by Jacky Gray
The village mothers took turns to oversee, a precaution due to an incident three years ago. One of the youngsters started a fire by dancing too close to the candles. Since then, the safety measures meant three women always sat in the corner sharing spiced wine and a good chat.
While the little ones plaited the willow strands to make headdresses, the older girls speculated about what the boys were doing in the village hall, eyes sparkling as their suggestions became more and more outrageous.
~*~
In the village hall, Cal watched with half an eye as the two pairs of younger lads waited, poised for the horn. As ever, his thoughts turned to Lyrelie, and he gave thanks that she would not be witnessing the thing she hated most. The dread which normally turned his guts to water was absent this year. Being so much taller than the other lads, he had always been handicapped in the contest. Not physically, but by an innate sense of honour which had never allowed him to use his full strength and speed.
The nature of the combat made it an advantage to be long-limbed. Because the two right arms were tethered by a rope, he had little difficulty in staying out of reach of his smaller opponent. But he had none of the “killing streak” some of the other boys valued so much. He invariably allowed his first-round opponent to best him, resulting in a more evenly matched final.
He always looked forward to pairing with Verat – their friendship meant he could give a much more convincing performance as they frequently sparred together and knew each other’s weaknesses. Verat’s mummer skills meant they could devise an entertaining duel. Cal’s friend had plenty of victory hunger and usually went on to win.
His attention snagged as Dennon’s lad, Derran, demonstrated similar cunning; seeming to stumble as he teased his opponent into thinking he had a chance. The other boy overstretched his reach and Derran’s swift jerk on the rope had him tumbling to the ground and out of the contest. Cal grinned; the lad had obviously learnt a trick or two from his father. Dennon, an experienced soldier, had served several campaigns with Jarl. It inspired one of the other junior boys to end his match with a winning manoeuvre.
This year, Cal pulled Ran in the first round and, after his friend’s deception over the herbs, he felt in no mood to surrender his place. Ran seemed even more sluggish than normal, throwing a couple of half-hearted punches. Stung by the jeers, he put all his weight behind a missed punch, falling to the ground as Cal ducked.
This gave Cal plenty of time to observe Verat’s match with a total stranger. This year had seen a couple of newcomers to the challenge as a result of the influx of families swelling the village’s numbers and the church’s pews. The lad had no skills but plenty of strength and determination. Accompanying his attack with a string of loud taunts, he landed several mauling blows which sent Cal’s friend reeling.
Verat’s balance and timing meant he won, but the bout took its toll and he would need every available moment to recover. Panting, he took the beaker of rejuvenating tonic Cal offered, downing it in one gulp. “I really need a skin of ale right now. And an easy second round.” His stare suggested he hoped Cal would give him that.
But Cal was of a mind to win this year, or at least not to deliberately lose. It seemed a shame not to put all the training with the Black Hilt to the test, but the most pressing argument was that this would be his last year of competing – next year they would both be too old. He murmured something non-committal as the next four contenders squared up for their first round.
His gaze landed on another newcomer, almost as tall as Cal but not as broad, whose right arm was being tethered to Tol’s. With a wink, Tol mimed a hangman’s noose, pointing at the other lad as though foretelling his demise. Which was ridiculous, really. Despite Tol’s agility, he rarely succeeded in the rope-combat. He never took the challenge seriously, preferring to disable his opponents by making them helpless with laughter.
Verat’s vociferous opponent seemed to take offence at Tol’s gesture, shouting to the tall lad. “Come on, Zane. Are you gonna let the little runt show so little respect?”
Any response was curtailed as Magister Osman called for the area to be cleared of all but the contenders. But Cal saw something flicker in Zane’s eyes, and he worried for Tol. His concern appeared misplaced as the tall lad seemed quite sporting, bowing as the horn blew and they shook hands. Zane never seemed to expend much effort, but always had the upper hand.
