by Prince Edan
The crowd chuckled. Clark struggled to sit up, glancing at the friend that came to his defense. He hated to admit it but Roland was handsome, with a lean body and piercing gray eyes. And the kid could be pretty damn intimidating when he wanted to be.
The color drained from Ryan’s face.
News had spread quickly, and Ryan’s torment had become the main attraction for that morning. Why hadn’t the guards taken him down from the fence until noon? Maybe they were tired of the kid’s attitude.
When Roland stepped forward and offered a hand to Clark, Ryan stepped back. Clark stretched out his vomit covered, bloodstained hand and grabbed it.
“What the hell is on your hand?” Roland asked, his eye twitching.
“Blood,” Clark said, glancing down at the mixture he had thrown up. “And vomit.”
“Ah hell,” Roland said, dropping his hand like it was pure acid. “You idiot.”
While they spoke, Ryan slowly backed away and vanished around the corner. He did not seem eager to fight Roland.
Kio raced out of his room, skidding to stop. Clark noted the guilt on the boy’s face. He was probably waiting for the danger to disappear before he stepped into the hallway. Despite his muscular frame, Kio was a wimp. He hated fighting, despised situations where he had to confront someone else, but that was one of the things Clark loved about him. Besides, Kio cared about him. That was all Clark ever wanted. Someone to love and hold, someone who would always be by his side.
Clark glanced at Roland. He was walking toward the bathroom further down the hall to wash his hand.
Kio squatted beside Clark. “Are you all right?” he asked, stroking Clark’s cheek.
The crowd dispersed and went on their way, having no interest in the couple’s display of affection.
“I could be better,” Clark admitted. “My stomach hurts like hell and my neck is killing me.”
Kio kissed Clark’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I should have been here.”
“It’s not your fault. We all have weaknesses, but not wanting to fight isn’t a weakness, it’s a valuable trait.” Clark looked into Kio’s beautiful brown eyes. He was lucky to have ended up with a boy who loved him so much.
“You’re a mess,” Kio said with a soft chuckle.
“No shit.” Clark smiled as Kio sat beside him, their backs pressed against the wall and their legs stretched out before them. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Feeling nostalgic, are we?”
“Yes. You came to the football field often. You would sit on the grass for hours, watching me run around the track and sketching something in your sketch book. Most times you came there by yourself. It took me some time to work up the courage to ask what you were doing there, always watching me like I was something you had never seen before. Like I was an alien. Then I guessed that you were drawing me. Will you show me those sketches some time?”
“I’ll think about it.” Kio grinned. “You know it was love at first sight,” he said, mocking every girl in a romance movie.
“Maybe so.”
They fell silent, finding comfort in each other’s presence. Kio reached for Clark’s clean hand and their fingers interlocked.
“I love you,” Clark mumbled, leaning his head against Kio’s shoulder. “Promise me you’ll stay by my side.”
“I won’t promise anything.”
Clark furrowed his brows.
“You know I will always be here,”Kio said.
Chapter XI
It was the day of the Order’s tournament. The commotion Roland’s prank had caused was slowly dying down. Humans were such simple creatures, always looking for fresh new scandals to occupy their already empty minds. Roland strolled down the sidewalk, a blue rose looped under his arm for a special girl and his saber strapped to his waist. Was he nervous? Sure. He was beginning to wonder why he thought inviting Cassandra to this stupid tournament was a good idea. What if he lost and made a fool of himself? Or surrendered to his competitor’s technique?
He narrowed his eyes while the sun’s rays bore down on him. His destination was right before him, a fancy surrey that was parked in front of the school’s iron gates. The pair of horses it was attached to whinnied and shook their brown manes, stomping their hooves on the ground impatiently. The surrey’s seats were made of ruby colored cushions. There were four seats in total, and each had a long pole on both sides that held a metal roof over the passengers’ heads. Roland was the last to arrive. The other seven students were chatting excitedly within the vehicle. Mr. Bramen stood by the side of the surrey, his arms crossed over his chest. The man glared at Roland.
