“Strangers?” Arad didn’t understand.
“I am Grent Faddar, son of a master metallist,” the boy said. “My companion is Jelrae.” He included the girl with a sweep of his left hand. “And you are?”
Introductions, Arad realized. Would he have to introduce himself formally to everyone he met?
“I am Kirizal Sherzi El, Arad,” he said. “I am the krakar champion of Somria. I am here to compete,” he added.
The boy frowned. “What is krakar?”
Arad blinked at him. He’d never been asked that before. Was this land so remote that they didn’t even have krakar? Suddenly he wondering at his decision to come so far . . . if they didn’t even have tournaments, how would he earn a living? “It’s a type of wrestling. You don’t have tournaments here?”
“Wrestling!” the girl exclaimed. “And a champion! Oh, well met, young man. We are eager to see your skills in the stadium!” She nearly tittered, and her escort furrowed his brow, obviously discomfited. She noticed this, holding closer to his arm, and he relaxed.
As did Arad; with a stadium, this city would obviously welcome his talents.
“Could you direct me to the stadium?” he asked. “I have just arrived, and intend to seek vocation there.”
“How strangely you speak,” the girl said, shaking her head in wonderment. “Elegant and song-like!”
The boy had clearly had enough of Arad, and he pointed behind himself and up the hill with his free hand. “The stadium is that way, champion. Beyond those large knarlwood trees.”
The trees were large indeed; Arad had never seen their like. They towered over the multi-floor dwellings nearby, and their massive branches, covered in plate-sized leaves, shadowed the entire block of buildings. He thanked the couple, promising to grant them an interview if he was victorious at his first tournament, and left them.
The stadium was not as large as it might have been; from the outside it appeared no more than a two-story apartment. He would have missed it if not for the marking post outside, clearly engraved with the image of two grappling athletes (this city used posts with pictures, instead of signs—he was thankful for this, since what he had seen of their alphabet was all but unreadable). Arad paused a moment to take in the slightly dilapidated exterior of the building—definitely a good sign, since it meant a long history of sponsorship—then headed in through the entry archway.
・ ・
His opponent was taller than he was, but Arad was used to that. Length was only an advantage if he was allowed to use it. Every time the other man grabbed at his shoulder straps and tried to pull him down, Arad advanced, forcing him to release and step back. The match had continued in this way, the other man grabbing and pulling, and Arad advancing, for a few hundred rapid heartbeats. Arad could see his opponent was tiring, so he readied his favourite counter to such a strategy.
The man moved in again, grabbing at both his straps this time, thinking to trick Arad; with one hand, he would have been trying to pull him off balance, but both hands signalled he was about to perform a sacrifice throw. Arad stepped forward immediately; his opponent dropped to the mat as expected, and started to bring his leg up. Arad slapped the leg aside and dropped flat on top of him with all his weight; he was shorter than the other man, but much thicker. His opponent violently exhaled, and Arad grabbed both shoulder straps, one in front and one behind, then squeezed his forearm across the man’s throat. The expected choking gurgle came forth, and the man tapped out. Arad stood up and offered him a hand.
“Brilliant, Somrian,” the trainer said from behind him. Horth Horbot was in his fifties, short and stocky (though not so as Arad), with thinner hair and a wavy brown beard. His hands were knobby and strong; the sign of a hard life of training. He placed his hand on Arad’s shoulder, smiling kindly at him. “You are indeed a champion. Tell me Arad, why did you not come over with your trainer, and exhibitions planned? It would have been the proper way to introduce you to the city.”
“We had a difference of opinion.” Arad said flatly.
Horth raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t the trainer shrugged. “Fair enough. Well, I shall be honoured to adopt you. I haven’t seen your skillset in years . . . at least.”
“It is I who am honoured, young man,” Arad replied, bowing his head.
“He learns our traditions quickly, Horse,” Arad’s sparring partner said, using the trainer’s former stage name. “It bodes well for his future here,” he added, smiling at Arad. A veteran wrestler and former champion, Rast Varplin was in his late thirties, tall and well muscled with a shock of black, curly hair worn long and messy. He was the most skilled of Horth’s students, and had won the city tournament four times, no small feat with nine schools and over three hundred competitors. When Arad had first put him down with little effort, Rast had immediately become his greatest proponent, and had eagerly worked with him since. The former champion was smoothly skilled and quickly learned many of Arad’s unique moves, previously unseen in Benn’s Harbour, and after a few days of training, presented a more formidable opponent; Arad now typically came out ahead only three of every four sparring sessions. Rast also possessed a sharp wit, and Arad had quickly come to value his insight.
“Agreed, Rast,” said Horth. “He has a lot of talent to cultivate. Perhaps he’ll prove even greater a champion than you, one day,” he added with a smirk.
“Don’t get too excited,” Rast said to Arad. Then, to Horth: “When will you book his first match?”
The trainer sighed, furrowing his brow in contemplation. “A tenday or two. A single bout with an easy opponent, to whet the public appetite, I’d say.”
“I need a tournament, Horth,” Arad cut in. “I didn’t bring much coin with me, and most of it has already been spent on apartments.”