As yet another punch missed its target, the tall lad stepped back, allowing Tol to recover. Cal knew how much more effort an unlanded punch cost, and realised Zane’s skill in tiring his opponent without even trying.
His gaze was distracted as the crowd commiserated with the loser from the fourth pairing. He missed Zane’s winning move, turning in time to see Tol hit the floor. He caught the predatory grins from Verat’s loud-mouth opponent and his friend, also through to the next round.
Zane appeared to show genuine concern for Tol, helping him up and clapping him on the back. “Well done, mate – you almost caught me there. A worthy match.”
Cal’s eye’s narrowed – something about the lad seemed familiar, but he could not think from where. His low, measured tone gave the impression of education – almost cultured in the same way Lyran’s had been. Although he dressed like a villein, his bearing and manners put him way above that class.
Verat clapped Tol on the back and Ran handed him the tonic, but he waved it around, sloshing much of it over the sides as he celebrated his performance. “Did you see that? It’s the closest I’ve ever come to winning a bout. If I hadn’t tripped, I would have had him.”
Cal would have given anything to hear the conversation between Zane and his henchmen as their postures and gestures suggested they argued over something. The other first round winner jabbed his finger at Verat and all three glanced over with varying degrees of malevolence.
A memory stirred but, before it could take shape, the magister announced the pairings for the second round. He was to pair with Verat and Zane was already huddling with his mates, no doubt figuring out a strategy for the next bout. His eyes narrowed. One of them was no doubt going to take an early fall so the other would be fresh for the final and have the best chance of taking the prize. His insides clenched at the thought of Verat, already suffering from his first round pasting, being trounced by Zane, obviously the leader of this gang. As all manner of connections fired in his brain, Verat approached.
“Are we solid? The normal dance for a few moments, and then I’ll deliver a killer punch. Like always.”
Cal could not meet his friend’s eye. Hearing it aloud made him squirm at the nature of the deception; was he any better than them? His gaze strayed to Zane, who saluted him across the room. But it was different, wasn’t it? His reasons for playing down his abilities were honourable, not to deceive.
Verat seemed so sure of his reply, he did not wait for confirmation, loosening his muscles with some stretches.
Knowing he should give his friend warning of his intentions, Cal opened his mouth, but the opportunity was lost as Osman called them forward. As before, the two pairs were bound together, this time with a shorter rope. The magister reminded all four contenders they should restrict their blows above the waist.
“We are relying on you to set a good example for the younger boys and to fight with honour. No kicking, and the first one to hit the ground loses. You may start on the horn.” He nodded to the official for the signal.
Every part of Cal’s training with Jarl and the sword dancers activated as the horn blew. Muttering an apology to Verat, he tugged on the rope and landed an irresistible punch which swept the lad off his feet with such force he had no time to do anything but collapse backward onto the floor. The shorter rope meant Cal was pulled forward, but he had visualised the resulting action in his head. Bending at the waist, he carefully avoided stepping on his friend.
Having watched Cal lose for many years, everyone was taken by surprise, resulting in a stunned silence. Zane took advantage of his opponent’s d
istraction and landed his own punch, but he did not appear to have reckoned on the consequences, stumbling over his opponent’s body, barely able to regain his balance.
Unable to control his natural reaction, Cal reached out as though to help the body hurtling toward him, then realised that if Zane hit the floor as well, the fall would be discounted and he would have to go again.
In the split-second of indecision, Zane managed to find his balance and right himself. The two of them were so close they almost touched, and Cal could not believe the smile, nor the whispered, “Thank you,” before the arbiter declared the final would be between Cal and Zane. He exhorted them to recharge their beakers during the brief pause before the junior boys’ final.
A tug on his arm reminded him he was still tied to Verat, who glared at him before breaking into a huge smile. “Who would have believed it? Cal the Calm bests Violent Verat with a single blow. There is a song in there somewhere.”
Cal grabbed both of his friend’s wrists, pulling him up gently. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t have time …”
“Speak no more. I got what I deserved and, I suspect, what I’ve been missing out on all these years when you have gone easy on us.”
