When Brann felt like he could lift the sword no more, he made to stop.
‘Yes, you may stop with the post. But now you swing at nothing.’
‘At nothing? Why would I want to practise missing?’
‘Because you need to practise coping with missing. That is when you are at your most vulnerable. Off balance and out of shape. And it happens most when you are tired and least able to deal with it. Like you are now, and will be more before we finish. So swing right hard, stop it as quickly as you can, and swing back as soon as you can. Then right again.’
It wasn’t long before his arm started to seize up and forced a halt.
‘Not bad for a start.’ Salus lifted the water to Brann’s lips and he sucked it in greedily, feeling as if he could drink for ever. ‘Steady now.’ Disappointment surged as it was pulled away, scattering drops down his front. ‘Enough to keep you going, but too much and it’ll be coming back up before you know it. Now back to the shield work.’
A hard lump of earth exploded against the back of his head, his shocked flinch bending him over.‘Splendid! Our helpers have saved us the trouble of walking back over there.’
And so it continued, relentlessly. And worse each time. More clods flew, and in faster succession. He was urged to hit the post increasingly, not harder and quicker but longer and more. When he was striking at nothing, Salus would pick up a thick rod and poke him in the chest between swings, hard enough to cause pain even through the thick padding of the tunic. He started trying to bring up his shield following each missed swing, but only succeeded in hitting himself on the forehead. And the rod still poked him. Still, it seemed a decent move to attempt, and the rod would come at him whether he tried it or not, so he felt it was worth persevering with it.
And then back to the shield work. And again. And again.
While stopping for water, Brann stopped in mid-swallow. ‘I had forgotten about the heat.’ He was astonished at the realisation.
Salus clapped him on the back. ‘You see. Your first achievement! Now the post. Left then right then left.’
There was movement behind him. He whirled, crouching behind his shield.
‘Very good,’ said Cassian. He stepped forward and, with a finger, lifted the tip of the wooden sword so that it was held in readiness beside the protection of the shield. ‘Like a snake, ready to strike.’ He noticed Brann’s puzzled look. ‘Like an arrow drawn and ready to fly. No use fending off a blow if you are not able to exploit any opportunity, should it present itself.’
His eyes squinted slightly and he cocked his head. Twisting the strap on Brann’s right wrist, he turned the hilt a fraction in the boy’s grip. ‘This way, yes? Now you will swing more easily. Now, drop your sword then turn to face Salus.’
Brann whirled, and stood poised, shield and sword ready. Cassian adjusted his elbow and stepped back. ‘Good feet, good balance. Deliberate but almost right. And lead with your eyes. Dizziness is not a benefit when someone seeks to kill you. And you will see more, sooner. Now to me.’
He faced the old soldier again, who moved to correct his sword arm, then stopped with a shake of his head. ‘No, it’s fine. Now thirty more times doing it right. If you get it wrong, you start again.’
Brann got it right. By ten, the position didn’t feel so awkward. By thirty, his arms were following the pattern themselves.
‘Good boy.’ Cassian looked delighted.
Brann looked at him. ‘When do I start practising with an opponent?’
The man leant on a plain staff, for all the world like the shaft of a spear without the head. ‘Did you not listen earlier? You cannot learn to fight in one day. Your brain would not accept it. We must train your muscles. You are not used to the movement of a shield or sword, but your muscles learn and remember on their own. They do not need the brain to work out what is best and waste time telling them. If they do it often enough, they do it themselves. So we are teaching your arms to remember. If you come back tomorrow, we can start to teach your head.’ His hand patted Brann’s head then, almost absently, ruffled his hair. ‘Listen to Salus. He is a good man, and has won many fights, inside and out of the Arena. You will most probably die tomorrow, but his words will reduce that possibility a little each time you hear them. Now, the post. Left then right then left. And always with the shield ready to protect.’
He nodded at Salus and ambled away, smiling benignly at the gladiators he passed. No matter their activity, they stopped as he passed and greeted him with their right hands on their chests.
