by Martin Owton
Earl Baldwin recognised the battle was lost. “If you say so, my dear.”
He turned and headed for their bedroom.
“Do you think the King will really come?” asked Celaine brightly.
“I doubt it,” said Aron. “Though it’s possible, as Sarazan is one of his principal supporters. He’s more likely to send the Chancellor or one of his deputies.”
“Don’t let Baldwin hear that, or he’ll never change his shirt,” said Lady Alice. Celaine giggled nervously.
“I’ll fetch my gear,” said Aron. “Then we can go when his Lordship is ready.”
He walked out of the sittingroom and climbed the narrow stairs up to his room. He picked his pack up from the bed, rolled up his travel cloak and fastened it to the bottom of the pack, flipped the pack over his shoulder. He tested his back one last time and finding it supple and painfree, hurried back down the stairs.
Baldwin had found himself a clean shirt and was waiting with the ladies.
“There’s no need for you to all come now,” said Aron. “I want time to prepare, but the fight will not be for some hours yet.”
“No! Absolutely not,” said Earl Baldwin. “You are the champion of Nandor and it is only fitting that you arrive there with all the honour Nandor can muster. Besides we can’t risk any more assassins. Thalon and the guard are waiting out in the courtyard and we’ll escort you there.”
“As you wish, my Lord,” said Aron though in his heart he wished it was otherwise; their nervousness was getting to him and he wanted as few reminders of the stakes as possible.
***
They walked through the city, the guardsmen clearing a path through the bustling streets. Few people took note of their passing as Aron scanned the crowds for hints of danger. Foolishness, he thought. If there is danger it comes from above. An archer or crossbowman on a rooftop. He hoisted his pack higher on his shoulder to shield himself against the imagined dart and felt the sweat beading at his temple and trickling down his back underneath his mailshirt. Edith seemed to catch his mood and reached out her hand to his; ahead of them Celaine and Lady Alice also walked hand-in-hand.
Ahead of them the great bowl of the arena loomed over the buildings of the city, the pale stone of its arches seeming to shine in the midday sun as they joined the flow of people making their way to the tournament. The street led out into a wide field before the arena, its margins crowded with taverns, eating houses and food stalls, the smell from the cooking meat setting Aron’s mouth watering. Troubadours, jugglers and acrobats vied for their attention, but the Nandor party ignored them all and marched straight to the main entrance where the arena adjoined the temple of Martis, the warrior’s god. Baldwin identified himself to the gatekeeper and they were conducted inside as far as a great iron gate.
“Beyond this gate lies the temple of Martis, and within, the chambers of those that fight in the arena,” said Aron. “I must leave you now to prepare.”
Edith reluctantly released his hand and looked at him with those dangerous blue eyes. Aron felt she was about to say something, but Baldwin stepped forward.
“Our honour is in your hands,” he said and embraced him. “This will be a glorious day for Nandor.”
He stepped back and Lady Alice stepped forward and caught his hands.
“Iduna bring you safe back to us,” she said with a catch in her voice.
She leaned forward and chastely kissed his cheek. Celaine followed and her kiss was on Aron’s lips and she held it just a little longer than her mother. She stepped back and held his eyes with hers for a long moment, but said nothing. Finally Captain Thalon took Aron’s hand.
“We couldn’t have a better champion for Nandor,” he said gruffly. “Go and make us proud, lad.”
Aron gripped Thalon’s hand firmly. “I’ll see you all later,” he said and then turned to the gatekeeper who opened the great iron gate and muttered a few words of directions.
Aron walked into the temple complex not daring to look back in case his resolve cracked.
The interior of the temple was a pleasant relief from the heat outside. Aron followed the gatekeeper’s directions along a long corridor whose plastered walls were decorated with paintings of battle scenes. The corridor led into a chamber where several priests of Martis sat around a dice game. They looked up as Aron entered.
“Yes. What do you want?” said one.
“Aron of Darien. Champion of Nandor. I’m fighting the champion of Sarazan today.”
The priest looked up and consulted a blackboard on the wall on which were written the details of the day’s bouts.