They accepted the beakers Tol offered, both gulping the tonic gratefully. Verat shook his head, grinning. “Truly a champion.” He drained his beaker. “A single blow.”
As Zane’s gang stared over with gleeful expressions, Cal registered Jarl’s approach, guessing how disappointed the soldier would be.
Jarl’s words said otherwise. “What a dark horse. Did you two plan that? ’Tis the work of a master strategist. All these years I fooled myself I had been teaching you when in fact you could teach me.”
“How so?” Cal frowned. “I demonstrated my ability to my next opponent – exactly what you told me not to do.”
“On the contrary, he knows nothing except you used surprise and landed a lucky blow. He will have no notion of your true speed and agility; his back was turned when you neatly sidestepped poor Verat.”
Any further discussion was halted as the horn sounded for the other final, and Cal slipped out for a breath of fresh air. He jumped at a sound, grateful when it was only Jarl, muttering about, “Watering his horse.”
Before they returned inside, Jarl passed on his wisdom. “I think he is fast and will not tire easily. He does not commit all his weight unless he’s sure of landing it – an intriguing tactic, it reduces the wasted lunges. He keeps it close, inviting you in. Your best play is to mirror him.”
“I won’t have much choice with the shorter rope.”
“True. I’ve seen your strategy with Verat for many years. Make it a dance; he’ll be looking to tire you out with a long game by dodging punches. But he’ll be expecting you to go for a quick kill now he’s seen you in action. If the rope twitches, tug hard – you’re stronger than him.”
Cal nodded; so far these were all tactics he’d practised with Verat but never used in earnest before.
“One last thing. Be aware of him going for your ears. It upsets your balance and makes you easier to drop.”
A loud cheer from inside suggested the end of the other final and he hurried in to see Derran holding up a victory fist. Approaching the centre, he heard his name being announced as the magister went on to explain that the final was the best of three bouts, otherwise the rules were the same as before.
The man insisted they shake hands and Zane’s cool hand clasped his with a firm grip. Unexpectedly, he met the equally cool stare before an almost friendly nod and a brief, “Good luck.”
Doubly wary after Jarl’s warning, Cal was prepared for any unexpected ruse, reacting with speed to each of Zane’s moves. According to his training, he held back from initiating any attacks, choosing to play a defensive game as he searched for his opponent’s weaknesses.
Unfortunately, Zane seemed to have the same idea. His strategy went as Jarl predicted, with no real commitment. Refusing to be lulled into believing his opponent weak, Cal realised it made for a boring match, so when the rope twitched, he yanked with all his strength. His opponent overbalanced and the momentum had him falling toward Cal, whose bulk would normally have broken the fall. At the last instant, Cal twisted away so Zane’s hand clutched at air and he toppled to the ground, landing heavily.
Bending down to aid his opponent, Cal was aware of a couple of voices calling foul play, but they were easily drowned by the enthusiastic cheering.
Zane’s jaunty smile as he clapped along made no sense; neither did his loud acknowledgement of, “Good form.”
Sweat stung Cal’s eyes, and Verat offered him a beaker, which he refused, and a cloth, which he used to wipe his face – not an easy task one-handed, but he managed. The magister allowed them a few moments to catch their breath before calling for the horn to start the second bout.
As though he’d observed enough, Zane’s strategy changed completely as he attacked with a series of short, sharp blows designed to unbalance Cal.
They looked good, but none of them had any force and Cal felt as though he were back in Verat’s devised dance. Reasoning he should conserve his energy, he reacted with sufficient force to counter each move, but not a jot more.
The crowd were none the wiser, applauding the end of each sequence as the contenders circled, gasping for breath.
When it came, the move was so obvious Cal could not believe he’d never seen it before. The rope binding the two right hands disabled both opponents by depriving them of their – normally – stronger arm. The fight was intended as a friendly match, and this stopped it from getting too ferocious. Accordingly, most pairs kept the rope taught, giving the greatest distance between them. The most anyone might do was to pull the rope close, as he had done, attempting to overbalance the opponent.
