Cinders: The Untold Story of Cinderella

by Finley Aaron

  Gustav’s beady eyes twinkled. “I’ve watched him fight. I’d like to see him soundly beaten. You can do it.”

  “Do you really think I can?” Ella asked, quite unsure of herself.

  “He’s got a weakness. Every swordsman does.”

  At this news, Ella felt relieved. “Good. What is it?”

  Gustav made a face. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. The man is merciless.”

  “Merciless?” Ella felt her stomach dip. “That’s his weakness?”

  “Oh, yes.” Rolf talked over her, as he was prone to do. “I saw him put a man’s eye out in the ring. He had an opening and he took it. He didn’t even flinch at the thought that he was blinding the man.”

  “He blinded him?” Nora asked. She was beginning to have second thoughts about allowing Ella to participate.

  “Only in one eye,” Rolf assured her. “But that’s not the point. Most men would hesitate, show a little courtesy. Decency. Not Raedwald. He’d sooner kill a man than lose to him.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea—” Nora began.

  But Rolf talked over her, too. “Did you hear that? They’re calling Allard to the plate. This way. Hurry!”

  The family and Gustav followed Rolf to the assigned ring, and Ella took her place in her assigned plate.

  The plates, if you don’t know, are the small raised platforms on either side of the ring, where the competitors for the next round stand in wait while the fight before theirs takes place. If a man isn’t standing on his plate by the time his round begins, he forfeits.

  Ella looked across the ring, past the swordsmen already pitched in battle, to the man who stood on the opposing plate.

  Raedwald was large. Not as big as the bear, but still, a full-grown man of above-average size. His leather armor was encased in chain-mail, an expensive luxury few could afford.

  Ella had never fought anyone in chain mail. No one in the junior division wore it, as the fighting there wasn’t as deadly, and juniors were still growing and replaced their armor often, so even the wealthy who might have otherwise afforded it didn’t bother with the expense.

  Raedwald was watching Ella with the kind of haughty, gloating look a proud man might wear when he’d just won.

  But Raedwald hadn’t won the round. Not yet.

  I’d been perched quietly on Ella’s cap for most of the day, save when she was actually fighting. Then I’d fly up out of reach of the swords, hovering where I could see the action. Now I flew down, inside her helmet, and grew just large enough that she could hear me speak.

  “You are fire,” I reminded her. “You are a cinder, Ella.”

  She turned her head my direction, which sent me tumbling back into her hood.

  I scrambled out and up into the sky just as she took her place in the ring.

  Raedwald was still gloating as he stepped from his platform, over the rope that marked out the ring, and took his place opposite her.

  Ella held her sword at attention, poised, ready.

  The round judge picked up the hammer, and struck it once, hard, against the metal gong, and simultaneously turned the sand timer upside-down.

  The round began.

  Some swordsmen rush at each other the instant the gong sounds. Others dart to one side or another, or feint with their swords in an attempt to force a reaction from their opponents.

  Neither Raedwald nor Ella moved. Not a single muscle.

  The grains in the sand timer poured from the upper chamber of the vessel to the lower, which was marked into thirds, each of them representing a minute’s worth of time. The round judge would tap the gong at the one and two minute marks to convey to them the passing of time. Once the upper chamber was empty, the man would pound repeatedly on the gong to signal the end of the round. Some judges liked to give a series of three raps. Others tended to pound away until the fighters dropped their swords.

  It could get a bit disorienting at a big tournament like this one, with multiple rings, each with their own gong, which was why the rings were spaced well apart, with plenty of room between them for the crowds and vendor’s tents.

  When the judge rapped the gong, signaling that the first of the three minutes had passed, the pair of them were still standing just as they had at the start.

  The crowd, of course, had turned into experts, each spectator shouting, some with advice, others encouragement, and many others ridiculing the two for not fighting.

  I’d never seen a round last so long without any action. Usually by the one-minute mark, the two swords would be clashing in a cacophony of strikes and blocks and parries.