“Ah, yes. You’re early.” He picked up a towel from a pile and tossed it to Aron. “Find yourself a cell down there. We’ll call you when it’s time.” He pointed to a doorway. “The bath is at the end of the corridor if you want that, and the altar-room is that way.”
He pointed to another doorway. Aron took his towel and headed for the cells and the priest returned to the dice game.
The cells were small, three paces by two, lit by a small window high in the wall with a bench seat wide enough to be a bed. In one corner was a shelf with a large jug of water and below it a bucket. Aron chose a cell at random, closed the door, put his pack down on the floor and lay down on the bench to try to focus his mind on the contest.
***
Maldwyn was lying on his bed when Nicoras came to fetch him. It’s quite a comfortable room for a prison, thought Maldwyn. The bed was soft, the linen changed frequently, and the food was better than he ate in Nandor. But it was still a prison; he had only an hour’s walk a day in the grounds and the rest of the time he was ferociously bored. He spent most of the time thinking of what he was going to do to Tancred when he finally got his hands on him.
The bolts on his door were pulled back and Nicoras walked in with two guardsmen.
“On your feet, my lad,” said Nicoras. “Today’s the day.”
“Who’s fighting? Not my father?” asked Maldwyn as he sat up.
“No. Aron of Darien is your champion.”
“Thank the gods for that.”
“Indeed. Now we can be rid of him. He won’t cause us any more trouble once Mikael’s finished with him,” said Nicoras with a grim smile.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Maldwyn. “I’ve seen Aron fight. He’s very good.”
“Mikael’s the best I’ve ever seen,” said Nicoras. “And believe me, I’ve seen a lot. Now get your boots on; we need to go.”
Maldwyn tugged on his boots and then followed Nicoras out of the room and into the courtyard. There a squad of immaculately turned-out Sarazan guardsmen waited for them with Tancred standing in their midst. Maldwyn stared hard at Tancred and noticed that he had a black eye and the side of his face was swollen. Good, he thought. I hope he’s lost a few teeth.
At that moment the Duke of Sarazan, accompanied by Lord Hercival, rode into the courtyard. Nicoras hustled Maldwyn into the formation well away from Tancred. The guard sergeant called the squad to attention and they marched off behind the Duke out into the city streets.
The Sarazan compound was only a short distance from the arena, but Maldwyn was sweating freely by the time they reached the great stone bowl. The crowd drew aside for them and the gatekeeper bowed deeply to the Duke before hurrying to open the gates. Maldwyn and Tancred, still kept well separated by the guardsmen, were led up flights of stairs and down dim corridors to emerge in a seated enclosure only a few paces above the wide sand floor of the arena. Maldwyn caught his breath at the sheer scale of it, the tiers of seating rising higher than the keep of Castle Nandor. The cushions on the seats showed Maldwyn that these were, save for the royal stand, the finest in the arena. The Duke took his seat at the front, Lord Hercival beside him. Maldwyn was seated on the rearmost row of the enclosure with two guardsmen behind his chair, well away from Tancred. He looked around the arena and saw his family seated in a similar enclosure on the far side of the royal s
tand. With a surge of joy he leapt up to wave to them, but the heavy hands of guardsmen pushed him down again very quickly, and he couldn’t tell whether anyone had seen him. We must get some finer livery, he thought. We look terrible beside the Sarazan household. He looked around the rest of the arena; it was only about half full, with most people sitting over on the same side as the Sarazan and Nandor parties where the great canvas sails that soared above the arena walls offered some measure of protection from the sun.
Three heralds appeared on the platform beside the royal stand and blew a fanfare. The marshal clad in black and carrying his silver baton of office stepped forward into the centre of the arena. In a great clear voice he introduced the first event, an exhibtion bout between two teams of young swordsmen. The young men ran forward from the shadow of the arena entrance and began a series of fencing exercises. Maldwyn watched with interest, to the amusement of his guards. All around on the public benches people gossiped, ate and drank or just stretched out in slumber waiting for something more exciting.
