Full-Blood Half-Breed Read Online Free PDF

wide-eyed, dirty, and ignorant.
    He disliked them instantly.
    The younger boy, perhaps ten, backed away, watching Fox the Runt with fear in his dark eyes. His brother was a few years older and too excited or too stupid to be afraid. His gap-toothed bumpkin’s grin was a dazzle of naked sincerity, charming to the point of endearment. It made Fox the Runt want to slap him.
    “
Perdón
, señores,” the older boy said. “It is our first time in Santuario del Guerrero. We have come for Torneo!”
    Urbano strode forth and wrapped an arm around Fox the Runt’s shoulder. He spoke to the boys with the same exaggerated affectations as the pitchmen outside the brothels and churches on Calle de la Iglesia. “If you have come to see the warriors of Torneo, then look no further,
campesino
. This is Fox the Ru—this is Señor Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead, the next Youngling Black Spear, and the greatest young fighter the Thirteen has ever known. For a copper I will allow you the honor of shaking his hand.”
    The boy looked at Fox the Runt dubiously, frowned, and then met his brother’s gaze. Both boys burst into laughter. “We may be farmers, señor, but we are not stupid.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” Fox the Runt demanded.
    “You are an
enano
,” the boy managed through his laughter, “a dwarf! You are no warrior!”
    Fox the Runt’s face heated with indignation. He was furious enough to strike the boy, but too mortified to bring any more attention to the galling spectacle. Urbano held no such reservations. He raised the back of his hand, hissing, “You filthy little dogs! How dare you insult my friend?”
    Before the blow could fall, a woman’s voice shouted, “Please, señores! Stop! Do not harm my
niños
!”
    There was some jostling amongst the crowd to make way for the crude old wagon pulled by a single, decrepit-looking burro. The young mother of the two boys sat in the front of the wagon clutching a mewling babe to her breast. Next to her sat a pock-faced man—the father of the boys, judging from the resemblance.
    “Por favor,”
she whined, “do not harm my niños. They mean no offense.”
    Her pock-faced husband calmed her by gently patting her shoulder. “All will be well, Jacinta. Let me speak with the young señores.”
    The foot traffic flowed around them like a forking river as Pock-Face, hat in hand, climbed down from the wagon and dipped his head respectfully to Urbano. “
Por favor
, señor, forgive my boys. They are young and intend no harm.”
    “I am not the one owed an apology,” Urbano lisped, “nor is it you who owe it.”
    Fox the Runt took little satisfaction in the servile apologies of Pock-Face and his boys. He would rather have forgotten the whole incident, but Urbano insisted the bumpkins make amends for their offense. When they had done groveling, he said, “Fine. Fine. You are forgiven. Now please, just let us be on our way.”
    The farmers climbed into their shambles of a wagon and rode toward the arena, the same direction as everyone else in Círculo del Triunfo. The farm boys peeked over the back of the wagon, grinning their crooked-toothed, bumpkin grins. Fox the Runt tried not to look at them. Instead, he allowed his gaze to take in the Phoenix-Rising Amphitheater, the legendary arena where he would, if the goddess were generous, win the Youngling Black Spear. At 150 feet tall, 615 feet long, and 500 feet wide, the elliptical amphitheater was the largest structure in the city, perhaps even the world. There was certainly nothing to rival its majesty in the Nordländer.
    He had only just begun to imagine the honors he would win within its stone and marble walls when his feet skidded through something slippery and he fell to his hands and knees. Urbano and Jorge collapsed into gales of laughter. Fox the Runt gaped at the sludgy, stinking mess on his pants and hands, unable to believe his eyes.
    “Shit,” he said, gritting his teeth.
    The filthy farmers had gotten the