by Davis Ashura
Rukh shook his head. “Just the Kummas this time. You’ll see why.”
Rukh, Farn, and Keemo formed up in a line along with all the others from their Caste in B Company. Lieutenant Pume had arrived as well.
“Step away from the wagons!” the lieutenant yelled at several Murans and Rahails who were still pilfering the supplies or frantically lighting torches and tossing them into the ironwood wagons. Their efforts were unnecessary. When they saw the Kummas lined up and ready, they immediately understood what was about to happen and scrambled out of the way.
“Fire,” Pume said.
To a man, the Kummas glowed. An instant later, Fireballs launched from their hands with a dull boom. They crashed into the wagons, which didn’t so much catch fire as simply explode. Splinters of wood littered the ground as thick, black smoke curled upward, panicking some of the horses.
Rukh watched the wagons burn. Strange. It was like watching his hopes for the future burn to ash and drift away. Only two months ago, he’d been so sure of his place in the world, and now…this. He remembered the last time he had been certain of anything.
The smell of seared meat, falafel, and samosas carried throughout Glory Stadium, briefly reminding Rukh of his hunger. He glanced around, taking in a few last impressions before his upcoming fight. Looming over him from where he stood on the floor of the stadium was the crowd. Over fifty thousand people, and they droned like a nest of angry bees. The weather was cool, but the bowl of the Coliseum was an oven, trapping the day’s heat. The last rays of the twilight sun shone like a beacon into the eyes of those in the western-facing stands. Shadows crept long across the arena floor and over much of the high, unadorned, white wall that framed the pitch.
This was the moment Rukh had dreamt of his entire life. He just never thought it would arrive while he was still so young – only twenty-one. In fact, his entry into the Tournament had been nothing more than a lark. He had only wanted to test himself and get an honest assessment of his skills in comparison to those who were counted as Ashoka’s finest warriors. The men Rukh had faced thus far were far more accomplished than he was. They had already fought their Trials and their battles. They had years of experience, if not skill, over him. Rukh never reckoned he might actually go as far as he had. He’d merely hoped to win a few matches if he was lucky, gain some experience for the next time, but this result…he could never have imagined it. The Finals.
He was broken from his reverie by a loud call to silence.
“Two warriors have entered the Coliseum of Ashoka. Only one will leave a champion. Only one will exit a legend,” Fol Nacket, the Magistrate of Caste Cherid, and de facto ruler of the city of Ashoka and her surrounding Oasis called into the growing silence. He sat in the west-facing stands and the sun reflected brightly off his white hair and his handsome, almost pretty face. Beside him were the other Magistrates – seven all told, one from each Caste. Behind the assembled rulers sat close family members of the two combatants: mothers, fathers, and siblings. Further back were the high members of Caste Kumma, such as the ‘Els – the individual Heads of each House – along with their spouses and children. And scattered throughout the rest of the stadium, claiming most of the best seats were other Kummas. People unrelated to the two combatants. It wasn’t unusual for them to be seated so well. After all, for this event it was only right for the warrior Caste to have pride of placement even if some believed that precedence wasn’t always earned, but rather assumed.
Rukh chided himself. Now wasn’t the time to consider Kumma arrogance.
Magistrate Nacket continued in his deep, resonant baritone made even louder by the power of his Jivatma. “For two weeks now, these two magnificent combatants have tested their skill, their strength, their courage, and their will against all opponents. They do so in honor of the greatest warrior, the greatest Kumma to ever grace this fallen world. Thus, every three years in his name do we hold here in Ashoka – and simultaneously in the cities throughout the rest of the world – the Tournament of Hume!”
While the magistrate was talking, Rukh measured his final opponent, Kinsu Makren, the defending Grand Champion. The older Kumma was also a Shektan, and three years earlier, an eighteen year-old Rukh had watched in awe as his kinsman had dismantled one opponent after another with astonishing ease. In this tournament, Kinsu had been even more brutally efficient in the destruction of those unlucky enough to come against him.
And now, it fell to Rukh to fight this man. Not only did Rukh have to overcome his hero-worship, but he also had to settle his nerves. Anxiety could sometimes act as an asset for a warrior, providing a burst of adrenaline, but more often than not, it simply distracted – like now. Rukh was a bundle of nervous energy.
