The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  “Well met. Tuk antwok un kallum tor mylome.”

  “What does that mean?” Brant asked, not recognizing the words.

  “It mean, may the earth consume the blood of honor. It Bullgon saying.”

  Brant liked the saying. It seemed fitting. He was surprised, however. The beast looked wild but he acted with courtesy and spoke about honor. “What is your name?”

  “Tay’er.”

  Then the horn sounded. Tay’er stepped back and crouched low, raising his mace. Brant did the same, lifting his oswith, and they both began to circle one another. Neither fighter attacked right away, each assessing the other, looking for a weakness or an opening. Brant knew that the Bullgon’s reach was going to be a problem as the creature’s arms were much longer than his. But he was a Merger, and thus far he had been successful at hiding his power, using it in small doses to give him an edge. He had not yet fully tapped the Way, and he hoped he would not have to here.

  Finally, after circling each other a few times, the Bullgon attacked, his long powerful arm swinging the heavy mace as if it were merely a stick. Brant knew that he if tried to block the weapon with the blade of the oswith, that it might shatter, or worse, break his arm. So he pushed his aura energy into his legs, to enhance their speed and power. He ducked and spun, avoiding the blow but not finding an advantage himself. It went on like that for about five minutes before blood was finally drawn, bringing howls from the watching crowd. Brant had jumped back again from the Bullgon’s mighty swing, but this time a point of the spiked mace grazed his stomach, opening a shallow gash. The wound was not damaging as it had barely broken through the skin, but the sight of blood dripping from the wound was like a drug to the crowd and they screamed with new vigor, the sound deafening.

  Brant decided to use more of his aura. The Bullgon was not tiring and his short powerful legs and long strong arms were proving to be formidable defenses. He could not find an opening. He needed to even the playing field. Surging more energy into his legs, he shot forward like a rock from a sling, trying to get inside the reach of his opponent.

  Tay’er reversed the swing of his mace and shuffled quickly backwards, trying to maintain the distance between himself and Brant while continuing to attack with his weapon. But Brant was faster. As the reverse swing came at him, Brant, who was crouching low, was already inside his reach, his oswith angled up and blocking the mace on the shaft, rather than the heavy metal head, lessening the impact. Then he angled the forward blade down and sliced the Bullgon in the arm as he spun by him. But despite the speed of Brant’s attack, Tay’er was able to punch him in the side with his free hand as he moved by. The entire attack and counterattack appeared as a blur of flashing weapons to those watching.

  The blow to Brant’s side was a glancing one, but nonetheless bruised Brant’s ribs. But Tay’er’s injury was worse. His right arm was bleeding heavily from a deep cut under his arm, causing him to transfer the mace to his left hand, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side.

  They circled each other again, both wary of the other’s skill. Then again the Bullgon shot forward, bringing his mace down quickly toward Brant’s head. Brant, continuing to use his increased speed, tried to get inside the swing again, but was fooled by the Bullgon’s ruse. Tay’er stopped his attack in mid-swing and snapped his stocky leg forward, catching Brant in the chest as he literally ran into his foot. His breath was ejected from his lungs and he found himself flying through the air. With a thud, he landed on his back. Coughing for air, Brant looked up and saw the mace descending toward him again. Rolling to the side, it missed him by a hair, upturning the earth in a shower of dirt. Brant directed energy into his right leg and snapped it forward, connecting solidly with the Bullgon’s left arm causing him to drop the mace. He heard the crack of bone as the Bullgon howled in pain, giving Brant the opportunity to get to his feet.

  Tay’er’s arms now hung limply at his side. Brant faced him, still coughing as he tried to catch his breath. Each breath was accompanied by a stabbing pain in his chest. But he maintained his grip on the oswith with his right hand and the Bullgon had no weapon.

  The crowd was screaming, sensing the approaching death. But then Brant did something they did not expect, and it sent a new wave of energy into the crowd. He dropped his oswith to the ground. “kallum tor mylome,” he said to the Bullgon, his voice strained from the pain of his injured ribs. He wasn’t sure if he was saying the words correctly, but he hoped they were the words that translated into blood of honor. He would not kill Tay’er while he held no weapon. They would end this bout with honor, just as they had started it. The Bullgon was unnaturally strong and fast, with longer arms and thick skin. Brant figured that his use of the Way evened the fight in hand to hand combat.

