by Dave Skinner
“But Waycan had no way of knowing that. Why would he return to the village?”
“I expect he planned to kill them all,” Shawn answered. “We should get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Shawn, and thanks for covering my back. I doubt I would have survived being paired with Ran.”
Chapter 11
“Get up, Bray, get up, it is Games Day!”
Lee, his younger sister, was kneeling beside his bed, and pummelling his shoulder with her fists. Even though she was five years younger than his twelve, she was delivering her punches with good force, and they were starting to hurt. “Enough, Lee, just give me a moment.”
Bray was awake, had been since the first gray light of dawn started creeping through the window. He was stealing himself against the humiliation he would inevitably feel before this day was over, as he had for the past four years, since he had joined this tribe of the Tawshe Nation.
He had found that the Tawshe loved Games Day, their annual day of competition. Bray not so much, although he admitted it had potential. To compete against the fellows of his grouping, his classmates, in contests of skill, fitness, agility, and strength, should be a day he could enjoy. If only he could manage to win in one of the categories, just one, just one time, but no. T’Ran beat him every year, in every category he entered. How T’Ran had managed to enter the exact same categories as Bray, every year for the last four was a mystery. He did manage it though. Every year T’Ran was there at the final competitions, across from Bray, and beating him every time.
As hard as he trained, he could never manage to best T’Ran, and the beatings he had taken over the years were legendary. T’Ran pounded him mercilessly. He seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on Bray.
The first year Bray excused the loss. He had recovered from his battle wounds only eight months prior to Beating Day, which was how he referred to it in his own head.
With a groan he pushed himself off the bed and stood up, managing to keep his blanket wrapped about him for a moment only, like a layer of armour, before he shrugged it off and folded it with a flurry of graceful moves into a neat pile at the foot of the bed.
Across the room he saw Shawn, his only male friend, sitting on his own bed, watching.
“What?” Bray immediately regretted the tone of his voice.
Shawn let a smile build on his face. Bray could not help himself, as his own smile mirrored Shawn’s. His brother knew how much Bray hated this day. He was two years older than Bray; he was the same age as T’Ran in fact. They were in the same training class. Bray was one class behind them in school, but they all completed together. Always had and always would until the older boys graduated as trueones.
Four more years of The Games to suffer through. This one and four more humiliations to be faced followed by two peaceful years while Bray finished his own training. Then home to Nadia.
A trueone chooses his own path and Bray’s path was Nadia. He would return to his family’s city. He would return as the lost Crown Prince and take up his royal duties, as soon as he found and retrieved his father’s swords, of course. The swords must be recovered first. He had promised his father on the day he had been murdered. His last pledge to the man he loved. He would retrieve the swords and return them to the family. But that was six years away and today was Beating Day.
Bray pulled his leathers from the boot box at the foot of his bed. He should have taken them out the night before and lay them between the mattresses to warm them up, but he had refused. Doing that would have meant accepting that Beating Day had come again. He had put that realization off for as long as possible, until this very moment, actually.
Bray shook his leathers out and struggled into them, the coolness of the outfit causing him to jog in place to warm up. The jogging also served to settle the leathers into place as his body warmth seeped into the thick hide. Fighting leathers were thick leather suits that combatants wore below their armour. Not that the Tawshe used much armour.
Some warriors possessed mail shirts, but these were rarely seen in the village except at The Contests, the adult version of competitions held on Games Day when Travellers returned to the villages on mass. Groups of Travellers passed through all year long, but only in troops and caravans, not with the numbers seen at The Contests.
Tawshe trueones, who were Travellers, roamed the roads and water-ways of all lands that touched the lakes, mostly as merchants or entertainers, and sometimes as individuals or as couples. No matter what the occupation, they all gathered information that was reported back to the village Shaman and onwards to the Tawshe council.
The Tawshe were in fact a nation obsessed with understanding what was happening in the world. Often they shared information with other nations, but only when it strengthened their own position. Bray had not understood the true nature of Travellers until Waycan had explained it to the class this year.
“Information is our greatest commodity,” he had said. “We trade it in the same way we trade our skills and our crafts. But remember, it is our secret.”
He did not have to explain what a secret meant to the Tawshe. No outsider knew that the Travellers were Tawshe. As far as almost everyone else was concerned, the Tawshe were a primitive, cannibalistic people who killed everyone who entered their lands, and were never seen outside of them.
Putting aside his dislike of the beatings he inevitably suffered, there were aspects of Game Day that Bray enjoyed. How could he not? It was a festival, with markets, food tents, contests, and scores of interesting people. He found the Traveller entertainment troupes—musicians, jugglers, stage performers, acrobats, fortune tellers, story tellers, and poets—fun to watch. Their acts were always fresh and interesting. Between contests he did his best to visit as many as possible before his movements became too painful, which usually happened after a few bouts against Ran.
