Brann smiled. ‘Again.’
The next time he missed it, and the next three. But each time only by the width of an eyelash. The next time he struck it, solidly.
Marlo’s eyes widened. ‘I did it! You did it.’
Brann took the sword. ‘You did it. It wasn’t me moving the sword. Now let’s get it back to the Weapons House.’ He barged him playfully. ‘Success on the sixth, eh?’
The beaming boy nodded. ‘I think we have earned our lunch today, both of us.’
As they stepped from the building into the sunlight, though, a voice stopped them. ‘So who is it who is training who? Please remind me?’
Cassian was resting a shoulder against the wall beside the doorway. His broad-brimmed hat hid his face as he looked down at the rake he was toying with.
Brann felt himself colouring faster than the exertion in the heat had managed. He had let down the one man who had helped him more than any to remain alive. ‘I, I didn’t, I was just…’
Marlo cut in. ‘It is my fault, sir. It was I who asked…’
The hat lifted with the head to reveal a smile. ‘Panic not, little ones. It is a good thing, a good thing indeed.’
Both boys chorused, ‘It is?’
‘If I say so, do you not believe me?’
Both boys nodded. Then shook their heads. Then stopped, oblivious to what the correct answer might be.
‘Listen to an old man, boys. You,’ he straightened from the wall and stood in front of Marlo in one fluid movement, ‘improved yourself today and, more importantly, showed the desire to do so. Your official training and next week both will start together. And as for you,’ he turned to Brann. ‘Some can do it but not explain it. And some can explain it but not do it. They seem opposites, but really they are the same: in each case, that person has reached the limit of their own abilities. But if a person can do both, then that person can always take on more learning. They can still improve. Which in your case,’ a finger jabbed Brann’s chest, ‘may keep you breathing. You, too, can move onto your next stage next week.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘It’s all right. I do not need your thanks. Do not express them.’
Both boys were stunned enough to comply but, as Cassian walked away, Marlo found his voice. ‘Sir, what did you mean about official training? It is my only training.’
Cassian turned, puzzlement layering his face. ‘You did not know you were learning every morning and every afternoon you spent with your young friend here?’ He smiled and patted the boy’s cheek affectionately. ‘Of course you didn’t. That was the point. That was why you did learn.’
Marlo thought on it for a moment. ‘But if I am to train, who will work with Brann?’
‘Your concern for your friend is touching, but now I need someone who can test him rather than help him work. He has a fight to train for.’
Brann’s eyes widened. He realised he had become so immersed in learning that the purpose had slipped away from his thoughts. ‘A fight? Back at the Arena?’
Cassian and Marlo looked at each other in amusement. The old man smiled. ‘The Arena is only for the cream of competition. There are contests on a regular basis across the Empire, and across the city. The standard varies from one fighting pit to another, depending on the sum paid by the pit owners to bring the fighters. All new fighters build experience from the lower levels and rise according to their merit. You are a new fighter. Your fleeting appearance at the Arena was as a novelty attraction.’ His smile grew broader. ‘Though the surprise turned upon those who organised your appearance there, did it not?’
Brann’s mood sobered at the memory. ‘When will it be, this lowly fight?’
Cassian shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. When you entered this building, you didn’t have one. Now I have decided you do. How fast do you think I can arrange these things?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And do not belittle this lowly fight. The gladiators in such contests as these are mostly of hardened experience, many having spent years in the millens and more in the pits. They know as much as it is possible to learn, but just lack the speed they once had or the little extra talent they were not born with. There are no easy opponents for you.’
The boys looked at each other, thoughts whirling in their heads. ‘Now I can’t believe you two would rather talk here with an old man when lunch awaits. I know I am starving.’ Before he walked off this time, the burly old grey-head reached forward with both hands and ruffled the hair of the pair.
Brann was still stunned. But not so much that he hadn’t noticed the smooth movement of the old feet and the fleeting moment it took for the rake to be tucked against the old side to let Cassian’s arms reach out to them, and then returned to his grip, within his control all the while.
