A shout from Salus split them into four groups. ‘Light sparring,’ he shouted, throwing a selection of wooden swords and shields beside each group. ‘Winner stays on.’ Four circles were marked out by ropes and the groups gathered at each one.
The first two bouts in Brann’s group were won by a short, stocky man with a curiously effective style. He had selected two swords and held both vertically in front of him. From the first instant he would march forward relentlessly, always presenting his front that snapped out thrusts and, with a flick of his powerful wrists, parried any attack.
Salus’s rod tapped Brann from behind. ‘You next.’
He picked up a sword and shield. After all, they had served him well in the Arena, and he had worked out his opponent’s weakness. The man was effective in a straight line only. All he had to do was attack from the side and it would be over.
The man’s advance was faster than it had looked when Brann was spectating. He caught the first two blows on his shield and scampered back to compose himself. As the man advanced after him, he was ready. He would feint an attack from his right and slip left, leaving it simple to cut back handed at the man’s unprotected left side.
He lifted his sword to his right and swooped left. From the first moment, it felt awkward. The man’s right sword knocked his weapon downwards, useless, and his other smacked Brann on the back of the head. It could only have been more humiliating had he slapped him on the rump.
‘Too quick,’ Salus snapped. ‘Go again.’
Brann was annoyed at his clumsy execution of his plan, but was still convinced of its worth. He would learn from his mistake. Quicker, and more clever. He would distract the man better before he made his move. His opponent was already advancing and he raised his shield into the first thrust and hacked three times quickly at the man’s left sword. He spun to his right, all the way round to take himself to left of where he was and emerging with a swing of his sword at the man’s right side. The right sword flicked his harmlessly into the air and, as his face completed the turn, it met the flat of the left sword.
Expressionlessly, the man returned to his starting position as Brann wiped his hand across his face to clear the blood emerging from his nose. Salus handed him a rag and turned to the trainer assigned to their group, a slender giant whose skin was the colour of his hair and as white as that of a two-day-dead body and whose pink eyes blinked as much as those of a dead man. ‘He will learn nothing from such short bouts, will he, Corpse. Give him one bout out to regain his few senses and put him back in.’ He wandered off to the next group.
Mongoose took his place and showed him what he was trying to do. She bore a light sword and a curious shield, as round as his had been but smaller and held by a hand alone rather than a forearm. She used her light weapons to her advantage, though, darting and swaying back and forth with a speed and agility that drew out the swords of the burly man in vain attempts to catch her as she moved. She waited for her moment, then dipped and slid, appearing at the man’s side and flicking the point of her sword to touch his ribs. The man lifted both hands in submission and wordlessly walked out of the circle.
Brann walked back in, more confident this time. He wasn’t as predictable as the burly man, and he was sure he had the advantage in strength. If he rushed her he could overpower her.
It was over quicker than the first two. As Mongoose darted forward, he slammed his heavy shield into her attack. She bounced back and, as he raised his sword to shoulder height and thrust forward hard, all his bruised pride powering the blow that would knock aside her small shield and finish the fight, she twisted and brought her sword up to meet his. With a flick of her wrist at the moment of impact, his sword flew from his hand. Before it had stopped spiralling high in the air, her sword was at his throat.
‘Next,’ the impossibly deep voice of Corpse intoned.
Miserable, he trudged from the circle. He couldn’t resist looking up at Cassian and Tyrala. As expected, both were looking at him as they conferred. Cassian beckoned Salus to them, and the three of them spoke briefly before Tyrala pointed at Brann then waved at another group. She handed Salus a strip of fabric and, whatever instruction accompanied it, it was enough to cause surprise in Salus that was quickly replaced by a respectful nod.