  After several more long seconds of this, Raedwald made an impatient sort of grunting noise with his throat, and jabbed his sword forward a few inches, pulling the blade back almost instantly to its starting position.

  Ella didn’t move.

  Raedwald made a sneering face. The crowd was getting mean, accusing them both of a lack of intelligence and inability to move (though they used far courser language than I choose to use, Dears). This verbal assault appeared to upset Raedwald almost as much as Ella’s lack of attack.

  Now, Raedwald was no dummy. No one in the royal house was. I don’t doubt that he’d inquired among his contacts ahead of time, and learned that his opponent was fresh out of the junior circuit.

  And I saw in the smile that spread on his face that he’d surmised this Allard was frozen stiff.

  Raedwald danced forward a single step on light feet, stopping still far out of Ella’s reach.

  Ella stayed still, but I could see her watching him carefully. She was a smart girl, and I hoped she had the sense not to let him rattle her.

  Assuming, of course, that she wasn’t scared stiff, as Raedwald supposed.

  Raedwald took a step to his right and feinted right, his sword so far from Ella, she might have barely skimmed the tip of it with her own blade, had she been foolish enough to extend her arm. She wasn’t foolish, and didn’t move.

  As the bell sounded, signaling two of the three minutes had passed, Raedwald took another step to the right, but this time feinting left, his sword slicing the air much closer to Ella, though still not close enough to reach her.

  She tipped her blade just far enough to block the blow, though it fell shy of reaching her, and the instant Raedwald stepped back, Ella returned her sword to the ready position.

  I was beginning to sweat in the sky. There was less than a minute left, and neither one of the humans below me had scored a single point.

  If the round fell to a tie, they’d fight again for one more minute, and if there was no advantage after that, they’d continue to fight, minute by minute, until someone scored.

  Eventually, someone would have to make a move. A real move.

  I looked at Ella, and could see from the determined glint in her eyes that she wasn’t going to move. I turned to Raedwald, half expecting to see a similar determination on his face, but his eyes instead held fury.

  What was it Rolf had said? Raedwald angers easily, lets it go to his head, stops thinking and just swings.

  The sand in the timer was running out rapidly. Just as I began to suspect Raedwald would let the round go into another minute, he darted suddenly forward, whipping his sword down as he ran, letting out a frustrated grunt as he charged.

  Ella hadn’t taken her eyes off him, and moved as he did, running, not away, but toward him.

  Just as their swords were about to meet, Ella spun around, leaping to the side as she did so, leaving Raedwald to stagger past her.

  But Ella was still spinning, and whipped her sword around as she spun, striking Raedwald on his side as he went past.

  Point.

  Chapter Six

  Raedwald turned back around in a fury and charged Ella, but she leapt away as the sound of the gong pierced the air. The crowd erupted into a shouting, bellowing throng—half of them thrilled at the upset, the other half feeling Raedwald (a favorite, as it turned out, to win the entire field) had been cheated
by Allard’s unorthodox strategy (which, they argued, didn’t properly count as sword fighting, since all he did was stand there).

  But the judge called the match firmly in Allard’s favor and, seeing that he was about to be attacked by Raedwald’s supporters, ran off to report the winner.

  Ella found her family, who ushered her away to the head table to await her next ring assignment.

  I could recount to you the rest of her fights, but to be honest, none were as memorable as those first few battles, and over the years since, they’ve all blurred together in my mind. Ella did well—surprisingly well, even by Rolf’s standards, and finished in the top twenty-four overall. Her finish earned her a spot as a key player in the foot melee, which meant she’d have an advantageous starting position close to several other top finishers.

  Ella arrived early to the melee field the next day, having slept well in spite of her excitement (mostly because she was so exhausted from fighting the day before). She was a bit sore, but better off than many of the men. As a prudent fighter, she rarely put herself in harm’s way (something that could not be said of many others).