“You’re late for the umpteenth time,” Mr. Bramen said, the scar on his nose twitching as his nostrils flared. “We were supposed to depart at noon. Do I have to drag you out of bed every morning? Is that what you want?”
“No, I—”
The instructor silenced him with a threatening look. “All of my students aside from you had the decency to show up early.” He motioned to the teenagers in the surrey that had chosen that moment to act like quiet, respectful, well behaved kids.
“I’m extremely disappointed. This tournament will not only determine your place within the Order, it also shows our school’s superior warriors. As a future knight and protector of our country, you should know that it is essential to be punctual and respect authority. Everything you do is a reflection of the school. Do I make myself clear?” Then he noticed the rose under Roland’s arm and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“It’s a rose, sir.”
“I know what it is. Why the hell are you taking that with you? Do you want the competitors to think you’re a little wimp?”
Roland shook his head.
Mr. Bramen yanked the flower from his arm and threw onto the ground. He stomped on it until the leaves fell off and the plant looked like it had been run over by a car.
Instructor Bramen jabbed his finger at Roland’s chest. “Once we get to Denver’s Knights School, you’re running five laps around the track and you won’t say anything but please and thank you. You can tell that girl you were making out with this morning goodbye, because I’m not letting you of my sight.”
“I wasn’t seeing a girl.”
“Put a sock in it,” snarled the instructor, “and get in the back.”
Roland released an exasperated sigh. The plan to meet Cassandra at the rendezvous after the match was about to go up in flames. Rumor had it that Barmen’s wife had abandoned him for a better spouse a few years back, and the man had been bitter ever since. He lived to put a wedge between any relationships he saw igniting on the campus. Roland pulled himself into the back seat beside Imani and Clark.
Imani could get along with anyone, regardless of their background or sexuality. Everyone knew her. Everyone respected her. She was the one without bias. She was pretty, with chocolate colored skin and dark brown eyes that always sparkled mischievously. Her petite face was framed with lovely brown curls.
Imani smiled sheepishly and leaned toward him to whisper, “Who’s the lucky girl?”
“No one,” he muttered.
Her intense gaze caused his cheeks to flush and he looked away.
She giggled and reclined in the chair. “You’re so easy to read.”
Clark nodded in agreement. “He’s an open book.”
“He’ll probably write a song about it, telling the world about this girl he fell for. She is like the sun—fair, beautiful. The problem is Roland is poor and she is rich and very pretty, so the rest of the world wants to keep them apart.”
Imani gripped her chest and pouted. “The heartache, the sorrow.”
Clark chuckled. “And the pain. He probably can’t sleep without her by his side.”
Roland reached crossed Imani and elbowed Clark in the ribs. Clark smirked.
“It was love at first sight,” Clark declared, ignoring Roland’s glare. “Their eyes met in that single moment, sparks flew, and their eyes turned into beating
red hearts like cartoon characters. And then they realized they where each other’s soul mates.”
Clark shook his head, studying his friend. “But Roland is romantically impaired. This unfortunate girl will have to live with this dunce for the rest of her life. He can’t read the mood, and is unable to pick up on any reasonable hints. He probably doesn’t have the guts to kiss anything but a stuffed animal.”
“I feel so sorry for her,” Imani agreed with a slow shake of her head.
Roland’s eye twitched. He was finding it hard to resist the urge to slap some sense into both of them. He settled for changing the subject.
“Are you ready for the tournament?”
Imani pursed her lips. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He waited for her to say something else, wondering if she would mention that she was one of the best fighters in the school. She toyed with the hem of her plaid skirt. Even a girl as talkative and confident as her could be nervous. The thought brought a smile to his lips.
“You’ll do fine,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Clark reached over and patted Roland’s head. “Don’t be scared, I’ll protect you.”