Salus’s face dropped into a glare of an intensity that tightened Brann’s chest. ‘You see the respect and the affection that man brings from those gladiators? That comes from his achievements and his knowledge, yes. But it also comes from his simple acceptance of everyone who comes here to live, and his passion to protect them by improving them as fighters in every way he can. Already he does that for you, so if you want any chance at all to live tomorrow, you will listen and remember every word he says, and waste no time questioning him.’
Brann nodded through his embarrassment.
Salus’s smile returned like the sun emerging from a cloud. ‘Good. Now, face that post and show me you heard the man.’
By the time Brann turned from the post to take the next clod on his shield, the old man was gone. But the fatigue had eased just enough to see him through to dusk.
Before he allowed him to eat, Salus took him into the main house, leading him through to the room with the pools where he had met Cassian. Brann wondered if the master of the school ever met anyone in his house with clothes on, but found the room empty, little light entering by the windows but lamplight glowing on the still surface of the water.
He turned to Salus. ‘Where is he?’
The big shoulders shrugged. ‘No idea. Now let Marlo take off your clothes.’
‘What?’
But before he could object, the padded tunic was unlaced at the shoulders and fell to his ankles under its considerable weight. Brann felt as it he was rising off the ground.
‘Oh, that feels so good.’ A flash of a blade saw Marlo expertly slice his clothes until they, too, lay on the floor. Brann dropped his shield to cover himself. ‘Oh, that’s just great. Now what will I wear tomorrow?’
Salus looked puzzled. ‘You think we have no clothing to give you? What you had was nice for visiting the Emperor, but not so suitable for the Arena. And if you are to live or die as a man of Cassian, you must be seen as one.’ He patted the symbol on his own tunic. ‘Now, into the first bath.’
‘The what?’
‘Bath. The pool of water nearest you.’
Brann tilted the sword and shield pointedly. ‘With these?’
‘Why not? They are wood. They will not rust.’
The water was warm and, he had to admit, extremely pleasant. He started to relax, the wooden weapons lying on the surface until, to his shock, Marlo stripped as well and slipped in. He recoiled in horror, but the boy just grinned.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Northerner. You have two things missing from your chest and something extra between your legs. Not my type. My duties only extend so far.’
He rubbed a block of soap on Brann and eased the lather through his hair, then scrubbed at him with a hard-bristled brush.
‘Good,’ Salus nodded in approval when he was clean. ‘Now for your muscles. Into the second bath.’
He gasped with the heat of the water as he sank into the middle pool. Sitting neck-deep, he felt his arms and legs grow weak and his head light.
Salus stood over him. ‘Thirty breaths in this bath, then thirty in the next. Six times in each.’
Brann rose and emerged from the water, deep pink on all but his head. He stepped into the third pool but snatched his foot back with a yelp. ‘You are not serious! That’s like ice!’
Salus shoved him between the shoulders and he was launched headlong into the water, the sudden cold constricting his chest and tensing every part of his body. As he surfaced,
spluttering, the man said amiably, ‘Better to endure shock for one second than to drag it over many. Thirty breaths, then back in the hot.’
‘I’ll have to start breathing again before I can count them,’ Brann gasped.
Marlo patted him dry with a thick towel at the end.
‘If that was meant to make me feel better, it was a waste of time,’ Brann grumbled. ‘I feel as weak as ever.’
‘You are tired because you have worked; water cannot fix that. It is unfortunate, and you would have benefited from a rest day today, but you will be better tomorrow tired with muscles that know how to move than fresh and flailing.’
‘So how does this help then?’
‘This, curious one, is to let you move tomorrow. Were you merely to sleep now, you would wake with limbs stiffened to immobility. The hot lets your blood flow, the cold tightens your muscles in. One then the other flushes the blood through the muscles, like bellows sucking in air then shooting it out, taking with it all that should not be there. Your muscles will be clean and ready for tomorrow.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Now, clothing, food and sleep.’
As soon as he woke, he could feel the wisdom in Salus’s words. He started a stretch, and was immediately reminded of the heavy wood attached to his wrists.