  Rolf was already at the field, and waved to her excitedly when he saw her approach with her family. “Do you know which side you’re on?”

  “Blue.”

  “Blues are over here.” Rolf led her to one end of the field, where men were beginning to gather, and a herald with a fistful of blue sashes accompanied another with a ledger of names.

  Ella had already discerned that her team was gathering at that end, but she politely followed Rolf. His presence soon proved to be helpful, as the heralds walked past her several times, ignoring her, until Rolf got their attention.

  “Participant here,” he barked, clearly annoyed by that point.

  “Name?” The herald with the ledger blinked up at Rolf.

  “Not me. Him.” Rolf clapped a hand on Ella’s shoulder.

  “Allard of Caprese.”

  “Ah.” The herald looked surprised when he found Allard’s name on his list. “You’re a top finisher?”

  Ella nodded.

  The other herald handed her a blue sash. “You’ll want to talk to Hugo.”

  “Hugo?”

  “Hugo of Adalaard?” The herald looked annoyed that she didn’t seem to recognize the name. “Tall fellow, over there, blue armor.” The herald pointed.

  Ella spotted the man whose blue-dyed leather armor with its expensive chain-mail panels stood out in a field of mostly brown leather. “I see him. Thank you.”

  As she headed over to Hugo to introduce herself, she heard one herald whisper to the other, “He doesn’t know who Hugo is!”

  Obviously, Ella gathered, Hugo was a bit of a celebrity. Just as obviously, if he could afford chain mail, he must come from money, though his mail only protected the most vulnerable areas—his neck and chest—so perhaps he wasn’t as wealthy as Raedwald.

  Hugo stood talking with a couple of other men, both of whom looked to be in their twenties, or possibly thirties. They had full beards, but didn’t show any gray. Ella wasn’t sure of Hugo’s age, but he didn’t look much older than she was. Perhaps part of that was because he had a clean-shaven face, unlike so many of the other men, who wore beards of various lengths.

  As she drew closer, Hugo threw his head back and laughed, his white teeth flashing as the golden light of dawn cut across the field.

  Ella’s heart did an unusual flip inside her.

  She wasn’t nervous about competing, not any more than she had been the day before. Still, she found her mouth going unexpectedly dry as she approached the young man.

  Ella waved her blue sash at the men, as a way of communicating that she belonged. Rolf had gone off to meet up with Bertie, which meant Ella was alone on the field, and would have to represent herself in a field of men to whom she looked like a young boy.

  “Blue team?” Hugo asked as Ella reached their group.

  “Allard of Caprese.” Ella extended her hand, and tried to grip Hugo’s palm firmly.

  “Ah, you’re one of my top finishers,” Hugo said with a smile, clearly recognizing the name.

  Ella grinned, relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain herself, or worse yet, be forced to try to prove she’d earned the spot if the other men didn’t believe her. “That’s right. Top twenty-four in swords.”

  “I heard you beat Raedwald of Nordheim,” Hugo continued, eyes sparkling. “He was furious at having a loss so early in, and from someone as young as yourself.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve made myself an enemy,” Ella said, hoping Hugo would then assure her that Raedwald held no grudges, but would cool off and see it all as fair play.

  Instead, Hugo frowned somberly. “I fear you have. And Raedwald’s a man of vengeance. You’ll have to watch out for him. He’s on the red team.”

  Hugo tipped his head toward the far end of the field, where men with red sashes were gathering. Then he leaned low and spoke to Ella in a quieter voice. “See the two men with him?”

  “The burly fellows with the black beards?” Ella spotted the men, both of whom sported chain mail panels similar to that which graced Hugo’s armor. Men of means, then—or at least, men who wanted to win badly enough they’d pay large sums for better armor.

  “Yes,” Hugo confirmed. “Know them?”

  “No.”

  “Einhard and Uliad of Ulster. They’re brothers, and Raedwald’s henchmen.” Hugo met Ella’s eyes, weighing whether she understood.

