by Damien Lake
The two applicants dumped their packs, chose swords as their weapons and squared off before the judging table, albeit twenty feet away. Janus shouted, “You waiting for a cheer? Get on with it!”
* * * * *
Since no rules had been laid to regulate conduct or define victory conditions, the men fighting needed to regard their opponent as a serious threat, which most likely was the entire point. A candlemark later Marik revised his estimate from ‘being lucky to finish by dark’ to ‘being lucky to finish today’. Twenty pairs had so far been called to battle. Seven men had been carried off the field to the walls, where they were treated by new men who emerged from within. The judges had declared all seven to be failures, along with four others.
The other twenty-nine occupied the western hillside in various states. Men, including Chatham who had been called with the ninth pairing, sat or stood along the road’s edge, watching those called after them. Others took no further interest in the proceedings, including, notably, those sporting fresh bandages.
Marik focused on the two currently sparring for the panel. One was a tall man with skin a deeper tan than any Marik had ever seen. His long tunic reached his ankles, slit up both sides to the waist to give his legs freedom of motion. Loose, flowing pants billowed around his legs while his movements made the tunic flaps dance. A sash wrapped tightly around his waist. From Maddock’s description, Marik believed the brown man to be a Tullainian.
He’d chosen a long staff with a small wooden cylinder on the end, the practice version of a spear or pole arm. Instead of thrusting at his opponent as Marik, and apparently also his opponent, expected, he took a grip further along the shaft nearer the head. Using both hands in movements too quick for Marik to follow, he whirled it in a seamless manner. Like a quarterstaff, the practice spear swung high then low, left then right, spinning so fast at times it nearly disappeared.
The opponent had chosen a sword, as most the men did, resulting in his having trouble staying beyond the staff’s reach. He wore a simple tunic and breeches under a mail shirt that hung to his knees. Both hands gripped the sword, which he held low, angled toward the ground. His legs were bent in a slight crouch. From his lessons with Chatham, Marik recognized the advantages this posture afforded. With his weight evenly divided between his legs, he could dodge in any direction, as his quick leaps to avoid the whirling staff proved. Also, with his sword at the ready to flick upward and counter most of the motions being displayed by the first man’s weapon, he could manage a semblance of defense.
If rules had been set to distinguish boundaries, the swordsman would never have stood a chance. No such rules were in place though, and he was backed all the way to the road. The roadbed sank several inches into the hillside, lower than the ground to either side. A near stumble while his feet reached for the lower ground left him open to attack. When a strike whistled toward him, he saved himself by throwing his weight backward, contrary to what his instincts must have been shouting.
The staffsman missed his clean hit. He jumped to land close to his opponent, who had been hoping for precisely such a move. With his feet unbalanced, the staff could not be wielded with full ability, and the swordsman pressed his attack.
This strategy became clear to the staffsman after he landed. He twisted his arms in a motion that brought one wrist atop the other and sent the staff’s end spinning toward his foe’s head. Sword and staff met. The staff repelled backward, while the sword spent most of its force.
The swordsman tried to turn the stalled strike into a thrust but he was anticipated. With a quick step backward, the staffsman twisted his wrists in the opposite direction, taking advantage of the new momentum gained from the blade. He avoided the sword easily. It thrust into empty space.
While the swordsman comprehended his error, the staff’s bottom crashed into his hands as it spun in a half-circle from below. At full speed it would have crushed bone, yet the staff only had the one half-spin before it connected. It still possessed enough strength to make the swordsman’s hands spasm. They released their grip on the hilt.
Brought to a halt due to the collision with its target, the staff’s wielder adjusted his grip so two feet worth of shaft separated his hands. When the swordsman recoiled automatically, raising his hands to judge the damage, his opponent shoved the staff forward. It crashed lengthwise across his chest. The swordsman fell to the roadbed.
Quickly the staffsman fell atop his opponent, pinning him in place. He raised his weapon in both hands with the weighted end pointed at the man below. The staffsman plunged it down in a motion that would have impaled the swordsman’s head had it been a real spear, and had it not impacted into the dirt several inches to his skull’s left.