He had slept soundly. Even the prospect of what lay ahead when he woke and the awkwardness of having a wooden sword and shield strapped to him hadn’t managed to stop him from sinking into deep slumber as soon as he had laid back. That was the benefit of exhausting himself. He had no exhaustion now to overwhelm his thoughts. His breathing quickened and his stomach clenched. Today was when it happened. Today, he could push away the prospect into the future no longer.
He had been wakened by the sound of the men in the cots around him waking and rising, and he grew jealous of the ordinariness of their actions. He ached with a yearning for mundane daily life and felt tears of despair fill his eyes. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and blinked in time to see two familiar figures approaching, wiping the back of his right forearm across his eyes before anyone could notice the moisture, and cursing silently the stupid blunt weapons he was forced to grip.
‘Excellent, you are eager for the day,’ Salus boomed. Brann didn’t feel it was worth disagreeing with the assessment, though it could not have been further from the truth. His guts were trying to force themselves up through his throat and he lurched slightly.
If Salus noticed, he chose not to acknowledge it. ‘Marlo, if you could be so good as to help our young friend dress?’
An under-tunic, open almost from armpit to waist, allowed him to dress without removing the shield, and the weight-laden padded tunic was laced onto him once more. Numbly, he followed Salus to the rope-wound post, stopping only to eat briefly the same food as had been his lunch the previous day, turning away from those around him to mask the sight of Marlo feeding him like a baby.
The movements against the post were fluid, much to his surprise and Salus’s delight. When he swung at fresh air, it seemed easier to drag the sword back than it had been just the evening before. Right, then left, than right again. As he started to bring the heavy wood back again, Salus flashed the rod forward. He flicked up the shield, knocking the rod skywards, then crashed the sword into it on the swing that followed. He wasn’t sure who of the pair of them was more astonished.
Salus waved away the clod-throwers who were about to start launching their missiles. ‘Thank you, but if he can do that with his shield, not necessary.’ He turned to Brann. ‘What made you think of that?’
Brann managed a small smile. ‘I thought of it yesterday, but my arm wouldn’t do it. To be honest, I had forgotten it again until my arms did it.’
‘Today is a good day to start doing it.’ Cassian’s voice behind him made him jump. There was a woman with him this time, tall and willowy, dark of skin and eyes and with hair that was a mass of thick tendrils, halfway between black and white. ‘Thank you, good Salus. Your work has been well done. The results have exceeded expectations.’
Salus nodded his head. ‘You are kind, boss, but the boy did it. I hope there is a chance I will see him again today.’
Brann felt his eyes filling up again. He suddenly felt very young. Too young to be facing this. But Salus could not have done more to help him. He turned to the large man. ‘I, er, I…’
Salus grinned. ‘I know. You love me, of course you do. Now come back and make me my dinner tonight.’ Before Brann could answer, he was walking away.
The woman cut in, turning the boy by the shoulders and looking him over. ‘Strong for his size. You have rowed?’ Her voice was cool and measured. Brann nodded. ‘That helps. Let us visit the pig.’
Brann wondered who warranted this name, but was almost disappointed to find it a literal description. He was taken to a side room in the building where he had eaten and found the carcass of a pig hanging from the ceiling.
Cassian nodded to Marlo. ‘Relieve our young friend of his practice weapons.’
Considering the ease with which the boy’s knife sliced through the leather straps, the knots having been tightened beyond unpicking by the bathwater the night before and the movement before and after, Brann was relieved that his speed of use was matched by a surety of movement. The wooden weapons fell to the ground and Brann looked at his hands in surprise as they rose towards the ceiling of their own accord, as if he were a puppet operated by an invisible giant.
Marlo laughed. ‘Fear not, they will settle in a moment. But wait till you feel this real sword.’
A broadsword of simple but functional quality was tucked under his arm, and he offered it to Brann.
‘Take it, and strike the pig,’ Cassian prompted.
He grasped the hilt and swung. His eyes widened as the blade, feeling as light as a switch and just as manoeuvrable, slammed into the side of the carcass, biting deep into the flesh.
‘Now you see the value of the heavy wood, but also the problem,’ the old soldier said.