“Apartments? Are you a prince?” Horth chuckled, a rhythmic, throaty sound. “Give up your apartments, and stay here, at the stadium. It’ll be better for focus, and you’ll save your precious coin. You are not ready to fight yet,” he finished.
“I threw this young man,” Arad said, nodding at Rast, “and he’s a former champion. How am I not ready?”
Horth raised an eyebrow. “Rast?”
Rast took a deep breath, held it for a moment then exhaled loudly.
“You’re not ready,” he agreed.
・ ・・
The athletes’ apartments were reasonably comfortable, once Arad cleaned his out and replaced the coarse blankets with his own softer sheets. How these people slept on such rough bedding was beyond him. Somrian fabrics were far superior than the local rough weaves; even the breeches he had bought in the harbour market scratched his legs and made them itch. He imagined eventually he would become accustomed to their texture, but as yet he found them distracting at best. At least in training they wore the same leather belt-and-strap harness as back home; if he had been required to wear the local fabric under his privates, he likely would have gone mad from the itching.
He had his own room, a luxury none of the other dozen or so athletes staying in the stadium apartments had. He expected some animosity over this at first, since he was a newcomer and the others had all been students of Horth for years, but clearly the old trainer had informed them of Arad’s credentials, because they bobbed their heads at him in that strange local affectation, and even offered to assist him with daily chores. Arad refused, of a matter of principle; he wouldn’t win any championships if he got lazy. He simply smiled and returned their bows best he could, then continued with his chores.
Two tendays passed quickly, and soon Horth had booked his first match; a low-profile bout against a local farm hero, who was known for his great strength—apparently he could lift a cow—but lacking in any serious skill. Arad didn’t expect to have much trouble with him, but Horth had suggested allowing the brute—carefully—to toss him around a bit. Arad had agreed, though he thought the idea silly; in Somria, the faster one dispatched an opponent, the more respect one ear
ned. In Benn’s Harbour, though, the audience liked to see an entertaining match, and Rast said he’d win more fans this way. So Arad worked on his breakfalls, and even met with the farmhand so they could both express honourable good sportsmanship to each other. Arad found this even more odd—wasn’t good sportsmanship expected among practitioners of krakar? But he had to remind himself yet again that these people were not students of krakar, but simple wrestling. Technically there was no difference, but their studies seemed to lack the traditional focus on morals and spirit, which was assumed back home. In any case, it was interesting to meet his future opponent before the match, and though he didn’t understand a word the farmer said in his thick rural accent, the encounter was congenial enough.
It was the night before the match, and Arad was having his typical pre-match jitters. He was in his room practicing the oratory he intended to deliver prior to wrestling—another tradition Horth said was not generally practiced in Benn’s Harbour, but it wasn’t unheard of, and the trainer said it would enhance his “mystique” as a foreign competitor—when he heard what he would later come to refer to as “the Voice”.
He had just placed his script on his pallet, having spent the evening composing it, when suddenly he thought to himself: Go to the stage.
Practice took place in the training room, or on the grounds outside; other than the meeting with his future opponent earlier that day, he hadn’t spent any time in the stadium proper at all. There was no reason for him to go to the stage.
He had dismissed it as an errant thought with a shake of his head, when it came again, more forcefully.
Go to the stage now, Arad.
It was as if someone else had said that out loud, except there was no sound, and the voice inside his head was his own.
Why should I go there? he thought.
Just go.
That startled him more than anything–it was as if he was having a conversation inside his head!
Tell me why? he asked again inside his mind, but there was no reply.
Either he was going completely mad, and that just before his first match, or . . . or what?
He didn’t have any other explanations for the experience, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t going mad.
If I was going mad, would I know it?
He didn’t expect a reply to that, and received none, so he just pulled a tunic over his head, slipped on a pair of leather sandals, and started making his way down the silent, stone-tiled hallway towards the stage.
5 CONFLUENCE
The “stage” was an arena shaped like a half circle, with seating that rose steeply facing the curved side. Compared to the stadiums Arad had competed at in Somria, it was fairly small; he doubted it would seat more than three hundred spectators. All would have an excellent view, though; the highest stone benches, cut into the hillside behind the stage, nearly looked straight down on the wrestling ground, which was about ten paces along its flat side. The surface was dirt covered in the coarse fabric Arad had come to dread so much; he doubted being thrown down on it would be a pleasant experience, however soft the ground beneath.
Along the flat side was the athlete’s standing area. “Standers”, wrestlers who were waiting to compete, would stand there in a line, forming a barrier along the flat side of the stage, ready to push back combatants straying from the centre. The force with which they pushed varied from town to town; in some tournaments Arad had found himself wrestling right along the waiting athletes’ legs, even pressed against them as an obstacle; in other stadiums, he had been thrown so forcefully back into the middle by the standers that he had nearly lost the match as a result, and would stay away from the edge thereafter if he could help it. In the latter stadiums, techniques had been developed, not surprisingly, to press an opponent into the standers and take advantage of the resulting assault on him.