The very last thing anyone anticipated was a right-handed punch; it went against expectations. Cleverly done, the manoeuvre started with a short step forward, loosening the tension in the rope sufficient for Zane to draw back his arm before jabbing it into the space just below Cal’s ribs. The instinct to jump back was too strong, putting Cal exactly where his opponent wanted him. Zane’s follow-through with his left hand boxed Cal’s ear, disrupting his balance, making a fall inevitable.
The total disorientation of his senses rendered Cal incapable of softening the landing by loosening muscles and tumbling to lessen the impact. All the air was driven out of his lungs and his right arm was wrenched out of its socket as Zane pulled on the rope.
To anyone watching, it might seem like a normal fall, and the other lad’s solicitous manner would have fooled most. But as he lay on the floor, Cal finally realised why he had not made the connection with his earlier attack. The leader of the gang had used a coarse tone, vulgar words, and a different demeanour.
Despite disguising his voice, Zane could not mask his energy. Cal’s gift had developed beyond merely recognising the animal energy; he could now detect subtle differences between people’s energy vibrations, especially with his eyes closed. Zane’s energy vibrated identically to the attacker in the lane. Instinct warned Cal not to let on, so he accepted the hand helping him up and reciprocated with a cheery smile, although his “Good form,” struggled to find the same esteem as Zane’s.
This time, he accepted the tonic, jolting it back in a single swallow as he wished for some of Lyrelie’s healing. As though the mere thought of her connected them, he imagined he heard her voice in his ear, and felt her hands on his back and shoulder. She willed him to use the pain energy to repair damaged tissue, augmenting it with the herbs in the tonic and concentrating his breath to direct it to the places requiring most attention.
Holding his right shoulder with his free hand, he rotated it, realising it had not been pulled out of the socket as he first thought. However, the gristle holding the bones in place had been stretched almost to the point of tearing.
He felt Magister Osman’s worried gaze, realising the man had delayed the final bout, but the crowd were getting re
stless. With a nod, he confirmed his readiness, channelling all his resources into surviving this last bout.
Any chance of repeating the overbalance tactic had been effectively quashed by the pain in his arm and, as they waited for the horn, he squeezed his shoulder, wincing as a sharp sting brought tears. His only option would be to endure whatever torture Zane had in store for him and hope for a short bout.
Unfortunately, his opponent had other ideas, piling on punishment after punishment as the bout no longer resembled any kind of dance, merely a vicious street brawl. The spectators, however, were none the wiser, they would not perceive any difference between this and earlier rounds. All except Zane’s gang, whose gleeful expressions and delighted shouts indicated their vicarious enjoyment.
He felt Jarl’s gaze, disappointment writ clearly on his face. Either side of him, Verat and Tol shared similar grim expressions; not one of his friends shouted encouragement. In fact, the crowd had resorted to silence. Cal’s grunts of pain and lack of defence gave away his injury, and people must have registered the inequality of the match.
His mind sought the familiar comforts of misery and castigation at his inadequacies, ready to believe he was done for. A stern voice, strangely familiar, commanded his attention. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and let them in.”
Zane chose that moment to repeat his winning manoeuvre, stepping forward. The new page in Cal’s inner training handbook had a counter for this, and he spun out of reach. Lifting his right arm over his head, he inured himself to the pain this action should have caused. It didn’t come, but he gasped anyway, twisting his face in accordance with the effort it should have cost.
As his opponent attempted to regain his balance, Cal realised that the grim expressions were due to his friends projecting silent support toward him and, in Jarl’s case especially, he suspected some kind of protective healing. Just as with Lyrelie’s healing, the moment he made the connection, his body flooded with the battle energy Jarl had spoken of. He focussed his brain on how best to take advantage as he circled, noting subtle signs of fatigue in Zane’s face and posture.