Mobius

by Garon Whited

  Not knowing the precise time for the warmeet, I had a picnic basket loaded up—I think of it as a lunchbox—and a cleaning spell ready before sunrise. Once the tingling died down and the goo sloughed off, we galloped like hell for the city and slowed to a trot through the early-morning streets.

  Turns out I needn’t have rushed. I was the third one there. The other two were dressed in enameled scale armor with solid forearm guards and pointed helmets. The really fancy helms were a sign of wealth and usually went with a full suit of plate armor. We introduced ourselves while servants continued to bring wooden weapons out onto the arena floor. Galtos was slightly taller than his friend, Jolus, and had longer hair. Jolus smiled more often and was missing an upper tooth, just in front of his left incisor. The old scar on his upper lip healed well, but I’d say an arrow or other piercing weapon was responsible.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around,” Jolus said, once we exchanged names.

  “Haven’t,” Galtos grunted. He nodded at the helmet I carried. “No beast. I’d remember.”

  “No beast?” I echoed.

  “Helm’s plain,” he clarified.

  “So it is,” I agreed. “I prefer it this way.”

  “May I ask why?” Jolus inquired.

  “There’s less to catch an edge or point. Things slide off, rather than lodge. It’s a helmet for serious business, not for show.”

  Galtos and Jolus exchanged looks.

  “You’re one of the First?” Jolus asked, cautiously.

  “Is that a surprise?”

  “No, but the First don’t usually get out in the field. I mean, Galtos and I do what fighting needs doing and we get paid for it, but most of the First don’t… ah, don’t need the money. They can afford to be fancy. You don’t got a lot of fancy bits on your armor, though.”

  “Got none,” Galtos clarified.”

  “You fight your way up to the ranks of the First?” Jolus continued.

  “When I started, I was barely even a warrior.”

  Galtos and Jolus nodded, the discrepancy resolved in their minds. My attitude was appropriate for someone who went out and did battle, even though I looked too high-ranking to ever meet a blade. It tells me a lot when the people in the best armor see the least combat.

  The things I learn in casual conversation.

  They also introduced me to the weapon racks and the various wooden weapons. All of them were well-made and intricately carved. Some were replicas of actual swords and quite elaborate. The carved grips simulated cord-wound hilts. Even the wood grain was cut to simulate an edge. They ranged in size from knives to what I think of a “typical” swords—about three feet or so. There were no larger blades. I don’t know why no one went in for big swords. Maybe everyone is more secure than I am.

  While swords predominated, other weapons were not neglected. Spears were popular, as well. Maces with rope-wrapped “heads” told me they were more cautious about injuries than the Knights of Shadow.

  Did they not have healing spells? Were the local priests not up to the job? Or were the gods not interested in fixing people? Did the local wizards mend flesh and bone? Or was it a less direct thing than my various body-welding spells? Generalized healing spells accelerate the repairs up to a dozen times faster, but a wounded man may still die of his injuries before the spells can do enough.

  While Galtos and Jolus warmed up, stretching and swinging practice blades around, I took a look through the staffs. They varied in length, but two of them were about right for Firebrand. I remembered Hazir’s warning about how someone might be along to pester me and I wanted something familiar.

  Other warriors trickled in. There were a surprising number of women. I didn’t expect so many, but apparently patriarchal attitudes aren’t inter-universal. Hooray for equality. They were still a minority, however, but I suspect it’s from other factors, such as muscle mass and reach. I didn’t want to fight any of them. They looked like professionals to me. None of them wore full plate armor, but favored chainmail, brigandine, and scale. The few men who wore plate also had a servant or two to carry things.

  Hazir was one of the plated few. He and his flunkies entered. He smiled when he saw me and they approached.

  “Good morning.”

  “So far,” I agreed. “How are things with you?”

  “I always enjoy the warmeet.”

  “Got plans for lunch?”

  “Mmm, no. Why?”

  “I packed some snacks,” I told him, nodding at the basket.