Now there were no standers, of course. The stage was completely empty and dark; other than a few shafts of light streaming in from oil lamps on the street, only trace starlight from the open sky lit the area. There was no moon; Arad couldn’t recall if it was a new moon or if it was just hidden by the few clouds that darkened the night sky. From beyond the stadium he heard the boisterous voices of carousers outside nearby taverns; there were many in this area of the city. Spectators loved to drink after a contest, and athletes were occasionally known to join them; the mere possibility of this was enough to pack all the nearby taverns on tournament nights. Tonight wasn’t a tournament night, but fans tended to frequent the local taverns on other nights as well—perhaps reminding themselves of the excitement of the previous match, or in heated discussion of matches to come.
In any case, the stage was empty. A high stone wall around the compound blocked out most of the tavern noise, so the stage was full of muted echoes. There was nothing of interest here; whatever the voice in his head had been, it appeared to have led him here purposelessly. Perhaps it was just nerves.
Arad turned to head back into the apartments, and as he did, his eye caught a shadow against the night sky; someone was sitting in the highest row of seats, silhouetted against the stars.
“Rast?” He tried to block the brighter lamplight with his hand, but it didn’t help. Arad wouldn’t expect the former champion to be up so late, but Horth was an early riser and already deep in sleep by now, and the other athletes would be trying to get good rest before the exhibition matches tomorrow. Arad wasn’t the only one looking to make a name for himself—all of the others would be wrestling in the morning, most against each other; Horth believed in giving his students as much experience before a crowd as possible. Besides, it was a chance for the stadium to make some extra coin; more spectators always attended a larger show, even if it wasn’t an official tournament.
Whoever the figure was, he didn’t answer. Arad stepped forward into the shadow of the hillside, shading his eyes to help them adjust. “Who’s there?”
“Please leave, yarn man,” said a small voice. “Are big forget this for stabbing you.”
“What?” Arad exclaimed, startled. It was a girl! Despite an involuntary flash of alarm at what he thought he had heard, he knew he had to be mistaken—it made no sense at all. “Could you repeat that, young lady?”
“Ice greens, yarn man. Yard trundenstan,” the girl said.
Arad couldn’t see more than her outline, but she sounded younger than him. The accent was even worse than the farmhand’s had been; it might as well have been a foreign language for all he could puzzle out. He moved slowly to the base of the steps leading up the hillside, holding his hands up, palms out. At the bottom of the hill, he placed his hand on his chest, and bowed his head; a hybrid of the local and his own land’s introduction gesture, but it would serve well to demonstrate his meaning.
“I am Arad,” he said slowly and clearly.
The girl rustled slightly as he approached the steps; for a moment Arad thought she might run, but when he stopped, she seemed to change her mind. He could see her a bit better now; she had long hair, light in colour as was so common here. She looked fairly small.
After his introduction, she paused for a long time. Finally, she answered. “Arm Sayri,” she said.
・
She had been sitting on the bench for a long while. Sayri’s arrival in Benn’s Harbour had been less than heartening; outside the city on the road, a group of warders—wearing Lord Perrile’s colours—were patrolling the area, likely looking for her. She had waited until the cover of night, gazing down on the bowl-shaped cityscape from her perch atop a nearby hill, watching people move in and out of the houses, listening longingly to music from the taverns and drooling at the smell of fresh meats cooking on firepits therein.
Finally, well after dark, she had slipped down the hillside opposite the main road, hopped over a low rock wall into a farmyard, then found an alley running down toward the harbour. She didn’t have a plan, but she followed the alley; she had to go somewhere, and she hoped it led . . . somewhere safe. That had led to a l
arge building that was two stories high, as many were in this place (to her astonishment!), with a hillside at its back. She scaled the hill from the back and looked down into the courtyard; it was a theatre of some sort, closed for the night, with benches running up the hill. Sayri hopped over the low wall at the crest of the hill and sat down on the top bench, and tried to organize her thoughts.
If the warders had come all this way looking for her, they would certainly be in the city too. That meant she couldn’t show her face; if she was going to avoid them in the city for a year, she needed some sort of disguise.
She had been fruitlessly attempting to come up with some sort of plan, when someone walked into the theatre.
He stood in the centre of the stage below, looking up at the seating area as though he meant to perform. Sayri ducked her head down to avoid being seen, but the man was muttering to himself, not even looking around him. She didn’t think he’d survive very long in the hills around the Lower Valley—a boxcat would probably get him before a day passed, if he didn’t wander into a clump of fetchgrass first.
From what Sayri could see he looked fairly young. He was shorter than most men, quite broad across the shoulders, and he was only wearing a loincloth and a short tunic—barely covering his privates, to her dismay; her cheeks reddened as if he might have seen her looking—and he was, to put it simply, spectacularly well muscled. No farmer had a physique like that; Sayri guessed he was a warrior. His face was clean-shaven, and shaped unlike most men’s she had seen; his jaw more square, his eyes . . . were looking right at her! She tried to scrunch down even more.
Too late. He said something, looking up at her; a name, maybe. Sayri considered her options, glancing back at the wall behind her. It wouldn’t be hard to slip away, but then he might call for warders, thinking her a thief.
“Who’s there?” he asked in a hushed voice. He had an odd accent; she didn’t recognize it—a foreigner perhaps. At least he wasn’t yelling out.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 6