  Tay’er nodded his head in understanding. His left arm hung useless at his side, but he lifted his right arm, still bleeding from his wound, and came at Brant. Brant ducked under the attack but the Bullgon reversed his swing so quickly that his knuckles caught Brant on the side of the head, causing him to stumble backwards. He directed aura energy into his head, chest, and arms, trying to numb the pain and re-energize his bruised and tired body. He was dangerously low on energy and needed to end the fight quickly.

  Tay’er’s arm descended again, but this time, strengthened by aura energy, Brant caught his wrist. He had practiced this move many times with Tangar and it came instinctively. Grabbing the Bullgon’s wrist and hand in his iron grip, he twisted the Bullgon’s arm down hard while turning his wrist upward and back, nearly breaking the bones.

  Tay’er screamed and fell face first to the ground, his arm twisted back at an impossible angle. Brant knew that he would not give up, so he surged more energy into his arms and jerked hard, dislocating his arm at the shoulder. The Bullgon howled and the crowd screamed.

  Brant released his grip and stepped away, his body tired, nearly depleted of energy. It took a moment, but finally Tay’er stood, his face contorted in pain, both arms hanging loosely at his side.

  “Finish it,” he said.

  “I will not kill you.” Brant looked up at the crowd. “I will not kill him!” he yelled in Schulg.

  Five nomads stepped from the crowd, Schulg bows nocked and ready. Tangar stood nearby. “Brant! You must! They will kill you both!”

  “Do it,” Tay’er groaned. “I do not want to die by a Schulg arrow. You give me honorable death.” He looked around and saw the mace lying in the dirt, then reached down with his left arm, the one that was broken at the elbow. Cringing in pain he somehow managed to grasp it, holding the weapon low at his side.

  Brant picked up his oswith. Then, without hesitation, and with great courage, the Bullgon somehow found the strength to raise his arm and attack him. Brant leaped forward and rammed the front blade of the oswith into the Bullgon’s chest, just under his rib cage, angling the blade up and into his heart.

  Dropping the mace, Tay’er brought his meaty fist to Brant’s shoulder. He squeezed it once and then fell backwards, the oswith jutting from his flesh.

  Brant had received his fifth brand on that day, later learning that the symbol meant ‘killer’, which Brant thought was fitting. He was a killer. Not by choice, but he had now killed eighteen men in the arena.

  It took him nearly two months to heal from the wounds he received from the Bullgon, who had broken several of his ribs. Once they healed it had taken another month to get his body back into fighting shape. He now had five brands, one more closer to facing Uln. After he had fully recovered, Tangar had thrown him back into the circuit. Within another two months Brant had won five more fights, earning him the rank of Ull Therm. That victory was a double edged sword for Brant. He was happy to be alive, and he had to admit that he felt a great sense of achievement reaching that rank. But now he would have to face Uln in the arena. He could not imagine killing his friend. There had to be another way.

  During these last few fights, Uln did have a challenge. A tough Schulg warrior, captured in war by an
outlying tribe, had received his six brands, earning the right to fight Uln. But the Varga had won the bout, arriving late one evening to the cave with several fresh wounds, which were seeping blood through the bandages. The Varga had been gone for three weeks, the fight taking place in a village far to the north near the Sar’am River. Uln had not seen Brant during that time and was unaware that he had earned his sixth brand.

  As Uln entered, Brant looked up from his meal, a savory meat stew with roots, rice, and vegetables. “It is good to see you,” Brant said sincerely, though he wasn’t smiling. He was grateful that the Varga had survived and he was happy to see him. But he felt a deep sorrow about what was to come.

  Uln sat down as Gar’gon brought him a bowl of stew. “I am happy to be seen.” Then he saw the sixth brand on Brant’s chest, so recent that the flesh was still red and blistered. His face was expressionless, but Brant could see the sadness in his eyes.