The exhibition finished, the young men marched out of the arena and the marshal announced the next event as a trial fight to first blood. A buzz of anticipation ran through the crowd, the slumberers sat up and the gossip ceased. Maldwyn learned from the guards that the fighters represented two merchants who were in dispute over a spoiled cargo. Both men wore long mail shirts over stout leather jerkins and had a tough hard-bitten look to them.
“Caravan guards,” said one of the guards contemptuously.
The fight was very short. In the first move one of the men thrust at his opponent who slapped the blade to one side and flicked his own blade in to run the point up his opponent’s arm. They both stepped back, the marshal cried ‘cease’and stepped between them. The crowd booed and whistled as the two fighters withdrew to be replaced by a troupe of acrobats. As the acrobats went through their display the crowd subsided into their previous state.
A cold knot of fear tightened in Maldwyn’s stomach despite the pretty female acrobats. That fight was over quickly. Ours could be over just like that. One slip and Aron’s dead and we’re ruined. He thought. No. Aron’s too good for that. But the knot did not loosen.
***
Aron heard the two fighters go out and return shortly after. Short fight, he thought. Probably to first blood. I’ll be on soon. He sat up and reached for his pack, running through in his mind all that Kyria’s blademaster had said about Mikael of Sarazan. “A very patient conservative fighter, his whole strategy is based around sound defence. He’ll let you come at him and when you give him an opening he’ll take you.”
“Then I mustn’t give him an opening. I must be as patient as he is,” Aron had replied. The blademaster had nodded. “Think you can do that?” he’d said and Aron had replied with confidence. “Of course.”
Now was the time to do it. He took another mouthful of water from the jug; he’d drunk nearly half the jugful. Would that be enough? he thought. Depends on how successful I am about not giving Mikael an opening. He removed his mailshirt from his pack and slipped it on.
There was a tap on the door. “Aron of Nandor,” a voice called. “It’s time.”
Aron adjusted his mailshirt, picked up his sword and opened the door. A priest stood waiting. Aron walked down the corridor the priest by his side. In the chamber where the priests had played dice, two men waited. One was another priest, the other a short man with a neat spade-shaped beard and grey-flecked dark hair. He wore a mailshirt under a shortcoat of seasoned leather and carried a sheathed sword.
Mikael of Sarazan, thought Aron. Mikael watched as Aron approached, but made no acknowledgement.
The priests led the two of them down another corridor to the arena entrance where the marshal stood waiting and then out onto the sandy floor. The bright sunlight made Aron squint after the dim chambers and corridors of the temple.
The marshal addressed the crowd.
“By the will of His Majesty the King the matter of dispute between Norbert, Duke of Sarazan and Baldwin, Earl of Nandor is to be resolved upon the bodies of their champions, Mikael of Sarazan.”
Mikael stepped forward and raised his sword in salute to the royal stand.
“Aron of Nandor.”
Aron stepped forward and made his salute, noting that the royal stand appeared unoccupied.
“There being no judgement of this matter upon earth it is His Majesty’s will that the Gods decide by battle to its conclusion,” cried the marshal. “Is it your will that battle be done?”
He turned to face the Sarazan enclosure. The Duke raised his hand in response. The marshal then turned to the Nandor enclosure, Baldwin raised his hand too.
The marshal raised his baton.
“Before the Gods then let it be battle until one can battle no more or does yield.”
Mikael drew his sword and passed the sheath to one of the priests then drew away a few paces and turned to face Aron. Aron unsheathed his own sword and gave the sheath to the other priest, then the two priests hurried back to the entrance. Aron turned to face Mikael.
The marshal stepped back from between the two swordsmen and dropped his baton.
“Let battle be done,” he cried.
Aron forgot then about the marshal, the priests and the crowd. Nothing existed in his world except Mikael and the sword in his hand. Mikael raised his sword and took up a perfectly posed defence stance. Aron stepped forward, his weight on his toes and adopted an identical stance. He probed towards Mikael and was met with a classically executed block. Every bit as good as they said, thought Aron as he stepped back to avoid Mikael’s counter. He danced right and thrust forward, quicker this time. Again Mikael blocked and pushed Aron’s blade aside with a turn of his wrist then flicked out his own blade in riposte. Aron skipped back and Mikael’s blade found only air.
