by Nick Webb
He awoke at dawn, quite uncharacteristically, and leaped out of bed. He hurriedly dressed in some light underclothes and wriggled into his armor, strapping it to his body and belting the sword to his waist. With helmet in hand, he ran down the two flights of stairs, grabbing a hunk of bread and a small wedge of cheese from the kitchen as he dashed out the door. The pre-tournament started at half an hour past sunrise and he had no desire to be late.
Seeing the sun rise over the white granite of the lord of the city’s estate in the distance, he sprinted down his street, and within ten minutes arrived at the tournament grounds near the citadel. He saw a crowd of men and a few women gathered already as he approached, and looked over their heads for Priam. His friend had not arrived yet, so he mingled with the crowd, greeting those he knew and making small talk until the event began.
“Hey Aeden, how’s it going?” Thomas, a tall, lanky nobleman’s son who often accompanied Aeden during his visits to the pub approached him.
“Good, Thomas, quite good. You? Say,” he continued, without waiting for a response, “have you seen Demetrius? You know, Demetrius Dydonna? Lord Dydonna’s son?”
“Nah. I heard they both got called away to the capital city. Urgent business from the king’s steward himself.”
“And Joseph? Joseph Emry? Lord Emry’s son?”
“What, you didn’t hear?”
A lump formed in Aeden’s throat. “No.”
“Joe was walking through the southern quarter last night in a rougher neighborhood, and some thugs attacked him. Stabbed him all over. Good thing someone found him and took him to the healers or he’d be a goner. No chance he’ll be there tomorrow.”
Aeden felt sick. Had his father arranged this? Lord Dydonna, sure. But poor Joe Emry? Father didn’t even know any thugs.
Soon, the Swordmaster, who also served as captain of the city guard, approached the crowd. Where was Priam? The burly, mustached man faced them all and gruffly called out, “Alright ladies! And … you too, ladies,” he added awkwardly, acknowledging the armored women who had also assembled. Aeden heard a whisper in his ear.
“Did I miss anything yet?” Priam huddled up close to his friend.
“No. He just called you a woman. But you knew that,” he whispered back.
The Swordmaster continued, “Today, you will all be fighting a member of the city guard. You will be observed by yet more members of the city guard, who will then rank you and place you within your age group. The lists will be announced this afternoon.”
“Now then. Those entering the sixteen- through nineteen-year-old division, stand over there by that wall,” he said, pointing to his right. “Those entering the twenty to twenty-five division, stand behind me by the stands there, those entering the twenty-six to thirty-five division, stand over there by that wall.” He pointed to his left. “The thirty-six through fifty-fives stay here, and the rest of you grandpas go stand by that tree.” The crowd dispersed, Aeden and Priam separating since Lord Rossam had not made similar arrangements for Priam as he did for his son, and Aeden approached a tall, well-armored warrior who looked to be in his late twenties.
“Hey, you look younger than nineteen!” said the man, looking Aeden up and down.
“I’m seventeen. But the Lord Caldamon gave me special permission to compete in this division. Ask him yourself.”
The man muttered something about nobility under his breath, and said, “Alright then, it’s your burial. Now, pay attention all of you, I don’t want to repeat any of this. My name is Jack. Sir Jack if you know your manners. Each of you will fight either me, or my lovely assistant here, Katrin.” He motioned to a short, armored young woman at his side, who flashed a bubbly smile and waved at them all.
“And those people over there,” he motioned to a table at which were seated two formidable women, and a man, whose face Aeden had hoped not to see that day, “will judge you. We only need to duel for a minute. Do not worry if you lose before then, you will continue until the judges are satisfied.”
The judges. They were the judges. Those two women, one petite but whose imperious manner suggested horseplay and foolery would not be tolerated, the other larger and with bright red hair tied back in a ponytail, and him. The younger Lord Bleak. An unnatural, toothy grin splayed out over the man’s face when he saw Aeden looking at him.