“I’m not scared,” Roland told Clark. He glanced at the bruises that remained on the boy’s face after the fight with Ryan. For the first time, he failed to strike back with a snide remark. He mumbled, “Don’t get beat up again.”
Clark brought his hand to his ear, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Can you say that a bit louder? I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of you being worried about me.”
Realizing that Roland wouldn’t say it again, Clark said solemnly, “Don’t worry about me. I don’t plan on being someone’s punching bag a second time.”
The gates creaked on their hinges, swinging open, a guard standing watch on either side. The vehicle lurched forward, the horses easing into a light trot. Roland watched the school fade behind them, giving way to a lush evergreen forest. Tall, vibrant plants surrounded the narrow strip of road. Roland immediately remembered running into the two thieves from the Rouge Resistance and his hand went to his sword. It was instinct more than anything else; he did not plan on being caught off guard a second time.
Chapter XII
Denver’s Knights’ arena resembled an ancient Roman coliseum. It was a circular stone building with three levels of arches. Roland emerged from a narrow tunnel and stepped onto the sand covered floor where he would face his opponent. He glanced at the seats that encircled the arena and rose toward the cloudless blue sky. A few feet away, a moderator stood with the Order’s commander behind a wooden desk. The commander, Mark Lang, was a heavyset man, broad shoulders, rugged looks, a standard military haircut, and brooding brown eyes. He watched Roland keenly then leaned toward the microphone on the center of the desk.
“Our next fighter is Roland Brody, a sixteen-year-old student from King’s Academy. He is aiming for a spot on the front lines for the upcoming attack against the Rouge Resistance.”
Roland had a hard time getting used to his new surname, and wondered what his mother would say if she saw him. God, he longed to see her. He had often thought about what he would say when they finally met. Would she still embrace him like she used to? Or would she treat him like a total stranger? Only time would tell. His main priority was getting a good score in this tournament. His hand went to his sword at the sound of footsteps behind him. A boy wearing sweatpants and a loose black shirt with the letters D.K.A. sewn in the material over his heart strode confidently into the arena and stood beside Roland.
“His opponent is Carl Hughes. Carl is also aiming for a spot on the front line. He is seventeen-years-old from Denver’s Knight’s Academy and one of the top students in his school,” Lang announced.
The crowd cheered for Carl.
Roland scanned the audience for a familiar face. Roland knew Cassandra was somewhere in the crowd, watching him, hoping he would win. He wished he could see her face, feel the warmth of her skin.
Deep breath. Exhale.
He could win. He was not completely hopeless. He focused on Carl. They had the same height and build. Carl’s pale white skin was clammy with sweat. He brandished a broadsword with two hands, gripping the handle. Carl regarded Roland with faint curiosity. Roland drew his saber and held it in his right hand.
“Stand back,” the director called.
“Good luck,” the boy taunted with a smirk and took a few steps back.
“Same to you.” Roland retreated until they were two feet apart, and spun around to face his opponent.
Kio had won his battle, and Roland wouldn’t be the one to screw up and tarnish his school’s reputation. He would fight, and he would make his opponent regret entering this stadium. He had sharpened the saber’s blade for the occasion.
“Swords ready!” Lang exclaimed.
The crowed hushed, anticipating the moment their blades would meet, probably placing bets on who would win.
“Begin!” he shouted, bringing his fist down onto the desk.
A band of students started an intimidating piece in the front row. Boys with black jackets and a feather headpiece rose and blasted their silver trumpets. Behind the moderator was a row of drummers who pounded away on the drum’s membrane, their eyes focused, and their tempo constant.
Carl closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds and swung his blade at Roland’s head. Roland ducked and drove his sword toward the boy’s stomach. It was blocked with a parry. They attacked and blocked while Roland advanced, pressing his enemy back.
