by Garry Ocean
But now his body seemed to have remembered the long-forgotten moves by itself. Just like this second, when deflecting a sword blow by a persistent adversary, Nick made a short step forward and hit him in the head with an edge of his shield. The Spartans used their shields not only for defense. In skillful hands it turned into a powerful weapon. The attacker immediately melted and thumped on the sand.
“That’s probably a little too hard,” Nick thought, noticing a stream of blood flowing from under his helmet. The second attacker charged at him right away, Nick tripped him with his leg and gave him a short blow behind his ear with the sword handle. “This one will live,” Nick pointed out automatically.
When the third one saw how quickly Nick had done in the first two, he changed his mind about a quick attack and started to circle around Nick, keeping a distance. Nick glanced at the other fighting group. The alvars were in a tight squeeze. Only three of them remained standing. The fourth one was lying on the ground, his arms spread on the sand with a pool of blood under him.
Nick had to rush. He made a swift move and turned up an arm away in front of his last adversary. The steppe dweller’s eyes still continued to drill the place where Nick had been a second ago, and then started to slowly go wide. He looked utterly confused. Nick had no time to think of anything, so he simply pierced his right shoulder. The steppe dweller’s arm immediately went numb and let go of the sword, and he let out a shriek. It was not clear what caused it more: pain, anger, or frustration.
Nick, not paying any more attention to the temporarily disabled adversary, turned around sharply and in two long jumps cut through the crowd of steppe dwellers attacking the alvars. They were completely taken aback by the attack from the rear and Nick took advantage of it. Two of them fell, not even understanding what had happened. One was bludgeoned with a heavy shield, the other kneeled with a penetrating wound in his thigh.
For a second, the entire battle froze. The adversaries stopped, breathing heavily and staring at each other with eyes full of hate. Nick looked around. Even a short glance was enough to understand that the alvars were now in a critical situation. They were weak from exhaustion and blood loss. But their eyes were still full of determination to continue the unequal fight.
The ten still standing steppe dwellers were also beat-up. Many of them had blood streaming from deep cuts. But despite their wounds they still remained dangerous adversaries. The spectators were going wild demanding to continue the lethal battle.
The short breather was broken by the muscled steppe dweller. He throated a short curse and pounded the alvar closest to him with a rain of blows. The latter tried to protect himself with a shield, but after the third powerful blow he gave in and kneeled on one knee. Another steppe dweller took advantage of the situation and threw a heavy javelin at the exposed warrior. The next second, the alvar fell on the ground with a pierced throat. Brand and his partners, without saying a word to each other, charged in the attack forcing the big man to hide behind the backs of his tribesmen.
Nick noticed in time a javelin flying at him, ducked to let it fly over and in a quick charge stroke the attacking steppe dweller in the gut. The leather protector with iron plates did not hold and his owner collapsed to his knees with a loud groan.
Then Nick was squalled with heavy blows and had to fall back, covering himself with a shield. Through the cutouts in his helmet he saw that the steppe dwellers were attacking the alvars again, only two of them remaining. Everything started to flash quickly in front of his eyes, like in a kaleidoscope.
Here Brand threw to the side his shield that became too heavy for him and deflected the non-stop blows with just his sword. His left hand clenched a javelin, ready to strike an exposed adversary. The second alvar pulled all his strength together to imitate a charge, driving his short sword up to the handle into the attacking steppe dweller’s chest. But he did not manage to pull it out. He received two penetrating wounds to his back and, never letting his enemy off his deadly embrace, slowly fell on the white sand. Brand managed to strike another one’s side with a javelin, but the steppe dweller’s bludgeon still caught up with him. He deflected it with his sword that broke into two parts right near the handle by the blow but failed to absorb its power, and Brand fell onto the sand with a broken collarbone.