***
Edith sat watching the deadly dance chewing on the knuckle of her right hand, beside her Celaine, deathly pale, twisted a handerchief in her hands so tightly that it began to tear. Despite the warmth of the day Edith felt icy inside and on the edge of being sick. The crowd behind her were stamping their feet on the wooden benches and calling out for blood. She felt like screaming at them to stop. She wanted to run away and hide until it was all over, but dare not take her eyes from Aron. The merchants’ champions had shown her how quickly the fight could end, and she had to see the stroke that changed her life utterly even though she knew it would live in her mind forever. A dozen times it seemed to her that Mikael’s blade must catch Aron, but each time he miraculously flowed away from it producing more jeers and catcalls from the crowd. He really is good, she thought. Even I can see that, but so is Mikael, how can Aron win?
***
How can I beat this man? thought Aron as he stepped away from another counter. Nothing I’m doing seemed to make the least impression on him. He looked for a moment into Mikael’s eyes but they remained as expressionless as ever despite the sweat trickling down his face. Nothing there but total focus. Just don’t give him an opening.
Aron darted in again with a thrust to Mikael’s left side and changed direction at the last moment to stab at his thigh, but the move was blocked as solidly as every other one had been. Aron danced right and backwards to avoid the inevitable riposte and Mikael’s blade skimmed past his face a handswidth away. He flicked the sweat away from his eyes, the air he was breathing felt as if it came straight from the mouth of a furnace. He’s twenty years older than me at least. This must be affecting him too. There seemed no sign of Mikael tiring though as he thrust forward and Aron again danced backward, but this time Mikael put in an extra half step. His point caught Aron and sliced up his forearm. Aron yelled more in surprise than pain as the blood flowed down his arm and the crowd roared in approval. Still no emotion registered on Mikael’s face.
***
Lord Hercival sat at his father’s elbow watching the fight. Everyone in the Sarazan enclosure was tense and silent. The
light scarf he wore around his neck to hide the bruising from Tancred’s assault was damp with sweat and chafing in the heat. The mounting frustration of the crowd mirrored his own and he longed to scream out for Aron’s blood.
“What’s Mikael playing at?” he said to his father. “Why hasn’t he killed him yet?”
“Be quiet,” said the Duke without taking his eyes of the fighters.
Then Mikael drew first blood. Lord Hercival leapt to his feet and roared with the crowd.
“That’s more like it. Now finish him,” he cried.
Beside him, his father said nothing, but kept watching grim-faced.
In the arena, Mikael made no move to press his attack and the catcalls resumed from the crowd. Lord Hercival sat down again.
“Gods! What is he waiting for?” he exclaimed.
“Be silent!” commanded his father still not turning his head from the battle. “You know nothing. This Aron is every bit as good as we were told. Mikael is fighting for his life.”
There was another roar from the crowd as Aron feinted a thrust and then flicked his blade over Mikael’s block and scored a gash up his swordarm. Lord Hercival sat stunned, his father spat out a curse and clutched the arm of his seat with white knuckles. Mikael took a step back and then resumed as if nothing had happened.
***
To Aron, it seemed that Mikael had slowed a little, which was just as well, for Aron was labouring; his sword grip was slippery with blood from the cut on his arm and his back ached from the wounds of Tirellan’s beating. The heat of the arena seemed to snatch the breath from his lungs and sweat ran continuously down his face. Damn, he’s good, he thought as Mikael blocked another thrust and, with perfect balance, riposted. And in very good shape too.
Aron tried what had worked before; the feinted thrust and then the flick over Mikael’s blade. This time Mikael read the feint, blocked the flick and then riposted with a slash that nearly took Aron’s thumb off as it clattered on his sword hilt. Aron jumped backwards and noted that Mikael was a little slower in pressing forward. Just keep probing at him, he’s feeling it.