“The rules,” said Sir Jack. He looked at them all with an intensity of someone who adored rules. “You lose if you sustain five direct, solid hits on your armor by a sword, or if you sustain two bleeding wounds anywhere, or,” he paused, “if you yield, if you fall and cannot get up, or if you flee the battlefield. You may laugh, but I actually saw it happen once.…” Some of the men chuckled.
“And, needless to say, if you die—” he added quickly, almost as an afterthought, “—please don’t kill each other. Remember as well, according to ancient tradition, touching your opponent’s head with your hand grants you two points, but only once per round. And if your opponent falls, you may deliver no scoring blows until he gets on his feet. Let us begin. Form two lines, one for myself, one for my lovely assistant—I assure you, she is much deadlier than she looks, ladies and gentlemen!” Katrin smiled and waved at them again, and, seeing Aeden, put her hand to her lips and mockingly blew a seductive kiss.
The crowd of young men and women divided themselves into two lines. Sir Jack drew his sword and bellowed out to them all, “When you approach, clearly state your name. Begin!”
The first woman in the line approached Sir Jack and shouted out, “Shawna Ruthinburg!” and drew her sword. She lunged at Sir Jack, the man easily parrying her blow, and the two tangled in a flash of swords. Aeden looked over at Katrin and the man she dueled, a short, stocky young nobleman with a shaved head. Within seconds, he witnessed Katrin block several powerful strokes from the man, and in turn managed to score three solid hits against his torso before he even realized what was happening. When the minute was up, the short bald man had received seven hits and only managed to score one hit against Katrin. He swore as the judges held up their hands, motioning for them to stop, and marched over to the stream, hurling his sword at the ground.
“I’m glad we’re in his line,” the man behind Aeden murmured in his ear, pointing to Sir Jack. His opponent, a woman and an aggressive fighter by the looks of her, had managed to get in two solid blows on him, but before the minute expired, he also racked up five hits against her.
“Next!” Sir Jack yelled.
The man in front of Aeden stepped forward, drew his sword and announced, “John Hillrest!” He stepped towards Sir Jack and the two circled each other for a moment before going at it, striking and dodging and blocking. A minute later, the man emerged with only two hits against him, though scoring none against Sir Jack. Aeden readied himself.
“What are you waiting for?” Sir Jack called, and Aeden stepped forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone at the judge’s table stand up.
“If you don’t mind, Sir Jack, I will take this one.” Sir Jack wheeled around to face Lord Bleak, who held up a hand to ward off his protest. “No, I insist. Just this one. Really, man, you can’t expect me to sit here all day and watch this action without getting some myself. Take a break, sir.” He motioned to his now vacant chair.
Reluctantly, Sir Jack heaved into it. He looked at Aeden. “What are you waiting for?”
“Aeden Rossam!” He drew his sword and bounded towards Lord Bleak. If the fool wanted a fight, he’d give him one. One he wouldn’t soon forget. In one deft motion, Aeden swatted the other man’s sword aside and struck him on the shoulder-guard of his armor. Lord Bleak brought his sword down hard on his arm—still extended from the blow—and it was that moment that Aeden noticed the other man’s sword was sharpened far more than a dueling blade should be. It cut deep into his forearm. Several spectators gasped.
Gritting his teeth, Aeden withdrew and circled the man, coming in more measuredly the second time. The grip of his sword felt wet, but he didn’t loo
k down. After a quick flurry of swordplay, Lord Bleak landed another blow, this time across his chest, but it bounced harmlessly off his breastplate.
Grunting in anger, Aeden rained down a series of strikes on the man, scoring a hit, but getting his sword knocked out of his hand in the process, getting hit twice more on his armor before he could recover. Blood streamed from his arm, and in the final few seconds Lord Bleak thrust his sword at Aeden as he reached down for his own blade, plunging it deep into his shoulder.