  “Henchmen?” Ella repeated in a faltering voice, almost sure she knew what Hugo meant, but hoping he’d tell her otherwise.

  “Raedwald doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. When he wants revenge on someone, he has Einhard and Uliad take care of matters. Watch out for them. Many men are injured in the melee, and few questions are ever asked about how or why.”

  As Hugo finished speaking, another man approached with a blue sash, and Hugo straightened to greet him.

  “Thank you for that information,” Ella said.

  Hugo nodded, but turned his attention to the newcomer.

  While men continued to arrive, Ella stayed to the rear of their group, where it would be more difficult for the men on the opposite side to see her, especially given that nearly everyone else was taller than she was. Her family, along with Rolf and Gustav, had taken seats in the tiered benches that flanked the sides of the field.

  The foot melee was one of the most popular events, second only to the mounted melee, which would take place later that afternoon in a larger field further from town. Ella and her family had discussed whether she might participate in that event, but the entry fee was higher than for other events, and Ella, having only ever participated in the junior mounted melee before, wasn’t convinced her horse would be safe in the rougher competition of the adult category.

  She didn’t mind putting herself at risk, but she wasn’t about to endanger one of the horses simply to indulge her own foolishness.

  That left the foot melee as her final event of the day.

  Perhaps it was her growing dread that seemed to speed the passage of time, but soon all the men had assembled, and Hugo gathered his team for a short speech about strategy and bravery, before dismissing the men to line up according to their positions.

  “Top finishers, gather round.” Hugo held his arms wide, and Ella approached with eight other men (the top finishers being split equally between the two teams in an attempt to make the fight as fair as possible, though not all twenty-four men who finished high at swords had decided to enter the foot melee).

  Hugo then assigned each man a spot. He placed Ella three men over from himself on his left side, between two particularly large men, one of whom Ella recognized as a top finalist at swords the day before.

  She held out her hand to greet him, and tried to remember his name. “Dominic Ficino? You took second at swords yesterday, am I right?”

  “That’s me.” Dominic shook her hand and squinted down at her. “You’re the boy who
bested Raedwald in an early round.”

  “Allard of Caprese.” Ella introduced herself. “I’m afraid I’ve made myself a reputation for that.”

  “You’ve made yourself an enemy, is what you’ve done.” Dominic gave her a grim look that may have been tinged with fear on her behalf. He didn’t appear to be old, but he had a weathered face, and a trace of something that may have been a scar crept up his cheek from under his brown close-trimmed beard. His armor was simple leather, and looked worn, at that.

  “Should I have let him win?” Ella asked.

  Dominic laughed heartily. “No, Boy, you did well. There’s a lot of us pleased at your win. But I’d keep my distance from the man if I were you.”

  “That’s going to be difficult, since he’s about to charge us.”

  Dominic laughed as though Allard had made a great joke, and tucked his sash through the loop in the left shoulder of his armor, pulling it through to its middle, so that it hung in two equal lengths next to his arm.

  Ella had already threaded her sash, and now checked to be sure it was secure in the tight loop. The sash, besides marking the members of each team, also identified whether a man was still in play (unlike the mounted melee, where men could be clearly unhorsed, it was more difficult to tell when a man was down in the foot melee).

  Theoretically, members of a melee were to play according to an honor system. If a man was delivered a blow such as would prove injurious in a real battle, he was supposed to pull out his own sash (indicating to other players that he was no longer in play, and should not be attacked) and to see himself out to the sidelines. But in spite of the high priority placed on honor, not all participants interpreted injurious blows the same way, and some tried to stay in play after they should have rightfully been out.

  The sash, then, provided a way for opponents to clearly and unquestionably eliminate a man from play. The sash could be removed with a sword, by hand, or by any other means players might devise. Once it was gone, that man was out, and among the final men standing once the entire defeated team was eliminated, the winners of the melee were determined according to which players collected the most sashes from their opponents.