The fight stopped for a short time again. Nick looked around quickly, thinking, “How many are still standing against me? Six. Although, no, two are out.” Swaying and stumbling, the two went to the edge of the Arena, leaving blood traces that were more telling than words. “So, there’s only four left, including the huge one who killed two alvars and seriously wounded Brand.”
The steppe dwellers were standing there, breathing heavily, and exuding unabridged hate from their eyes. And, somewhere deep inside, a fear. They were afraid of him, Nick. Somewhat surprised by that fact, Nick realized he liked it. He was standing in the middle of the Arena, covered with someone else’s, not his own, blood. The Arena’s tribunes were roaring like a herd of stinghs gone wild. The air was saturated with death. Only now Nick realized that it was not just a colorful phrase overused in books and holo-films. The air was indeed full of sweetened and tart odor of death.
One of the steppe dwellers throat-yelled something, and they all attacked Nick as one. Nick saw their faces disfigured with anger and hate. There was nothing human about them. The time stopped. He started to work. Nick smashed the first one with his massive shield. The second one received a short elbow-driven blow to the trellis visor. The power of the blow, multiplied with its force, smashed the helmet like it was made of thin foil.
Nick did not even feel resistance from the metal, but thought to himself that he’d have a guaranteed elbow bruise. He let the third steppe dweller, just about to strike him with his curved sword, go behind Nick and gave him a strong blow with a sword handle to the back of his head.
The big one was fast, but not fast enough to strike Nick who had just entered the speeding-up stage. The steppe dweller’s bludgeon with sharp metal spikes on its round head was slowly approaching Nick. The adversary clearly was going to crush Nick’s head with it and thus finish him once and for all. Nick squatted a little and sharply drove his short sword, aiming exactly for the steppe dweller’s heart, but at the last moment lowered it a little to the left, penetrating the man’s right side through and through.
The four bodies fell to the ground practically at the same time. In the poignant silence, their fall muffled by the sand sounded like a loud thump. The spectators froze. They could not believe what they saw with their own eyes. The first ones to come to were those who had already thought their bet money was lost. From the day it was built, the Arena probably had never heard such a victorious and joyful bellow. Then everyone started to talk at the same time, sharing impressions about what they just saw.
Nick ran up to Brand. The warrior was conscious. Even though the alvar’s face was ash-gray from pain and blood loss, he let out no groan. Nick saw a silent question in his eyes.
“We’ve won!” Nich responded, kneeling in front of Brand.
The warrior nodded gratefully and only then went out.
The guards were shouting something into their copper funnels. The wounded ones were allowed to be tended to by their armor-bearers and those who accompanied them. Nick saw Whisperer, white as a board chalk, rushing to him. When he approached, he started to feel out Nick on all sides with his fingers. Nick did not realize at first what he was doing.
“Where does it hurt, Nick? Here? Or, perhaps, here?”
Nick himself did not understand where he hurt. He knew the pain would come later, after the adrenalin storm in his body calms down. He took off his helmet with an effort. Now it seemed to weigh a ton. He realized that he had thrown the shield to the side even earlier.
“Everything’s fine, my boy, everything will be all right,” Whisperer seemed to be trying to console himself more than Nick. “You were great, you’ve done it!”
A lot of people were swarming around
. Some were giving first aid; others were dragging the fallen warriors out of the Arena. When realized that Nick was not in danger, Whisperer turned to Brand. Without a word, he pushed aside the boy fussing over his master, squatted next to the warrior and touched his temples with his palms. He conjured like this for some time, then got up and straightened himself, groaning and said to the boy, “Take him to a good bone-setter right away! If he gets good treatment, his bones will heal. Why are standing idle? He is alive! Alive, do you hear me?”
The boy, who probably was sure his master was dead just a second ago, rushed to get a stretcher. Blood started to come back to Brad’s face and it turned pink.
“Well, you are the Winner!” Whisperer proudly looked at Nick. “Time to present you to the Guardians!”