‘The problem? What problem could there be in swinging a sword like that?’
‘Pull it out.’
Brann dragged it back the way it had swung, but it stuck hard and tried to pull the full weight of the pig with it. He wrenched it straight towards him and, eventually, as he grunted in triumph, it squelched free.
‘Now stab it.’
He thrust, the blade sinking deep. Again, when he tried to pull it free, the flesh sucked it close. He rolled his hand right and left as he hauled it and the pink meat reluctantly released its grip on the blade.
‘You see?’ Cassian’s look was earnest. ‘This is most important. Were this a man, not a pig, while you were fighting the grip of the body, all of your right side would be inviting him to hit you as many times as he liked. I have seen men killed after striking a killing blow. Not every fatal strike kills instantly, and a dying man will fixate on taking you with him as his last furious act.’ He took the sword. ‘Strike shallow and fast, like this.’ His blades flashed in and out, stabbing twice on the front of the pig. ‘And this.’ Surprisingly quick on his feet, he moved in and swung fast at the side of the carcass. The blade bit, he twisted his wrist and withdrew, and he was back at Brann’s side in an instant. ‘As you started to do, twisting releases it quicker. And causes more damage, which is helpful. Remember that blood vessels, ligaments, sinews and muscles are often near the surface, so damage is caused as soon as you strike. There is seldom a need to go deep.’
He picked up the practice shield. ‘Don’t forget, either, that you have two weapons. This has a face that can smash,’ he slammed it straight into the pig, ‘like so. With the shoulder and the hips. Drive from your legs.’ He angled it and swung it sideways into the solid meat. ‘And an edge that can bite. This is a fight where he will die or you will; there is no other outcome. You must fight any way that presents itself.’ He handed over the weapons. ‘Now you try, over and over.’
Cassian stopped him, however,
as soon as he was satisfied the technique was right. ‘Good. Now we are done. Let us eat. Lightly, in your case.’
They stepped from the doorway, the light bright. ‘Cassian, sir,’ Brann said. The broad frame turned. ‘How did you learn…?’
A roar burst from Brann’s right. Steel flashed on high.
He pivoted, dropped into a crouch and brought up his shield, blocking a blow that jarred his arm to the shoulder. In the same movement, his sword thrust forward. The wooden practice sword swung down and Cassian knocked Brann’s blade aside before it reached his attacker. He looked up to see Salus’s grinning face.
‘Not bad, though your opponent will not hold back as Salus did.’
Brann flexed his shoulder. ‘He held back?’
Cassian ignored the comment, and patted him on the back encouragingly. ‘You will not die overly easily. Now, you were asking?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Brann cast around for other attacks as he spoke. ‘How did you learn all that? The things you showed me in there. Was it in the army?’
‘I learnt to swing a sword in the army. I learnt to fight on the battlefield. I learnt to survive from opponents and comrades who didn’t.’
‘And the stuff about sinews and tendons and blood… things?’
‘From my wife.’
Deep in the corridors of the Arena, the noise from the crowd above was muted but was all the more terrifying for it. When it loitered on the edge of your hearing, it caught your attention all the stronger. And reminded you what was coming.
Brann had spent the journey to the massive stone-built amphitheatre in a daze, carried with three other fighters in a small covered wagon pulled by a single horse. Grakk was presumably in another, similar one. His throat wouldn’t let his voice emerge, but one of the men had noticed him looking at the canvas cover.
‘It’s for the way back. We might not present such a savoury sight on that journey.’
The way back. That seemed like a fantasy. He felt like he was going to his execution. He felt that he was going to his execution. Back at the compound, he had been occupied by work and distracted by novelty. The Arena had seemed a world away. Now it was close; now there was no way back. His head closed in, as if a vice for his brain. His guts were like a snake wriggling in his belly. His eyes stared blankly. Why was this happening? After everything, why? He hadn’t asked for any of this. He was only a boy, learning a miller’s trade. And, somehow, it was going to end like this. In a land where everything was strange and unreal, not least that he would die at the hands of a man he had never met. For sport.
Hero Grown Page 7