coming April 5, 2013!