  Tangar was there as well, with another older man. Brant recognized him. He was Byn’ok, Tangar’s father and the chief of their tribe, a stocky and powerfully built man, his stoic face covered with a long gray beard. Despite his age, his skin was smooth and his green eyes shone with energy. They both sat down and Gar’gon gave them each a bowl.

  “Get the nord,” Tangar ordered Gar’gon. For all practical purposes, Gar’gon was Tangar’s slave, captured when he was a child from a faraway tribe. He had served Tangar his entire life and knew of nothing else. He grabbed several gourds filled with the alcoholic beverage and handed one to Tangar and the other to Byn’ok. They ate and drank in silence.

  When they were finished, Byn’ok addressed Brant. “You have done well. Soon, you will fight Uln.”

  Brant shook his head. “I do not want to fight him. He is my friend. Is there another way?”

  “You slave. You have no friends.” Then he looked at his son. “You have honored our tribe. This has never happened before…two fighters from the same handler to reach such a rank. But you will lose one in coming fight. We need to make fight biggest the tribes have seen. It is only way for you to be compensated for the loss of one of these great warriors.”

  Tangar grunted. “The honor of my tribe is enough.”

  “Just the same, many tribes will come, many warriors. I will also invite others.”

  “Others?” Tangar asked, taking a long drink of his norg.

  “Dy’ainian leaders. They will come to honor our tradition, to maintain peace. They will bring gifts as well. We will all win.”

  “Not all,” Brant grunted. His Schulg was passable now, and he fully understood their conversation. Byn’ok ignored him.

  “When will fight happen?” Uln asked, his deep voice echoing in the cave.

  “Two weeks,” Byn’ok spoke. “Need time for tribes and dignitaries to arrive.”

  Brant was thinking. Two weeks. He still had no plan for escaping. He glanced over at his friend and couldn’t fathom plunging his blade into him. He had to find a way to escape.

  The two weeks went by faster than Brant had hoped. Tangar had kept him and Uln apart for most of the time, training separately. They both slept in their usual spots in the cave, but their typical casual banter had diminished. After all, what do you talk about when you know you are soon to fight to the death? Neither of them had anything to say. Brant continued in vain to search for some way to escape, but Gar’gon and the hounds were ever vigilant. And at night, when they slept, they were shackled to an iron spike embedded in the stone wall.

  The day before the fight presented Brant with his first glimmer of hope. Seven different tribes had slowly trickled in over the last few weeks, erecting a small city of bilts around Tangar’s village. Several Dy’ainian nobles, members of the ruling council, had been sent by King Dormath and they had set up elaborate tents on the far side of town, guarded by Legionnaires and accompanied by a large retinue.

  Ten fights had been scheduled, and the final bout would be between Brant and Uln. The day before the fight all the fighters were led to the ring and presented for all to see. New seating had to be built for all the chiefs and nobles and Brant noticed that more seating had been created near the tops of the hills above them. All the fighters were shirtless, their scars and brands visible to all. Brant looked about, trying to find the Dy’ainian nobles. It wasn’t too difficult. They were sitting directly in front with Chief Byn’ok, eating, drinking, inspecting the fighters, and calculating the odds for their wagers. Uln presented something of a spectacle since few had actually seen a Varga. Brant guessed that the betting was moving in Uln’s favor. But it mattered not; neither of them ever saw a coin. They were simply tools, slaves to provide entertainment for their masters.

  Brant’s eyes wandered dully over the crowd, waiting for the inspection to end. As he glanced at the Dy’ainian representatives, his breath caught in his throat. He recognized one of the nobles sitting among them. It was Kulvar Rand and he was staring right at Brant. It had been over a year and a half since he had seen him and he certainly didn’t expect to see him under these circumstances. Kulvar Rand made no attempt to show that he recognized Brant. He continued to eat and drink, talking casually to the men around him.

  After a few moments they were escorted back to their quarters. For Brant that meant Tangar’s bilt in the village. And since Tangar did not want Uln and Brant communicating before the fight, Uln was sent to sleep in Chief Byn’ok’s bilt. The hounds were sleeping on the ground outside while Gar’gon prepared Brant a hearty stew. As usual, his wrists were chained together as well as his legs. Tangar had escorted him back, eaten a quick bowl of stew, and turned to leave. He would be up late entertaining the many guests.