He focused on his breathing, trying to will himself to a calm state.
By comparison, Kinsu, who stood thirty feet away, appeared as tranquil and composed as a winter lake. No ripples to mar his perfection. Unexpectedly, Kinsu winked at him, grinning impiously and looking like an indulgent older brother.
Rukh hid a scowl. He knew what Kinsu was doing. The man was trying to get under his skin; put him off balance and make him easier to defeat. He was only doing what Rukh had been taught by the Martial Masters of the House of Fire and Mirrors: take any advantage needed for victory and survival. For a warrior, those were the only two matters of importance, and in that order. In fact, Kinsu had actually been one of Rukh’s instructors at the school. He must have remembered how much Rukh hated being patronized.
Rukh closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, letting out his anger and anxiety. Focus on something else. He made himself pay attention as Magistrate Nacket continued his speech.
The man was in full volley. “Even now, across the world in far off cities such as Fearless, Samsoul, and Defiance, even in fabled Mockery, men battle, fighting to win the coveted title of Grand Champion of the Tournament of Hume,” he said in a stentorian roar. “So, we must know: who was this Hume that we should offer such glory to his name?” He paused rhetorically as he glanced over the crowd as if he was awaiting an answer.
Before anyone could interrupt or respond, he continued. “Hume Telrest, the greatest son of the lost city of Hammer, was the finest warrior to ever walk the green fields of Arisa. A Kumma of unsurpassable speed and strength, his skill and daring with the sword was said to be the equal of any other three. He was implacable in battle, known to have faced death countless times and yet, never to have tasted defeat. And who are we to say the legends lie, for it is a fact that Hume Telrest faced the Trials with unflinching courage twenty times, an unbelievable feat when no other Kumma in all of history has faced it even nine!”
The crowd cheered, and the magistrate let them, holding up his hands as though the accolade was for him. He let them go on a moment longer before gesturing once more for silence.
He continued in a more somber tone. “But despite his accomplishments, Hume was not overly-proud. He remained a humble man, a servant of his city and, in truth, of all Humanity. He called himself a simple warrior, but we all know he was so much more. He was the embodiment of all we know a Kumma strives to be: a man of courage, honor, decency, and humility. A man who puts the needs of others above of his own. He fought an unyielding battle, but in the end, not even his indomitable will and valor could save his doomed city, storied Hammer.
“For when the city was attacked by hordes of Chimeras, Hume would slay a hundred, but there were always a thousand more to take their place. Three Plagues attacked his proud city, and in the end…” Fol bent his head, and from where Rukh stood, in the bowl of the arena, the Magistrate looked to be holding back tears. Cherids were known for being overly sentimental and emotional. “…in the end, with the city in flames and his family murdered, with Chimeras running amok in the streets, and the Sorrow Bringer Herself, Suwraith, raging with madness in the skies above, Hume Telrest, the last son of heavenly Hammer, was felled. But it was not by the savage, scurrilous hand of some nameless Chimera. No. His bod
y bore no mark nor any wound. Rather, Hume Telrest was ended by his broken heart; shattered in spirit just as his city was in truth.”
The crowd remained silent and respectful. They all knew the legends and myths – everything from the Days of Hume to the melancholy song Woe of Hammer – but still they enjoyed hearing the stories again.
“And today, this very evening,” the magistrate intoned, his voice seeming to gain power, “we ourselves will witness history. Two Kummas, both worthy of the title Grand Champion, shall do battle, armed only with a shoke, neither offering quarter, neither conceding any ground. It is the final battle of the Tournament. And there can be only one Champion!”
The crowd roared.
Rukh loosely gripped his shoke, the weapon in question. It was a slender, wooden sword with a slight curve at its tip. Used only for training and tournaments, the blade was the color of black walnut with a blue-purple tint and an oily sheen. Beyond a dull edge, it otherwise perfectly mimicked the single-edged swords favored by Kummas in balance, length, and shape. When struck, a shoke caused a pain and paralysis that was as true a representation as possible of the damage inflicted by an edged weapon without actually causing permanent injury or risking death.