He loped down the steep incline and brought a fighter from another group to Brann’s. Taking the boy by the arm, he led him to replace the man at the other circle. The next combatant there was not yet chosen and, before he was, Brann was blindfolded. Feeling as vulnerable as if he had been disarmed and bound, he listened to the clashing, thumping and grunting of the next bout, trying to learn from the noises but finding it impossible. The sounds stopped and a hand between his shoulder-blades propelled him forwards. Vulnerability turned to panic and he brought up his shield and swung wildly with his sword. Laughter rippled round the circle as strong hands from behind steadied his arms and Salus’s voice steadied his nerves. Slightly. ‘We would not be so cruel as to make you fight without eyes, young warrior. Especially given your lack of success with the use of them this morning.’
Panic turned to embarrassment and the tension dropped from his muscles. In the instant that he relaxed, Salus whipped the fabric from his eyes and stepped away just in time for him to see a lean fighter, not tall but taller than him, heading straight for him, a blunted wooden spear whirling high and low two-handed as he came. He barely had time to raise his shield to meet a swing of the haft at his ribs, and swiped desperately with his sword. It bought him the moment he needed to back off slightly but the deflection off his shield had taken the spear high and the shield wide. Deftly, the man shifted his hands and the spear point streaked towards Brann’s open chest. Brann dragged his front leg back and to the side, turning him just in time to let the spear pass. Overbalanced by the lack of resistance to his weapon, the man was unable to stop it hammering into the ground. In the instant that its point bit, Brann’s foot smashed down on the shaft, snapping it in two. The man was defenceless and, eyes wide, Brann swung the rounded edge of his sword at his opponent’s torso. His wrist jarred as the half-spear knocked the weapon flying and, before he could react, the jagged end was at his throat. The man leant in, teeth bared, to hiss in his face. Tossing the shard of the spear aside, he swaggered away to collect another weapon for the next bout.
Brann’s head sank along with his heart. He trudged to the side of the circle and stood, despondent, close to despair. After the Arena, after battling Loku in Halveka and Boar on the ship, after everything he had been through, he had thought maybe he had something. Maybe he could be a warrior, maybe there was some sort of a talent he could be proud of. That could help him find a way home. Three experienced fighters had shown him the truth. His arms sagged by his side, weapons still clutched but forgotten.
He jumped as Salus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Well done, young lad.’ Brann looked up and was astounded to see a grin.
‘Well done? I would be dead if that were a real fight.’
‘Silly boy. Death bouts are rare. Fighters are far too expensive to throw away to their death. Most fights are contests of ability, where skill or strength prevail. Or both. We do not need a killing blow to see the victor, only the demonstration of one. But,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you are right, were you facing an opponent with no restraint, you would be dead.’
‘So I am useless. Three times over.’
‘So you look to improve. Many times over. That is why we have the practice circles.’
‘But even so, you say well done.’
‘Of course. I will say it again if you like.’
‘But I lost.’
‘Ah, you did.’ He clapped him again on what was threatening to become a bruised shoulder. ‘But this time you took longer to lose.’ He pointed to the pair sitting above them. ‘That was what they wanted to see.’ Cassian raised a finger to Salus. ‘And now they wish to talk. Come.’
Brann had been born in a valley and became used to climbing hills almost as so
on as he could walk. Even so, he found his legs shaking on the steep, but short, incline. He suspected it was not from the effort. He stopped in front of them. A slight wave of Cassian’s hand allowed Salus to return to overseeing the training.
Two pairs of eyes stared at him for long moments. Drained of all emotion other than disappointment, and all energy other than the ability to stand – and even so, barely – he found he didn’t care about the examination. It brushed past his attention like a breeze past a rock.
‘So,’ Cassian said, unexpectedly brightly given the silent stare that had preceded it. ‘You present us with a problem.’
‘I know.’ Brann stared at the ground. ‘You have a fighter who keeps losing.’
‘We have a fighter who loses but should win.’
‘I was well beaten.’