  “Ah. I intended to send someone to fetch food and drink.”

  “Then we can send him for things to go with the travel snacks,” I suggested.

  “Wise decision. Are you prepared for the day?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. Any thoughts on what I should expect?”

  “I hear you may be challenged by one of Tobar’s supporters, as expected.”

  “Not the man himself?”

  “He wishes to gauge your worthiness, not risk his life, nor his seat on the council of nine.”

  “Wait. If I beat him in single combat, I get his seat?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that how—oh. No, I see. Other cities must have their variations. Yes, warriors always challenge by combat. Normally, one challenges up the ladder, as it were, until reaching the station of one’s skills. Unlike other cities, perhaps, we have another custom. If one of a high station challenges down, this can pass any number of rungs on the ladder, but the risk is no less for being across such a distance. One bit of ill luck and a high station may tumble, requiring much effort to climb again.”

  “I see why he doesn’t want to do it himself. Where do I fit on the ladder?”

  “As a visitor, judging you by eye, you are a First, but have no formal standing in Sarashda. If you plan to remain, there will be a testing among the First —below the council of nine, of course—to determine your standing.”

  “Testing?”

  “A simple matter, much as the challenges of rank. If Tobar issues a challenge—or has someone else issue it—it would be a challenge of your fitness to be a warrior at all, although the rank is still as risk. Those sorts of challenges are more serious—”

  A horn sounded and Hazir broke off. He shook his head and moved to the edge of the arena. I went with him as the rest of the warriors followed suit. Nine men in fanciful armor and extravagant helmets entered the main box, up above. They spread out along the forward rail and called the meeting to order. We all advanced from the wall until we formed a large circle. Altogether, there were maybe eight hundred men and women in the circle. There were another four hundred or so servants, shield-bearers, and other hangers-on, but they were either in the stands or remained against the wall.

  Business was brief. Mostly, it was a listing of various places needing warriors—some cities need help for their police, some manzhani need guards, some places need a monster or two killed—don’t go alone! It reminded me of the Rethven custom of Hero-ing. This was more mercenary, obviously, but even Heroes need to eat.

  I wonder if Sir Sedrick made it into Vios before it cut loose from the world.

  Other business included offers of servitude from young warriors without families. I gathered orphans were more common among the warrior class than among others. In a larger sense, they were still of the warrior caste, though, so any children were automatically up for adoption. Both boys went quickly, accepted by moderately well-off warriors.

  With the basic business out of the way, half a dozen people were called up to be tested. Everyone backed up to the wall again, except those warriors each contestant chose as an opponent. They were clearly not shooting for status among the First, but, rather than start at the bottom and work their way up, they had individual matches with various of the members. Victory gave them a place. Defeat meant they fought again, only someone several rungs down.

  I saw a certain strategy in it. A newcomer to the city could pick a high-ranking individual for his testing, but it was a ri
sk. It carried instant status if you won. If not, you went to your next fight somewhat battered and bruised, not only to fight for a lower station but less likely to win, too. On the other hand, if you start lower down, you’re more likely to win. Then you have to climb the ladder the hard way.

  Frankly, I’m not sure why anyone would care. Did it affect their pay when they took a job? Were there perks to being highly ranked? Or was it simply bragging rights? And why wasn’t I called on? Was I too new? Or was there a more nefarious plot afoot?

  With the new members assimilated into the group, the council of nine, still standing in the box, called for any challenges. There were another dozen or so, each one trying to step up the ladder a rung. The process, as always, was a formal one. Someone stepped forward, challenged someone else, and the two squared off. When testing newcomers, they all ran concurrently. Challenges were more interesting, or maybe less time-consuming. They were done one by one.

  The one interesting to me was Osric of Barachel. He stood at least six feet, more in the full armor. His eyes were an olive color, his mouth accustomed to frowns, and his hands big, capable. His helm was also formed as a bird-of-prey, the wings surrounding his face to meet at his chin, the head and beak forming the nosepiece. His flunkies—squires, I suppose—carried a large, flanged mace and a large shield. As with all the men in full armor—there were no women—his equipment was enchanted. Armor, shield, mace, the works.