Aeden bit his tongue. There was no way he’d give the dog the satisfaction of seeing him cry out. Worse, as Lord Bleak yanked the sword back, Aeden could hear the sickening sound of metal on metal—the metal blade had gone straight to the metal bone. The judges and Sir Jack held up their hands. Aeden grimaced, and bowed to the man before walking away, heading towards the stream for a drink, aware of the warm trickle down both his upper and lower sword-arm. Behind him he could hear Sir Jack protest Lord Bleak’s ruthless performance.
Priam sat on the bank, having also just finished his bout. “I didn’t even get in a hit!” the boy cried. “The man I was fighting was twice my age and nearly double my size!”
Aeden collapsed next to his friend and winced, “Yeah, mine was pretty good too. I got in one hit. But he connected four times. Two a little more deeply than the others.” With a grunt, he unstrapped his armor, revealing the ugly gash on the forearm and the pierced shoulder. Priam gaped.
“Yours did that to you? What for? Seems a little harsh.”
“It was Lord Bleak. The fool that caught us last week in the barracks. Seems he got his revenge.” Aeden dipped the bloody arm in the stream, holding his breath as the cold crept into the oozing wound. His shoulder bled less, but he knew by the feel of it that Bleak had cut clear through his shoulder muscle.
“Are you going to be able to fight in the tournament like that?” Priam couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Aeden’s gory shoulder.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Aeden wanted to believe it, but in truth he could hardly feel his arm anymore. His fingertips tingled, and his shoulder had gone numb. He glared over at the judge’s table, where Lord Bleak had reassumed his chair and now lazily watched another duel, a faint satisfaction on his face. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Aeden had hoped to slip into the family estate unnoticed, but it was not to be. Harvey, the family’s steward, greeted Aeden as he opened the front door, and Lord Rossam, hearing the greeting, marched out of his study. The man looked at Aeden’s arm, the usual frown on his face deepening into a scowl.
“What happened?”
“Just the pre-trials. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Your arm is covered in blood.” Lord Rossam stated the obvious—his arm was indeed still dripping, dripping onto the pristine marble floor. And yet the man didn’t even move to offer a hand, or anything to staunch the bleeding. Thankfully, Harvey reappeared moments later with some cloth and began wrapping the wounds.
“Yeah, it’s ok. Just a flesh wound. Really, father, it’s nothing.”
The man eyed Aeden suspiciously. “Who did it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You lie. Tell me, or you’ll be punished”.
“One of the judges. I can’t remember his name.” Aeden waved a hand—his good hand—as if he were trying to remember but couldn’t.
“One of the judges? Since when do the judges duel the tournament contestants?” Lord Rossam took a menacing step toward Aeden. “Again I ask, are you lying to me? Tell me what you and that sewer rat have been up to. What have you been doing? Why would you be so reckless the day before the tournament?”
So. His father didn’t even think he’d been at the pre-trials. “I was there, father, really. I was to fight Sir Jack, but after three duels he got tired and needed a rest. One of the judges offered to help out. That’s all. Everyone was there—they all saw it. I’m not hiding anything.” Believe me, he thought. Believe me.
Lord Rossam, who had been inspecting Aeden’s shoulder, snapped his head back to face him, with an odd look on his face. The scowl returned. “Very well. Get cleaned up. Get some rest. You’ll need it after this. And Aeden,” he said, as Aeden walked towards the bathhouse, “our deal still stands. Win your bracket, and you enter the royal guard. Lose, and it’s off to the warm spittoon with you.”
The warm spittoon. Aeden almost cried when he looked at his shoulder again—all he could see was the future arm of a useless priest.
Four
“And Galen spoke unto them, saying, ‘Thunderspeak I am, for at the mountain of thunder I abode and from my lips proceed the words of the Creator, for he filled me with his power and his strength, revealed to me my inner spirit and my true self, and showed me the beginning and the ending of all things …” –The Lay of Galen Thunderspeak
The crowd at the tournament was simply enormous. Thousands packed into the stands, and thousands more stood on the hill overlooking the grounds.