It was with considerably less confidence than on the last occasion that he approached the sparring circles. Then, he was fresh from a win in the Arena. Now the memories fresh in his mind were of an ignominious triple defeat.
A shadow fell in front of him. A large shadow. He stopped and Breta’s breath was hot on the side of his face. ‘So Cassian’s little pet is returning for another lesson in the circles? That is good. Pets need to be chastened to remind them of their place. Breta hopes you face her. Blunt weapons can still break bodies, and the novelty of little pets grows less as they are out of sight mending their bones. Soon you will be one of us, and a little pet no more. You are nothing special now, and you will be nothing special then.’
Brann didn’t know what to say. He was sure she was right.
Salus approached and she growled in Brann’s ear and moved away. The tall man gave her retreating form a look. ‘You certainly have to fight off the women, don’t you?’ Brann almost laughed at the irony. He nodded towards the Big House. ‘Boss wants to see you in the garden. I think you know your way there on your own by now.’
Brann found Cassian with small shears in his hand and a pile of long branches beside him. Tyrala sat in the shade close by, sipping water that looked as cool as her perpetual demeanour.
‘You return to the sparring circles today,’ Cassian said without preamble. A nod was the only response Brann could find. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Fitter. Stronger. Quicker. More knowledgeable. And terrified.’
‘Terrified, you say? And why would that be?’
‘They have such confidence. They know their abilities and are so sure of themselves. The only thing I am sure of is that the last time I was there, I was rubbish.’
‘You were. Worse than rubbish, in fact. But…’ Cassian paused, looking as if he were trying to find the phrase to fit his thoughts. He shook his head instead and picked up four straight stiff sticks and expertly trimmed away the leaves, cutting them to the same length. He handed two to Brann and, tossing aside the shears, held the others like a pair of swords.
‘Now, you have learnt your moves, yes?’ Brann nodded. ‘Good, good. Now, as it is your first time with a combination of this sort, I shall furnish you in advance with the moves I will make. Defend against a thrust with the right, the left coming overhand at your head, the right cutting forehand at your left side. Then you counter at once with a backhand with your right, a thrust from wide left with your left as you turn, and a thrust, straight, with your right. Six moves, three from me, three from you. Picture them happen. Got them?’
Brann closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.
‘Good. But never close your eyes when the man in front of you has a weapon. I will not let you off the next time.’
Brann nodded again. With his eyes open.
Cassian smiled like a grandfather about to hand over a present, then swept into action. Brann clumsily fended off the first two blows but received a stinging welt on his ribs from the third. He dropped his hands in despondency.
‘And never drop your guard until you know it is over. I will not let you off next time with that either.’
‘But it is over. That was a finishing blow.’
‘This is not a fight, it is a lesson. And you were given three mo
ves of your own.’
Determination to redeem himself brought the moves to the front of Brann’s thoughts. Cassian blocked when he swung with his right and, before his left could thrust, a stick shot through and poked him on the chest. Brann shook his head, at a loss what to think.
‘Again, we go. Come, come, get ready.’ The old soldier was in a stance, waiting.
‘Same moves till I get it right?’
‘Of course not. This is not training, it is a lesson.’
‘But I…’
Cassian came at him, in a flurry of blows almost too quick to follow. Brann stepped back in surprise, fending them off. In seconds it was over. One of Cassian’s sticks lay at Tyrala’s feet, the other was a broken stub in his hand. Brann had one stick at the man’s throat and the other laid across his chest.
Brann jumped back, dropping the sticks. ‘I’m so sorry!’
Cassian and Tyrala both laughed. ‘Sorry?’ the lady smiled. ‘You have made my husband proud. You know what he has shown you?’
Brann shook his head. ‘I just kept his swords… I mean sticks… away. When there was an opening, I just took it.’