  The mace was a study in magical construction. The enchantment was surprisingly complex, but, after looking at it for a bit, I thought it needlessly complicated. It looked like a fairly straightforward momentum-transfer spell, which made sense for a mace. I did not like the look of the flanges around the head. They looked good at breaching armor, as well as tearing flesh off bones.

  “The one known as Al of Lucard wears the armor of the First,” he declared, “but I say he is unworthy of this station.”

  Hazir put a hand on my arm, as though to restrain me.

  “His accusation is only of your ranking, not your caste,” he whispered. “Try to remember that. Don’t let him provoke you.”

  “I’d have to care about his opinion for him to provoke me,” I whispered back, pretending disinterest. I’ve been frustrated and temperamental for a while, now, and Osric was verbally poking the monster. It was a minor irritation, but a match is a minor fire and it’s been a while since it rained.

  Osric held out his hand and a flunky put the mace in it—the actual, metal-headed, enchanted mace. Clearly, this was not a practice match. What did Hazir say about these being more serious? There’s quite a lot about this place I don’t understand. It reminds me of my first days in Rethven.

  I miss Rethven.

  “Is this how you treat those of the First?” I asked, rising.

  “This is how we treat those who are unworthy,” Osric replied. I glanced at Hazir, who looked sad. Tobar, on the other hand, watched from above with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  “I see. How do you know I’m not worthy?”

  “Your flippance alone would tell all the world,” Osric replied, and brandished his mace.

  There are a number of skills in which I feel comfortable. I don’t need to prove to myself I’m competent at them, so I don’t need to show off. Why should I have to prove to anyone I’m a formidable swordsman? I know I am. Hack someone to bits for a reason? Sure. Hack someone to bits because everyone else wants to see if I can do it? Not so much. I don’t like having to “prove myself” to a bunch of busybodies. I’m a visitor. I’m no threat to their precious pecking order. They could ignore me and I’d return the favor. But no, they have to pigeonhole me. It’s possible I’ve made them think they have to, since I don’t understand their customs, but I don’t even have the choice at this point, which irritated me.

  Tobar still sat forward in his seat, leaning slightly on the rail at the edge of the VIP box. No doubt my unintended insult had something to do with this. His attitude irritated me more.

  Grumbling, I removed my cloak, folded it neatly, set it on the bench, and drew Firebrand.

  Keep the flames down, I told it, moving out to meet Osric.

  We could roast him in his armor.

  We could, but these idiots want to see what I can do and it might do me good to work out some frustration in a fight. Besides, we don’t need to overawe them with the sheer power of unleashed draconic hell.

  Yes, I am rather intimidating, Firebrand agreed. Okay.

  Osric swung his mace. I stepped back and let it whistle down without me. We went skipping about the arena, him attacking, me dancing back. Occasionally I engaged, deflecting the mace. I already learned my lesson about mass-based weapons. I also learned a lot about how the effect on the mace worked without—and this is the key—being squarely hit by it. I attacked twice, once to gauge his shield, once to test his armor. Other than that, I watched him, his timing, his footwork, his patterns. Like most fighters, he had a few favorite attacks and responses. He was particularly fond of blocking with his shield and thrusting with his mace. One does not normally thrust with a mace, making it an unexpected attack, and the enchantment made it much more effective than a simple punch in the guts. My armor took it moderately well and he never caught me with it again.

  He was good. He was strong and he obviously had considerable training. Given he was wielding a mace, he was surprisingly fast, too. Where he fell short, though, was the training regimen. He was remarkably good, in a technical sense, but much more practiced than experienced. Someone took him to lessons when he was a child. He graduated, possibly even with honors. Since then, he’s attended warmeets, maybe had more lessons. He wasn’t experienced. He was like a fencing student taken off the strip and plunked down in the middle of a grand melee. Not quite so bad, perhaps, but you get the idea. Seldar would defeat him, but Torvil would kill him without thinking about it on the way to a serious opponent. I’d put money on Heydyl to beat him, but I’d worry a lot.