  Outside the hounds growled a warning. Tangar opened the flap to see who it was. Despite the anger, frustration, and sadness Brant was feeling about the impending fight, his appetite had not diminished. Feeling hungry, Brant directed his attention to the stew. He had to admit that despite his hatred for Gar’gon, the nomad was a good cook. Outside, a familiar voice distracted him from his meal.

  Kulvar Rand stood before the bilt, his hand resting casually on his sword, the three hounds standing near the door growling ominously. He wore his Dygon armor and black cape, which Tangar immediately recognized. Everyone knew who the Dygon Guard were, especially the man known as Kulvar Rand. One could travel the steppes for years, visiting all the Schulg tribes, and probably never find a fighter more skilled than Tangar. But even he wondered if he could beat Kulvar Rand. He had dreamt of fighting him one day, and now he stood before him, his hand resting on his famous blade.

  Tangar said something to the dogs and they stopped growling, backing up and sitting just behind the nomad. “Master Rand,” Tangar said in Newain, dropping his hand to the sword tucked into his leather belt.

  The movement was subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed by Kulvar Rand. A slight smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He had to admit that he admired these nomads. They feared nothing. And Tangar’s name was not unknown to Kulvar Rand either. It seemed they knew of each other. “Tangar do Al’non,” Kulvar Rand said in the Schulg language, addressing him by his full name to show respect. “I thank you for your hospitality. I am eager to see the fights tomorrow. I have heard much of your two champions.”

  Tangar was surprised and impressed that he knew his language. “The fight will be very good,” Tangar said, wondering why the famous Kulvar Rand had come directly to his personal tent to thank him. “Is there something I can do for you?” Tangar said, sensing there was something else the warrior wanted to say.

  Inside the tent Brant had stopped eating, listening intently to the conversation. He had recognized Kulvar Rand’s voice right away. So Kulvar had recognized him at the arena. What was he doing here though?

  “I was wondering if you would like to sell the Dy’ainian? It seems a shame to have two great fighters face off, as one will surely die. I will pay you five thousand gold dracks.”

  Stunned, Tangar was momentarily speechless. That was an enormous abou
t of money, probably more than he would make from the fight itself. For just a few moments he considered the offer. But in the end he knew he could not accept it. There was more than just money at stake. If he cancelled the main attraction it would bring shame and dishonor upon his tribe. He could not do that, no matter the price. “I am sorry. I cannot sell. People,” Tangar said as he indicated the thousands of people around them, “have come to watch. I cannot cancel the main bout. It would bring dishonor to my tribe.”

  For that brief moment Brant had thought that he might consider the offer. Just as quickly his hope was crushed.

  Kulvar Rand was prepared for just such an answer, not really believing that he would accept the offer with so many people here to see the fight. But he had to try. He had taken a liking to the boy when he met him and he surely didn’t deserve such a life, living in chains like an animal and being forced to fight in arenas for entertainment, the only eventual outcome being his death. “May I speak with your fighter?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I know him. I met him years ago in the mining camps. I would like to wish him luck tomorrow.”

  It made sense, Tangar thought. The Dygon Guard escorted the Kul-brite caravans and Tangar knew that the young man had worked the mines his entire life. “You may,” he said, gesturing for him to enter.

  As Kulvar Rand stepped to the entrance, the hounds backed up, growling softly. “Your Nygs are quite impressive. How did you train them?”

  “I found them when they were young. Raised them myself.”

  “Do you mind if I speak with him alone?”

  “Gar’gon, my slave, is inside. He will stay with you. I have matters to attend. My hounds will remain outside.”

  “Very well.” Kulvar Rand knew that the nomad was warning him. The hounds would rip him to pieces if he tried anything.

  They both entered the bilt and as soon as Gar’gon saw them he stood up, ready to perform whatever duty his master required. “Gar’gon, this is Master Rand. He is here to speak with Brant. When he is done see that he departs safely.”