Magistrate Nacket continued. “One of these men is well known to us and is, in fact, the defending Hume Champion. Kinsu Makren!” he said, gesturing imperiously in Kinsu’s direction. “Survivor of five Trials. Slayer of five hundred Chims…” The last was a patent exaggeration, but Cherids did love embellishing a good story. “Now, attempting a feat not done in a century: successful defense of the title of Grand Champion. Should he succeed, surely his name must be written alongside those of the other great warriors of history, to be revered for time immemorial!”’
Again, the crowd roared in response and stomped their feet. Some drunken bravo could be heard over the throng, yelling for Kinsu to strike down the arrogant whelp. Kinsu made no motion or indication that he had heard the words. He politely acknowledged the cheers as he waved to the audience.
Rukh flicked a glance at Kinsu, studying his opponent, hoping to find some sign of weakness. His eyes narrowed in speculation. Kinsu’s posture and carriage was of a man who was tense. Were those lines of worry around his eyes? Rukh couldn’t be sure, but maybe Kinsu was more concerned about the outcome of this match than Rukh suspected. After all, Kinsu was thirty-five, which wasn’t old – but maybe it was old enough. Perhaps he was feeling the fatigue that came from fighting fifteen matches in two weeks. And perhaps he was not as strong as Rukh feared.
A smile of pleasure almost broke across Rukh’s face, but he quickly schooled his features to stillness, doing his best to hide his sudden hope. Instead, he considered the possibility of victory as he idly scratched at the skin under one of his Constrainers, the leather vambraces worn by all combatants in the Tournament as a means to suppress the expression of their Jivatma. Until now, triumphing over Kinsu had only seemed a fantasy, but maybe there was a way. Belief was the first step to achievement, as his nanna liked to say. Nanna had a lot of sayings like that, and they usually turned out to have a grain of truth to them. Another of Nanna’s aphorisms was this: show me someone who accepts losing, and I’ll show you someone who will lose. Rukh had never considered himself a loser. He hadn’t always won, but he’d never given up the fight before it had even begun.
He nodded to himself. There it was. He wouldn’t lay down for Kinsu. Win or lose, he’d leave it all on the arena floor. It was the best any man could hope to do.
The magistrate held his hands up again for silence, and the throng quieted to a dull murmur. “And his opponent. Rukh Shektan, the elder son of Dar’El Shektan, Head of House Shektan. Rumors state that he is perhaps the finest warrior to train within the walls of any of the Martial Colleges of Ashoka in a generation. It seems, rumor must be fact, for no one in living memory has entered the Tournament as a Virgin to the Trials. And yet here he stands, in the finale itself, a magnificent achievement and a true testament to his skill, his House, and his Martial Masters of the House of Fire and Mirrors! Should he win or lose, he will be heard from again. And most assuredly, will he do well in his Trials and face the evils of the Wildness with unflinching courage!”
The crowd interrupted with cheers once more. This time it was Rukh’s turn to smile and wave acknowledgement to the assemblage. His smile faltered when he heard the same bravo who had called for Kinsu to strike him down, now yelling something coarse about his parentage. Rukh ground his teeth. “Jackhole,” he muttered under his breath.
Once the throng had settled, Magistrate Nacket continued. “Today, this very evening, Rukh Shektan will attempt the improbable. Perhaps the impossible. Success he has had. Great success. But now he must face Kinsu Makren, the reigning Grand Champion,” he pointed dramatically at Rukh’s opponent who stared impassively forward. “A man who has never known defeat within the Tournament!”
The crowd seemed bent on cheering themselves hoarse at every mention of Kinsu’s name. “Should Rukh Shektan – the elder son of the ruling ‘El of House Shektan – succeed, he will be legend, for never has there been a Virgin Grand Champion.” The magistrate continued, his voice swelling with power, soaring to every corner of the Coliseum. “Should he succeed, it may be that someday, we will compare his exploits with that of Hume himself!”
The crowd greeted this last statement with initial cheers which trailed off into confused mutterings. A loud guffaw of amazed disbelief broke across the arena and scattered chuckles arose here and there. Fol Nacket glanced around, looking offended. Exaggeration was as natural to a Cherid as water to a fish, but comparing a Virgin, no matter how skilled, to Hume? Ridiculous.