********
Cleo watched everything going on in the Arena with great interest. This was her second Exodus Celebration. But she remembered very little of the first one. She was only eight then. Mother was already gravely ill at that time and could not attend. Cleo tried to shake off the sad memories. However, her brother Leo was with her then. She smiled sadly again. Why is everyone afraid of this Forest so much? In the Arena, more than two hundred men were competing in strength and agility. They were not afraid of participating in the Ritual, even though many of them would die today. So why is it so difficult to find volunteers for an expedition to the Forest? Is this simply a genetic fear among the City folk that is inherited from one generation to the next?
Personally, she had no fear of Forest. Neither did Leo. On the contrary, they were always interested in everything relating to the Forest in one way or another. The information, regrettably, was scarce. Mostly it was various legends, in which it was difficult to parse the truth from fiction. Cleo knew that there existed closed archives and secret labs. But even for her, the daughter of the Supreme Guardian, the access to them was closed. To all her questions, father kept saying it was not her time yet, “grow up a little more, why do you need this now?” Always wiggled his way out of it. And when Leo disappeared father refused to talk about this at all. Cleo smiled, “until recently.” He promised to arrange for her to meet with the hunter. After the Exodus. But it’s all right, just a little more time to wait.
She turned her head to her father and smiled. He sat in the center with a look of importance, among the other Guardians. But when he caught her glance he smiled back at her. Meanwhile, the Judge was continuing his long-standing argument with the Guard. The former believed that participation in the Ritual must be open to any volunteer of age, able and willing to fight. The latter, however, a staunch supporter of the old tradition, was against participation of, as he liked to call them, “dirty outsiders.” This definition covered everyone who was born beyond the Great City stonewalls. The fact that in today’s Ritual the warriors from the White Rocks and Middle Lands participated was cringing him but he could put up with it. However, the steppe dwellers’ participation drove him out of his mind. The Judge, knowing it, was playing with him, adding oil to the fire.
“So, I don’t see many warriors from the city guard in the Arena today,” the Judge dragged, drumming his thick fingers on the armrest. “Where are your highly praised heroes hiding?”
“Not hiding at all,” the Guard frowned, “three dozen enlisted yesterday.”
“Three dozen,” the Judge mocked him. “And do you know that there are more than two hundred participants? So, your three dozen is just like,” the Judge finished his wine in one gulp, then looked into his glass as if looking for something there and joyfully finished, “a drop at the bottom of my glass.”
“And that’s exactly what I mean,” the Guard started to boil inside. “Why would we allow all this trash to participate in the Ritual? These stinky steppe dwellers are disgusting to look at, not to mention to stand near them. During the times of the High-Born Archy they were hung by their legs along major roads, and now we invite them to celebrate the First Exodus and give them all honors they do not deserve.”
“Politics!” the Judge meaningfully raised his index finger. “And then, why don’t your brave soldiers show these steppe dwellers who are better warriors in the fight, rather than simply scaffolding about their body odor! Ha-ha-ha! The Treasurer is right, your soldiers have become lazy in their idle days.”
“Chair-warmers and spongers!” the Treasurer chimed in joyfully, rubbing his hands.
“I give up on you!” the Guard waived them off in disappointment. “I am telling you about one thing, and you are talking about another. You’ll see how my men will tear these so-called fighters apart. I would have told you what I think about this all, but the girl is here,” he nodded at Cleo.
“All right, don’t brag just yet,” the Judge showed with a gesture to one of the maids to pour him more wine. “We’ll see who is worth what when the Appeasement starts.”
Cleo knew personally most of the city guard warriors participating in the Ritual today. With some, she even trained. They couldn’t be called weaklings. But they were not facing ordinary adversaries either. The best warriors from the near and far lands came here to show off their mastery. Too bad there was not a single hunter from a near-Forest among them. It would be good to see them fight. Or, better yet, to get acquainted with them. They could tell so much about the Forest! Why didn’t she come up with this simple idea before? What does she know about their life at all? To be honest, practically nothing. Suddenly, her thinking was interrupted by the roar of the spectators.