This year he had chosen archery, swordplay and, of course, the final foot race. Everyone tried to run in the final race, but only those who evaded injury in the competitions actually managed to compete. Bray had started in the race twice in his four years. He’d never finished. He always ran afoul of one of Ran’s attacks during the race, usually as soon as they were out of sight of the spectators.
Archery was safe. No physical contact. Swordplay was a different matter. Wooden practice swords were used and contestants wore a single metal gauntlet on their shield arm, but against Ran it was never enough. Bray had never been good enough to evade Ran’s sword strokes. Waycan had told him once that it was better to face a superior swordsman in practice than in a real battle, but that information did not help. Especially when Ran always managed to beat him black and blue before the match was over.
Still swordplay, with its few protective accoutrements, was better than hand-to-hand. Ran always bested him at hand-to-hand, after beating a few of his muscles into aching, useless, pieces of meat. Calf muscles were his favorite target.
***
Dressed in his boots and leathers, carrying his leather gauntlets and greaves and the hardened couters that protected his elbows, Bray made his way towards his chair in the kitchen.
“Catch,” Shawn cried, tossing two warm muffins towards Bray as he entered the room. Though burdened with his armour, Bray managed to snatch first one and then the other from the air.
”I told you, Shawn, Bray is too fast for two. I think he could manage three or even four. Next time throw your two muffins also,” Lee said from her seat at the table. Bray joined her there after placing his armour by the porch door.
”But is he fast enough? That is the question,” Shawn orated. “Will our brave brother finally beat the dreaded Ran? Ran, who others call hero, or so he tells us. Despite the fact that Bray does not see Ran lit by the light of admiration as others do, you have to admit, the boy is magnificent. Waycan told me that Ran is really the physical embodiment of a hero. He stands above the rest. He is one of those warriors who rarely grace us, mere mortals, with their company. I believe
he is destined for greatness.”
“And unfortunately so does Ran. He believes his admirers completely. I hate him and he hates me. Just leave it like that, and stop reminding me of his physical prowess, thank you,” Bray said around a mouthful of muffin.
“You will beat him this year, Bray, I know you will,” Lee insisted. Bray smiled at her, while wondering if she meant what she said, or was simply trying to return the talk to a subject she understood.
“She’s right you know, little brother. You can beat him. I have fought both of you. You are faster.”
Bray concentrated on eating. Waycan had told him the same thing.
“Believe in yourself,” he had told him. “Rely on your speed. It is through your speed that you will be victorious.”
Bray found it difficult to believe he would ever beat T’Ran, who had set the standard for their encounters from the beginning. T’Ran had continued to torment Bray whenever possible after their encounter during the first month of his life with the Tawshe.
Chapter 12
Ran dropped his armour at the door before taking his seat at the table. His father was gnawing on a bone from last night’s meal. Ran grabbed the last piece from the platter and mirrored his father’s actions. Father and son were a lot alike. Both were big men, although Ran was more striking to look at, a combination of his father’s bulk with his mother’s grace and beauty. At fourteen years, Ran showed promise of being as fearsome a warrior as his father, if not more so. He was big, fast, smart, and a natural leader. He was liked by all the other children, and he got along with all of them, except for Bray. He hated the outsider.
Four years ago, when Bray had arrived, Ran’s father had argued long and hard against allowing the boy to live. He was an outsider, a Nadian of all things, and therefore, by rule of law, should be killed. It was the Tawshe way, he had argued. The Nadian’s presence would diminish the tribe. He would corrupt their children. But Waycan had overruled his arguments and sided with Ta’Kat.
Ran believed every word his father said about the danger of letting Bray stay, and had done his best ever since to show the rest of the tribe the error in their decision. Ran smiled to think of some of the beatings he had given Bray over the years.
“Looking forward to Game Day, son?” his father asked.
Ran answered him with a sly smile that his father returned. For years they had worked together to position Ran against the Nadian intruder in the competitions. His father’s trusted position on the Game Day planning committee allowed them to always know which contests the Nadian chose to enter, and to position Ran against him.
This year was no different, although the choice of archery did not hold as much promise for inflicting pain, as did swordplay and the final race. Not that Ran expected Bray to make it into the race. He had broken eight practice swords in the last month alone. His strength had increased tremendously over the last half year, and he planned to use it without mercy on the Nadian. This year he would break bones as well as inflict bruises.
Ran did not doubt that he would beat Bray. He felt it was his duty. The Tawshe were the best warriors in the world. He believed that with all his heart. The Nadian would not stand a chance against any Tawshe if he had not been trained in the Tawshe way, but because of his training he could beat most of the others now, at least those in his own class and even some in Ran’s class. Bray was good, but not good enough to beat the best, and Ran was the best.
***
Ran and Shawn circled each other, swords ready and eyes searching. Their bout had been going on for longer than any other Ran had fought this day, but that was to be expected. Shawn was the second best swordsman in his class, second to Ran only. They had both scored four points. The next would decide the bout, but Ran could not get past Shawn’s defense. It was a move Ran had never seen his classmate use before, and it was proving effective. Shawn had a trickle of blood running down his cheek where a piece from a splintered sword had struck, but he still wore that blasted smile of his.