  It didn’t take a full minute for me to realize I could take him. After five, it was obvious he could no longer get through my guard. I earned the name “The Wall of Blades,” thank you. After ten, the warriors around the arena were murmuring and chuckling, suspecting I was mocking him. I might have been, but only a little. Mostly, I wanted to exhaust him. Osric finally lost his temper.

  “Fight, damn you! Quit running!”

  “You’re the one who’s out of breath,” I pointed out. He was. Sweat dripped from his face. We both had personal air conditioning, but I’m stronger, have lighter armor, and I let him carry the fight to me. My temperature regulator might also be a bit better than the local enchantment.

  “Coward!”

  Privately, I agreed with him. I’m a coward whenever I have a choice. I couldn’t admit it in these circumstances, though.

  “The opinion of the loser isn’t important,” I answered, instead.

  He gave a great cry and leaped for me, mace whistling down. I sidestepped and advanced, whirling, whacking him on the back with a great, clanging blow. He staggered forward and I waited while he recovered. My disdain for his attacks kept him pissed off and he charged me.

  Never lose your temper. It’s a rule. Sasha, Raeth, and Davad all tried to teach it to me. I still don’t have it down, but I learned the lesson better than Osric.

  I backed up a step to give him slightly more room to accelerate and to give the impression I might run. When he closed, I ducked to my right, along his shield side, out of reach of his mace. Not out of reach of Firebrand, though. With it in my left hand, I swept it down and forward, striking under his shield and hitting his ankle with a ringing clang. Metal bent and his leg flew out from under him. He landed face-down in the sand and I leaped, jackhammering down on his back with both feet just as he started to push himself up. He made a peculiar wheezing noise and sprawled again. I sat down on his back, knees on his shoulders, pinning him.

  He flailed his right arm backward, waving the mace at me. I grabbed it, twisted and turned it
, and forced it out of his grip. I lifted it high and brought it down like a meteor, pounding it into the sand to the left of his head. Sand exploded in all directions, thanks to the enchantment. I stood, planted a foot on his back, and stuck Firebrand’s point into the sand to the right.

  “Yield?” I suggested. I withdrew Firebrand and stepped off him. He rolled onto his back, bringing his shield up to hit me.

  No yielding, apparently. Well, I haven’t read the rules.

  I brought Firebrand down while he held his shield with both hands, taking the blow. I kicked his mace away, out of reach, and struck again, forcing Osric to hide behind his shield. With my second blow, I moved toward his feet, where I caught the damaged one and dragged him across the sand. He shouted and cursed at me while people on the benches near that piece of wall scattered out of the way.

  Once we were close to the wall, I turned, pulled, and hauled him around. He swung in an arc, still shouting, and I grunted as I swung him faster, getting him off the ground and whirling him in a circle. He unbuckled his shield and threw it at me, but the speed of my swing and the strange vectors ruined his aim. My aim was fine.

  The wall knew the rules. It didn’t yield, either. Osric hit, hard, crashing, clanking, and cracking, before flopping down onto the bench and slipping off it to thud into the sand. He lay there, groaning, and I got a better grip on his ankles. I swung him around in the other direction, smacking him into the wall again. When he fell to the sand, he lay unmoving. I pulled off his helm and considered. Run him through? Or decapitate?

  Did I have to kill him? Was there a reason? Was there a reason beyond some locals thought it was a social obligation?

  I sheathed Firebrand and, his helm in one hand, the upper edge of his breastplate in the other, I dragged a limp Osric back to the middle of the arena.

  His helm crumpled under his own mace. It really was a nice enchantment, and it used to be a nice helm. I held up the crushed ruin as I shouted to the watching warrior council.