“One more of yours just got kicked out!” the Judge shrieked, seemingly joyful. “And who kicked him out? One of those stinky barbarians you hate so much!”
Cleo peered at the Arena. Indeed, one of the City guards was being carried away. His face seemed familiar to her, but she was not sure from such a distance. The stretcher was already at the Eastern Gate. One could only hope he’d survive.
And suddenly her eyes stopped at a tall broad-shouldered warrior getting ready for the competition. He was wearing clothes of a layman, some wide pants and a shirt that did not fasten all the way up on his chest. And he was also barefoot!
He was not wearing any armor, even leather one. Although, perhaps he just took it off? It was not allowed to stay in defense mode during the Appeasement. She would have probably forgotten about this stranger had the guards not announced his adversary. It was the steppe dweller from the Karatyn camp. Gunn-Terr told her once that the warriors from this camp were considered to be the fiercest even among the steppe dwellers. People said that they had a custom of eating their defeated enemies. They believed that they acquired a part of their enemy’s strength and agility that way.
What she saw next made Cleo reconsider her attitude toward the layman. At first, she was surprised by how he threw away, as something unnecessary, one of his javelins. This incomprehensible act reduced his chances of staying alive two times right away. What was it: stupidity or arrogance, Cleo could only guess, but what she saw next shocked her even more.
She herself could throw a mean javelin and she knew very well that it was practically impossible to swerve away from a javelin driven by a skillful hand from a distance of less than thirty steps. Especially when the opponent is just slowly walking. And in this case the steppe dweller was particularly cunning and masterfully sent two javelins into his target practically at the same time. At first Cleo did not even understand what happened and only when she heard the muffled clanks she guessed that the layman had just deflected them both off, or at least one of them. Everything happened too fast.
The spectators were screaming with delight, and when the layman managed to break the steppe dweller’s legs in a response strike, the spectators were in complete awe. Many jumped off their seats and applauded loudly. Even Gunn-Terr, standing all this time behind Cleo’s back, said “hmmm” approvingly. To do that to a steppe dweller meant to disgrace him for life. The defeated warrior himself would have been a lot more grateful if the javelin had stricken him in the chest.
Not so long ago,
when the City was in frequent wars with the steppe dwellers, the latter liked to torture the prisoners like that. They would break their legs and leave them in the steppe not far from a semi-dry pond. Most people died in great suffering, never managing to crawl to the life-saving water. And now this brave layman did exactly the same thing to one of the steppe dwellers. This was a disgrace that could be washed off only with the inflictor’s blood.
“There,” the Judge didn’t miss a chance to tease the Guard, “even the deadbeats like this, with no clan or tribe behind him are much better warriors than yours.”
“By the way,” the Supreme One, not interrupting their verbal fights before, finally asked, “Will anyone tell me the name of this warrior?”
“Just a second,” the Judge waved at someone, “We’ll find out now.”
In a moment, his assistant was handing him the roll with the names.
“So,” the Judge was moving his fat lips, “ah, here I see it. It’s a Nick from the Westgeyer clan.”
“The Westgeyers?” the Supreme One wrinkled his forehead. “I can’t remember the name.”
“If I’m not mistaken, they are the healers and bookkeepers,” the Alchemist said.
“Ah, that makes sense. I thought the name was familiar. But they never had warriors in their line before! That’s why I was surprised. But he is a fine fellow, great job!”
Cleo realized that her father was nervous too. In this Ritual, the City warriors were a lot inferior to the same steppe dwellers. It would be all right if the alvars or the mercenaries from the Middle Lands defeated them. But no one liked these barbarians from the steppes. Except for the Judge, perhaps. He did not even try to hide it and when only three free-born city warriors got to the final stage of the Ritual, he declared, “I told you so. One deadbeat and two lucky ones. Great results!”