Cassian beamed. ‘See! You do understand.’
‘Actually, I don’t. I’m sorry.’
Tyrala picked up the stick at her feet. ‘The fighters down there, their confidence is built through knowledge of their ability, but yours must be based on trust in yourself. They have been taught according to their abilities and strengths and know how to deal with certain stations and moves, but your mind works in a different way. My husband just showed you that you cannot fight their way any more than they can fight yours. You must submit to trusting yourself. This is more frightening and more vulnerable, but also more deadly.’
‘And in any case,’ Cassian said cheerfully, clapping him on the back, ‘it is all you have. Now take it down there.’
Brann felt no more confident awaiting his turn in among the fighters around the sparring circle, but at least he felt no less. He supposed that was better than he had expected. His first opponent from the last time, the man with the two swords held upright, was again in his group and was grinding down a wiry man, all sinew and darting speed, who fought with a sword and a long knife. This man had a plan that Brann approved of, and thought might just be successful: drawing out the stocky fighter’s right sword. Brann guessed he would eventually try to slip to the left under it and come into the then-open side with his knife. It was similar to the move Brann had thought to try, except that with the knife it would be a quicker strike than the back-handed swing with a sword that Brann had thought to attempt. It might well be quick enough.
It wasn’t. The flat of the sword clapped the wiry man on the back of his head and left him dazed and defeated. As he stumbled ruefully from the ring, Corpse intoned, ‘Breta.’
The large woman picked a wooden axe and a large round shield from the pile of weapons. The axe spun in her hands as if it were a child’s toy and, with a smile of relish, she swung her arms to ease her shoulders.
A voice cut across them. It was Salus. ‘No. You go next, Breta. Brann, you’re in.’
‘Oh, by the gods,’ he muttered. It was either suffer the humiliation of a fourth loss in succession (five if you counted both losses to this very opponent that had been counted as only one bout) or by some miracle win and be rewarded with a fight against the monster who had already made her intentions clear. And who knew that this first opponent didn’t share her view of him, too? One thing at a time, he said, as much trying to clear his mind of Breta as to concentrate on the man before him.
There was a gasp at his stupidity when he picked from the pile the very same weapons as the man who had just been defeated. But he had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan, in that the man would expect him to be thinking he could try to repeat the tactics, but that he would be a foolish boy whose youthful arrogance had led him to believe that he could be quicker and succeed where the other had failed. He also had one move in his head, but that was it. After that, he had to rely on Cassian’s lesson. And as it meant that he hadn’t a clue what would come next, it wasn’t overly reassuring at the moment.
Still, he had the arrogance of youth to portray first of all, so he attempted to saunter with a smile to the ring. Seeming to be carved from a tree, the man’s face didn’t even flicker.
Brann took up a confident stance, knife in his left hand forward, and sword poised. The man advanced with short steps as he always did, his strength fixing into the ground with each pace. Brann stepped to meet him and swung back-handed with the sword at the man’s right sword. Short powerful muscles in the man’s arm bunched as he met Brann’s sword head on. Brann had intended to fake the block, as if he had jarred his arm, but the ruse wasn’t necessary. His arm went numb for a moment, and he threw himself back as the hilt fell from fingers that jumped in response. The sword dropped as he did and, letting go of the knife, he grabbed the larger weapon with his left hand as he rolled and rose.
Dropping the pretend arrogance was easy as he let his right arm hang by his side, flexing his fingers as if trying to deal with the jarring. He tried to make the sword seem as awkward in his left hand as his confidence felt in the hands of the unknown. His one move was made. He hoped Cassian was right. He was certainly right about one thing: it was about all he had.
The man closed in to finish it. Brann circled to his right, trying to keep his feebly waving one sword between him and the two swords of his opponent. The man attacked, swinging back-handed with his right, aiming to knock Brann’s weapon wide or even out of his hand completely and open up his side to the other sword. It was the logical thing to do. The obvious thing to do.