Tyrala leant forward. ‘You were beaten in the first because you could not transfer plans into natural movement. You were beaten in the second because poor technique negated strength. In the third, you should have won but failed to anticipate the desperate move and strength of a beaten man. You have natural movement, you have natural agility, you have natural strength and, most of all, you have natural reactions. But when you disconnect your conscious brain, you win. That was what this,’ she held up the fabric Salus had used as a blindfold, ‘taught us. You had no idea of the type of fighter or the weapon he carried, so all you could do was react, and you were successful almost to the point of victory.’
Cassian beamed. ‘My wife has a perceptive eye for strengths and weaknesses, and not just those of the body. She sees what I am blind to.’
The slender woman angled back in her chair, sinuous as a cat and with as much expression revealed. ‘You notice, you think and you plan – it is what you do, you cannot help yourself. But you are also an instinctive fighter, you win when you react.’
Brann shrugged. ‘I just do what seems right.’
This time she did smile. ‘Exactly. What seems obvious to you in the moment would not be apparent to most were we to stop time for them. That is also what you do, and you cannot help yourself either. But nor can you make yourself do it. You are two people in one: the thinker before the conflict and the intuitive fighter during it. We must find a way to marry the two, for at the moment they battle each other and leave you useless when they do.’ She looked at Cassian. ‘My husband has a knack for working with the strengths and weaknesses. He improves where I can only see.’
Brann wasn’t convinced. ‘But natural this and natural that counts for nothing if I cannot keep a sword in my hand.’
Cassian waved a hand dismissively. ‘That is nothing. Poor technique is easily fixed. Good technique is the basis of everything we teach our fighters. It is pounded into you until you cannot move your weapon, hold your weapon, move your body, hold your body, any other way. For most, that is almost all they have with a vital touch of natural skill or speed or strength, or some of each, and for them, for the level they reach, it is all they need. You, as my lady has seen, are all instinct and not technique.’
She cut in. ‘Which is where the problem lies.’
His smile was broad. ‘Indeed. We pound the technique and we kill the instinct. But we leave the technique and the instinct is vulnerable. A conundrum indeed. I shall think on it today, and we will start with you tomorrow. But you are very lucky.’
‘I am?’
‘Absolutely! You are fortunate indeed they did not send you to the army. There, you would have been ruined. A thousand men drilled to move the same way, react the same way, think the same way is good for the battlefield but bad for you. We will find a way, my wife and I. We shall marry the two Branns. They shall feed each other with strength, not leach it. You have any questions?’
Brann looked down at the fighters, who were now in small groups of two, three and four. His eyes scanned them, and he nodded. ‘Where is Grakk?’
Cassian’s surprise filled his face. ‘You listen to all of this, and all you wonder is where your friend is?’
The boy shrugged. ‘You sound like you know a lot about this, and I have proved I know little, so I’m best doing what I’m told, I can see that. But I cannot see my friend.’
‘Listen, boy, and listen well: do what you are told but never only do it. Always think as well. Take advice, but understand it. Question it within yourself, and if you agree it will serve you even better; if you disagree, you may find you are wrong, but if you are right then others may learn from you. We all learn to improve, and almost as destructive to that aim as being deaf to advice is to follow it thoughtlessly.’ He sighed. ‘As to your friend, he is no longer with us.’
The horror that struck Brann must have been evident. Tyrala leant forward. ‘Panic not, young warrior. My husband does not mean to say that this man has left behind his life. What he is clumsily trying to tell you is that the tribesman has moved to another fighting school, a more prestigious one than ours. We received a request from the palace for an exchange to take place.’
‘He has…? An exchange…?’ Brann’s senses were thrown and he found his thoughts whirling to the detriment of his mouth. ‘Why?
The lady’s eyes were fathomless. ‘We did not query it. Some requests are not requests.’
Cassian nodded. ‘It makes sense in a way. The man’s abilities were far beyond anything we could teach him. He is better there, where he will be a showpiece, a treat for the climax to a show. They like their spectacle.’