Carl gritted his teeth, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He drove his sword towards Roland’s chest. Roland blocked it with a cross, the impact jarring his bones. Carl dealt a barrage of heavy blows toward Roland’s shoulders and knees, forcing Roland into a defensive pattern. Struggling to keep up, Roland’s grip on his sword loosened, and he retreated until he could regain his bearings. Carl was hot on his trail, not giving him a second to breathe. He brought the sword down on Roland’s shoulder and Roland dove to the left. He rolled in the sand and jumped into a balanced stance.
Spinning on his heels, Roland changed direction and charged. A puzzled look crossed Carl’s features. Carl faltered when Roland thrust the blade toward him. Roland’s sword touched Carl’s chest and the boy watched him, shocked.
According to the tournament’s rules, participants weren’t allowed to stab their opponent, but they could touch them lightly with their weapons. Yet accidents happened, and the unfortunate victims were rushed to the hospital. Roland steadied his breathing, a smile playing on his lips.
“The first point goes to Roland,” Lang said clearly. “If he scores the next point, the match belongs to him. Stand back!”
Carl narrowed his eyes threateningly. “I’ll kill you.”
“I would like to see you try,” Roland replied evenly.
The parted, standing some distance away from each other.
“Swords ready!”
Roland twirled the sword then held it steady and narrowed his eyes. He was in the zone, on guard. Nothing would deter him.
“Begin!”
They charged at the same time, kicking up a cloud of dust. Their swords clanged, sending tremors down their arms. Roland pulled away and slid forward, driving the blade toward Carl’s abdomen. Carl reacted quickly, stepping to the right. He elbowed Roland in the stomach and swept the broadsword toward his head. Though Roland met the attack with his saber, the impact sent his weapon flying.
Roland muttered a string of curse words.
The guy was strong, that was the one thing Roland was willing to admit. Roland knew he wasn’t a terrible fighter, but he lacked the power that was needed to deliver such powerful strikes. He could use a heavier sword. No, that would only slow him down. His sabre had fallen a few feet to the right. He bit his lower lip. Damn. He needed to turn his back on Carl to retrieve it. Should he risk it?
The crowd cheered, yelling their support for Carl.
; Roland needed to focus. Carl had assumed that Roland had already met his end, and was slowly raising his sword, prolonging Roland’s defeat, letting the audience taste the delicious flavor of victory for a bit longer. It was time for Roland to make his move. He kicked Carl’s abdomen and the boy sprawled backward. That should have been counted as penalty since it was against the rules to use their feet. If the moderator desired, he could give Carl a point and end the round.
No bells rang.
No penalties were called.
Roland raced toward the sword and picked it up. The crowd shouted their disagreement, but Roland ignored them. Carl struggled to his feet with a dazed look. Roland strode toward him confidently. He would end the match in one move.
Chapter XIII
At six pm, Roland met with Mr. Bramen and the rest of the class by a bridge in the park outside Denver’s Knights’ Coliseum. Though he won his match, it hadn’t gained him any respect from anyone aside from his classmates.
Mr. Bramen stood on the center of the bridge and his students formed a semi-circle around him. His arms were crossed over his chest, an unnatural smile on his face. Roland grimaced. He glanced at the gentle stream flowing beneath them, listened to the birds chirping happily in the surrounding trees. He remembered the way the match ended, and the disagreement that arose after it.
He had run toward Carl, but the boy was on guard. He blocked Roland’s jab with a cross. They gritted their teeth and glared at each other, neither boy wanting to back down and lose the match. Roland broke away, and he spun around Carl until he stood directly behind him. His sword touched the back of Carl’s head and the boy stiffened. The bell rang and the Order’s commander announced, “Roland Brody scores the final point, showing great promise as a future knight.”
The crowd disagreed.
Some shouted a united chorus, “Cheater, cheater!”
Other hurled insults at him.
“Quiet!” the commander shouted. “I have approved of all attacks in this match, keep your remarks to yourself. Despite whatever you believe, Roland has won this match.”