Brann’s hand shifted slightly, dropping the hilt into what was now a familiar grip. His feet shifted and his knees drove his wooden blade into his opponent’s, knocking it high. The other sword was already coming at his chest and he swung his sword down and away from him as he twisted his right shoulder forward, letting the sword pass him much the same way as the spear had in his last bout. He had even more time on this occasion though, as the solid man, unaccustomed to being unbalanced, stumbled forward slightly. He didn’t take the time. Even as he had the thought, the edge of Brann’s blade was laid across the back of the man’s neck.
Impassive, the man looked at him, nodded once, and walked from the circle.
There was silence. Then one fighter started clapping his right hand against his chest, slapping it over his heart. Others followed until the fighters watching around the other two circles turned to find the reason for the applause.
Brann stood, chest heaving, and felt a smile start to find its way towards his lips.
Corpse’s drone boomed across the noise. ‘Breta.’
Brann’s heart sank. That was the problem with taking things one at a time. You could forget what was coming next.
He left the knife lying and hurriedly grabbed the first decently sized shield from the pile, a round one similar to Breta’s but thankfully not as huge.
She marched into the circle, banging her axe against her shield. If it was meant to intimidate him, it was working. He had no plan. He revised that. He had one plan: avoid that big bloody axe.
The axe swung at him. Breta didn’t believe in preamble. He jumped to one side and had to step back sharply to avoid a remarkably quick backswing.
She grinned. ‘You can’t jump out of the way forever, little gnat. It will only take one strike to swat you.’ He knew she was right.
She stepped forward again, the axe slicing the air from high to her right. He flung up his shield but, instead of blocking it head on, he threw his left shoulder round, striking the axe at an angle to knock it off its trajectory while continuing its passage. With luck, the lack of expected contact would unbalance her and leave him an opening.
He should have known better than to hope for luck. Her movement was effortless as she stopped the weapon’s swing and brought herself around to face him once more.
‘You can’t d
o that for long, little gnat. You have to get lucky every time.’ She had a knack for the simple truth. He had to try something.
He dropped his shield slightly. She was unable to resist the temptation. The heavy weapon swiped at alarming speed towards his unprotected shoulder. But at the instant the swing had started, he had dropped a knee. He dived forward and left and, as she stepped into her blow, he shoved his sword blade between her legs to trip her. He rose and wheeled, desperate not to miss the chance to deliver the finishing blow as she fell.
But she did not fall. With fearsome determination in every thunderous plant of a foot, she grunted her way upright. ‘You.’ One step. ‘Little.’ Another. ‘Bastard.’ She was up and turning. ‘But not good enough. That was your one chance, gnat. Now it’s gone.’
She flexed her shoulders. And, abruptly, came forward at a rush. The shield was up like a battering ram. The axe was held high and already swinging. Her right toe caught in a divot. She hurtled headlong, legs trailing, eyes wide and mouth wider in a wordless bellow and arms flung of their own accord wider still. Brann had once seen a child frozen in shock, unable to move his legs in the face of a bolting horse and snatched to safety at the last gasp by a desperate father. Now he knew that child’s paralysis. But he had no saviour to pull him clear.
Desperation pulled his shield and sword across his front an instant before she hit. He was lifted clear off his feet and the two flew as one to land in a cloud of dust. The breath burst from Brann as if pushed from bellows. Silence fell across the watchers. One ran for a healer, and Tyrala started down the hill. Corpse loomed over the pair, and carefully examined the layers, lying perfectly in vertical order: ground, boy, shield, sword, throat.
‘Sword to throat. The boy wins.’ He turned and walked back to the edge.
Breta rolled off him, allowing Brann to drag in an almighty breath. She grinned at him. ‘Well I’ll be buggered.’ One huge hand grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet with her. ‘The gnat has bite.’ She slapped him on the back and almost knocked him to the ground again. Chuckling, she walked to the side of the circle.
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