Tournament organizers had divided the vast lawn into four dueling areas, such that all in the crowd could see all four duels at once. The Rossams sent a servant the previous evening to check the schedule, so the boys knew that they both could sit in the crowd for about an hour before Priam started his first duel, and another half an hour before Aeden started his.
As Aeden explained it to Cassandra, his sister who bobbled along beside him on the way there, each duel actually consisted of a series of three duels, each of five points, or until one combatant was disqualified in a manner described the day before. The winner of two rounds won the match, and the tournament was single elimination: one loss ended the day for a combatant. He tried explaining more, but her constant chatter and prattle made him give up.
He couldn’t feel most of his arm. His fingertips had stopped tingling, replaced instead with a dull, heavy feeling, as if they were frozen and just now thawing. Harvey, the steward, had wrapped up both wounds tightly, and had strapped his armor on for him, but he could hardly lift his sword without sharp pain in his shoulder. He resigned himself to fighting left-handed, which meant death for him in the tournament, or worse, last place.
As the family ascended the steps to their seats in the noble section of the stands, a robed figure caught his eye with a wave. Aeden’s eyes went wide at the sight of the master healer, the memory of the man’s frightful demonstration still fresh on his mind. The man waved him over. Reluctantly, Aeden approached the man.
“Well, Aeden? I’m looking forward to seeing you duel. Are you all ready?” The man clapped his hands together.
“Yes, sir. I’ll try not to disappoint.” He turned to rejoin his family, but an arm grabbed his.
“Aeden? Is something wrong with your arm? It’s wrapped.” The master healer looked down at his forearm. Aeden saw that a spot of blood had seeped up through the cloth. With a thumb, the master healer pressed on the spot, and Aeden couldn’t help but wince. Stabbing pain like this only came with infection, Aeden knew, and he yearned for the day to be over already, though it hadn’t even begun yet.
“May I heal it?”
Aeden could tell that the look on his own face told the master healer what he really thought. “Um…”
“Come now, Aeden. I’ve healed you before. Look, what I did the other day, it’s nothing mysterious. Nothing dangerous. Nothing evil.” He pulled Aeden in closer, speaking almost in his ear. “All it means is that you are special. You are more than just a noble, or just a commoner, or even just a man. The fact that you could hear me so easily means that you have the potential for power. You don’t need to fear me.”
Aeden forced a thin smile. “I don’t. Really, I don’t.”
“Then let me heal you.” Aeden had no reply, and so the man released his arm and touched him on the head. Almost instantly, the heaviness fled from his fingertips, and within moments, he noticed he could feel his entire arm again. A minute later, the man opened his eyes, and smiled. “There.”
Aeden lifted his arm and rotated hi
s shoulder. No pain. Not even a hint. He ripped off the cloth covering his forearm and inspected it. Nothing. No blood, no cut—just a faint scar where the wound had been.
“I’m truly sorry for the scar. If we had been at the clinic I might have been able to heal it completely,” said the master healer.
“But … how …” Aeden mumbled. He rotated his shoulder several more times.
“You’re a rohva, Aeden. As am I. You may have heard that word before in the Chronicles and legend. All it means is that we’re special. And if you do well today, I’ll tell you more.” He took Aeden by the arm again and pointed up towards his family and Priam, who were now seated high in the stands. “Go.”
The first several matches enlivened the crowd—which roared its approval—cheering the winners, who ran around the rings with their arms raised to coax more noise from the people every time they won. The smell of cooked meats, hot breads, and ale permeated the air, as a jubilant cacophony of cheering, singing, shouting, booing, and laughing swirled about, though to Aeden, much of it was a blur. All he could think about was the master healer.
How was it possible? Just a scar was all that remained of the wounds on both his forearm and shoulder. With a smirk, he remembered the source of the wounds. Lord Bleak would not be happy to see him in action today, as if nothing had happened.
And Aeden let that thought distract him from his amazement, and gave him a task to focus on for the day. His goal: smile at Lord Bleak from the victor’s stage.