Brann felt numb. Every time he felt he couldn’t be more alone, fate proved him wrong. He nodded down at the activity below. ‘Shall I rejoin them, then?’
Cassian’s eyebrows shot towards his stubbled grey hair. ‘Do you not listen, foolish boy? You shall work in your own way, as I devise. Lunch will be soon. Eat, drink, wash, then you can run around the track another six times. Rest, then six more.
‘This is important. Of all you did today, you were most rubbish at that.’
He trailed even further behind Breta on the next morning’s run. The previous day he had started with a day of recuperation behind him. Today he had not replenished the energy drained from him by the bouts and twelve circuits of the compound.
Mongoose winked at him as he tried to avoid Breta on his way from the trough to the Food House. ‘Perseverance.’
He blinked at her. ‘What?’
She grinned. ‘It will seem like it gets worse and worse. Then, one day, you will realise it has just been better than it was before. Then Breta can get her wish and stare at your arse. But only if you persevere.’
Marlo was waiting at the building, chomping happily through an apple. ‘The boss is waiting for you in the garden. You should eat as we walk.’
Brann did so, cramming down a pastry and a handful of his latest discovery: grapes. They found Cassian pruning some bushes, the wide brim of his hat flopping to drop his face into shadow. His expression lit up at their approach.
‘Boys, boys! So good to see you.’ He straightened, pressing his hands into the small of his back with a slight groan. He looked at Brann. ‘Yes, today you start the training that helps you, not the training that helps others who are not you.’
Brann nodded.
‘So, you will go with your young friend here and select two practice swords, one heavier than the other. Marlo will take the heavy one.’ He picked up a clipped twig and held it at various angles as he spoke, some high, some low, twisting into assorted shapes. ‘You will do this. And this. And this. And this. With one hand, yes? And each time Marlo will take his sword in two hands and hit yours with all his might. Good, good. See you at lunchtime. Enjoy yourselves.’
He turned back to his bushes. Brann stared at Marlo, who looked much as he felt. ‘Is that all? What else should I do?
The elderly man was quizzical. ‘You want to stop that exercise early?’ Brann shook his head. ‘Well, silly boy, how could you have time to do anything else?’ He raised a finger. ‘Ah wait, you are right, there was another thing. My good lady was worried about your skin.
Not the bruises caused by bad fighting. You children of the North grow a different hide, and it does not like the sun god so much. It seems my lady likes her meals well cooked, but not her young charges.’ Bending to a canvas bag, he pulled out two small pots and offered them one at a time to Brann. ‘This has rice bran, and you apply where the sunlight can reach. This has jasmine, and you apply after your evening wash where you turn red. Rice bran and jasmine, you know these, yes?’
‘Rice bran and jasmine? Are they animals?’
He leant in close to the boy and whispered like a conspirator. ‘They are not animals, no, but other than that I know no more than you. But my wife has the knowledge and she hails from the land of the Delta River, where pale skin is prized and the well-to-do chase that beauty for themselves. She knows. What you must do yourself, you learn. What others can do for you, let them learn. Use your time how best you can.’ Smiling broadly, he patted Brann’s upper arm, where scarlet had already started to spread, and ignored the boy’s wince. ‘All you need to know is that it works. Their vanity is your salvation, young Mr Snow. Embrace it.’
Brann was surprised. ‘You know snow?’ It seemed so incongruous in a land of constant baking heat.
A calloused finger tapped at Brann’s forehead. ‘An army does not campaign within the shadow of its own city, does it?’ He lifted over a small stool and settled down in front of the bush, blade in hand. ‘Now go, before the sun climbs to lunchtime.’
A glance at the sky showed there was no lack of time before then, but the boys took their leave, Brann starting to spread the lotion on his arms as they walked. ‘I wish I had this on the ship,’ he said wistfully. ‘The sun was only really strong for the last two weeks before we got here, but for that time all we did was cover up and bake ourselves.’
Hero Grown Page 11