Shawn’s smile was infectious. He seemed to wear it all the time. It was one of the reasons he was liked so much by everyone in the village, but right now it was grating on Ran. He wanted to finish this bout and move on to the Nadian who he could see standing on the sidelines. Ran tried another attack only to be beaten by the same defensive move, but he saw something that had changed. Shawn must be getting tired or over-confident. He had slipped, using a defective move that Ran had seen many times before in their practice bouts. Shawn had worked hard to break himself of the habit, but there it was, the old shoulder drop that opened him to defeat. Ran attacked again. This time Shawn failed to block. The victory was Ran’s.
***
“Ready for some pain, Nadian?” Ran asked with a sneer on his face. His friends on the sidelines cheered and jeered the question. Bray didn’t answer.
The referee called them to the centre of the ring. Ran did not listen to the instructions. He had heard them many times before, including the warning about using excessive force. That one Ran planned to break, repeatedly.
“Guard,” shouted the referee. Both boys brought their swords up. “Engage.”
Ran attacked with a blistering stroke towards Bray’s shield arm instead of his weapon. Both contestants wore band-shields which were metal cylinders that covered their shield arms. In battle, band-shields were worn by archers who could not wear the larger shields used by swordsmen, but needed something for when they were engaging enemy swordsmen. Ran’s blow had enough force behind it to numb Bray’s arm even with the protection of the band, if it had connected.
Much to Ran’s surprise, instead of throwing his arm up and taking the blow directly, Bray seemed to float off to the side. The force of his blow carried Ran’s sword too low to parry Bray’s answering thrust. Ran felt a tap against his upper sword arm as the referee shouted “Point.”
The little Nadian is getting faster, but one good hit will slow him down.
Ran concentrated his efforts on Bray’s sword arm, trying to pass his defenses by force alone, but Bray stopped each attack with fast decisive moves that resulted in Ran’s strokes being deflected harmlessly away, or in many cases missing completely, as Bray continued to move, always moving, never still.
The misses were the worst. His friends groaned over the first few, but then they started to laugh. Ran did not like being laughed at. He increased the furry of his attacks, but the only result was another three points for Bray. Ran did not even feel the last touch, but he heard the point called and it sobered him. One more point would win the match for Bray.
Ran’s anger slipped away leaving cold determination. His mind grew quiet. Distractions disappeared, as Ran of the Tawshe set his concentration on sword work and on his opponent.
Bray met every attack with quick defensive moves. He never attacked, but his sword was always there to block Ran’s thrusts. Ran finally scored a point with a glancing strike to Bray’s leg when he spun away too slowly, although Ran’s opinion that Bray was tiring proved not to be true. The match progressed. Try as he could, Ran could not pass Bray’s lightning fast counter-strokes again.
Ran knew he was getting tired. He had no idea how long the match had been going on, but his own arms were beginning to feel the effect. Bray, two years younger and quite a bit smaller, must be feeling it even worse. He would slip up soon, Ran knew, all he had to do was wait.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he saw Bray fail to recover fully after his next attack, and then again soon after. His elbow was staying too low, leaving an opening Ran could take advantage of. With infinite patience Ran planned the stroke combination that would score his next point. He waited. Bray’s elbow refused to cooperate during his next three attacks, but then it happened. Ran was ready. Instead of continuing his recovery to a defensive position, he lunged forward. Bray’s countering move was almost too quick to follow. Somehow he was inside Ran’s guard, his shield arm moving forward and up to place a solid elbow strike across
Ran’s exposed throat. Bray’s rounded practice couter barely grazed his neck, but in combat the couter was not rounded. It was a sharpened, spiked weapon. In combat, Ran would be dead.
“Point,” the referee called.
Chapter 13
Shawn, Bray and Lee walked slowly along the road. Autumn was drawing golds and reds from the leaves, and a hint of winter was in the air. It was their first school day since The Games. The excitement was over until next year, but none of them felt like getting back into the grind of the classroom.
“And then I shot ahead of her, just like you told me to, and won,” Lee was saying.
Shawn had been hearing the same victory story for three days now. He wasn’t listening, just nodding, with a smile pasted on his face. Something had happened at The Games that he could not seem to get out of his mind. After his sword contest with Ran, even though he had lost, Mara had taken him aside to congratulate him on a fine match. She had kissed him, right on the lips … not a sister’s kiss … oh definitely not a sister’s kiss, and he was at a loss about what to do.
He liked her. He was happy she had kissed him; in fact his thoughts had been on nothing else for the last three days. But what was he supposed to do? Should he talk to her when he saw her at school? Would she kiss him again?
“Shawn, answer me!” Lee shouted. She looked angry. Bray looked amused. Shawn had told him about the kiss, but he had not offered any ideas worth considering.
“I’m sorry, Lee. I was lost in thought. What did you say?”
“I said, do you think I will beat her next year, too?”