Rukh himself shared the crowd’s sentiment and he flushed with embarrassment. He reddened further when Kinsu grinned and bowed melodramatically as if in acknowledgement of Rukh’s superiority. The older Kumma’s actions set the crowd to laughing and now even Magistrate Nacket chuckled in good humor. The laughter spread and the throng began shouting, “RUKH SAI! RUKH SAI! RUKH SAI!” They gave him the chant reserved for the Grand Champion upon his victory.
Rukh smiled. He chuckled with them, raising his shoke in the air, and throwing his head back as if he were basking in the crowd’s adoration. It set off a fresh round of cheers and laughter.
After the assemblage settled down again, the magistrate continued. “And now gentleman,” he said speaking specifically to Rukh and Kinsu, “prepare yourselves. Glory awaits one of you tonight!”
Rukh had trouble believing what was about to happen. He conducted his Jivatma, his spiritual essence – some would say his soul. His senses heightened, and he twitched, ready to explode into eye-blurring movement. His breathing came easier. His focus narrowed on Kinsu to the exclusion of all else. Rukh tightened his grip on the bamboo hilt of his shoke, lifting it to the ready.
Soon. Get ready. Be strong. Focus.
He noticed Kinsu’s grim determination as well.
The roar of the crowd faded, and the last he knew of the outside world was when he heard a single word shouted from the mouth of Magistrate Nacket. “Fight!”
Rukh leaped forward, his jump carrying him seven feet vertically, one-third his normal ability.
A blue Fireball passed below. It exploded against the white wall ringing the arena. Those who had been sitting near where it impacted shouted with fear and reflexively threw their hands up to protect their faces. No one was at risk though. The Constrainers made sure of that. They damped a person’s Well so the worst injury anyone hit by a Fireball might have would be a mild sunburn. Of course, for the combatants, to be so struck would be counted a deathblow and signal the end of the fight.
Rukh dimly noted all this as he drew more Jivatma from his Well and threw up a Shield. A dull green light glowed about him. Kinsu continued with Fireballs and sparks of red flashed to the ground in an angry counterpoint when they collided with Rukh’s Shield.
They were hard blows, and Rukh knew he couldn’t take an endless num
ber of them. He dodged a few more, while still in midair before landing. He paused, swiftly considering his options. He was motionless for less than a split second as Kinsu sprang forward. Rukh watched, waiting for the right moment. When it came, he leaped forward to meet his opponent. They clashed high above the ground, their bodies parallel with the arena floor as they exchanged blistering strokes. Then they swept past one another. Rukh turned in mid-air to keep Kinsu before him. He threw a Fireball. It screamed through the air before colliding in a coruscation of light against Kinsu’s Shield. They completed their leaps and landed lightly on their feet, facing one another.
Even with the Constrainers, the two warriors moved at speeds that left most of the crowd breathless. In fact, only the Kummas in the audience were truly able to follow their motions.
Rukh breathed easily. He felt strong and fast. The first pass had gone well. He was confident in the handling of his shoke, even in comparison to Kinsu.
He took a chance. He drew deeply on his Well, and his Shield briefly glowed more brightly. Rukh leapt up, mirroring Kinsu. He released a Fire Shower, an energy wave that raced outward in all directions, potentially killing everything unShielded in its path. Kinsu was knocked further upwards and back by the concussive blast when the Shower impacted his Shield.
Though the Fire Shower left him unShielded, Rukh was prepared to race forward and attack. But Kinsu had already recovered with a controlled somersault. The older Kumma threw a Fireball.
Rukh bent backward at his knees, holding his torso and thighs parallel to the ground as the glowing orb passed above. He twisted to the right and snapped upward, spinning and jumping all in the same motion as he evaded another Fireball. He did a front somersault over another one and landed on his feet, facing Kinsu. He re-ignited his Shield and allowed Kinsu’s next Fireball to impact harmlessly against it.
Not bad.
Rukh was somewhat impressed by the maneuvers he’d just pulled off, but an instant later, his eyes widened in consternation.