His victory obvious to all, the staff wielder returned to stand near the tables while he brushed dirt from his tunic’s flaps.
At times the judges asked the men to spar a second round. This time they told the staff fighter to lay his weapon back among the others. The swordsman picked himself up and followed whereupon he too returned his wooden blade. Both stood before the tables to listen to the five officers speaking quietly, occasionally asking the clerks to find them a document.
Finally, the officers spoke with them, as they had with every other pair hitherto. The pair eventually nodded, then both joined Chatham’s group on the west side of the road.
This was not unduly surprising to Marik anymore. The judges only rejected one man in four since the purpose of this challenge appeared simply to be weeding out those obviously without any combat skill.
Now the next pair would be called. Janus left the tables to approach their slowly dwindling mob, his gaze faltering when it passed over Marik. He’d grown used to that as well, as it had happened every time Janus studied the gathering. Most likely it meant nothing, except perhaps that it surprised the old man to see him trying to enter after his stated objective of finding his father and continuing the pursuit, wherever it led.
“You,” Janus called, pointing to an applicant farther down the line, then, “and you!” This time Marik found the gnarled old root of a finger pointing at him. It was time, then. Who had the old man picked out to face him? Turning as he stepped forward, Marik saw.
* * * * *
With the staff wielded by the darkly tanned man reaching new speeds, apparently surrounding its wielder in an impenetrable defense, the murmuring crowd around the smaller figure amused him. Colbey had arrived when the applicants numbered half the current crowd, having made his way quickly and without delay. For ten days he had watched these men. His observations gave him no cause for concern regarding their potential as opponents. Seeing them live down to his expectations only confirmed his confidence was well placed.
“Where’s he from? I’ve never seen someone do that before…”
“Look a’ that speed! How you gonna strike inside there?”
“Glad I’m back here…”
These men had believed themselves fit to pass judgement on all the previous fighters as well, to Colbey’s vast amusement. To his eyes there had been numerous holes in one man’s defenses who’d chosen a giant claymore sword, but had been pronounced an expert, and no one to face off against, by these outlanders mulling around him.
Take this one with the staff for instance. This might look amazing to these inepts watching, yet the man’s true skill suffered. With the weight on the end representing a spearhead unbalancing the entire staff, the man could not make full use of his talents. Colbey distinguished the minor changes in his expression that betrayed the concentration required to wield this mockup in a manner it had never been intended for. Even given his skill with his weapon of preference, there were still several flaws Colbey could have exploited to manhandle him.
The swordsman should be following the movements of the hands rather than the staff. Striking the staff at the same instant it switched between hands would send it flying through the air. Or he could press the attack, blocking the strikes with his blade while closing the distance
between the two combatants. A staff was only effective if the wielder maintained a constant distance between the fighters. If the swordsman closed the gap, the ironwood length would become a hindrance rather than an advantage.
Colbey noticed the swordsman stumble and the staff wielder jump after. Such an inexcusable mistake! The staffsman either should have made a strike as he jumped or run a few feet north or south and stepped down to the road. Either way would have maintained his guard, leaving his opponent no opening.
The young Guardian watched the staff wielder recover and finish the fight, though against a real opponent he would have been sliced to pieces for his moment of stupidity. He would not last a candlemark in the village.
The village. Damn, he had been careful to control his thoughts since leaving. Now they had wandered during an inattentive moment. Memories Colbey wished he could have left behind with the survivors surfaced anew. Time had done nothing to dampen their powerful imagery. He felt his chest tighten under history’s unbearable load.
After leaving the forest and reentering the fringe towns, Elder Orlan’s words carried a stronger import than he’d at first considered. Wide-spread conflict could be coming to the lands of Merinor once again as it had so long ago. Or perhaps not. Nonetheless, the attack against a lone village guarding a remnant of those battles felt ominous. The elder had tried to convey this to Colbey, though the blinding anger and hatred had blazed too brightly for cooler, rational thought.
The one positive benefit that derived from his surveying the forces the outsiders could muster came as a fairly educated guess about what he should do next. If conflict struck against the kingdom as a whole, the first thing to happen would be the dispatching of the king’s armies. Service as a soldier struck him as a most unlikely course of action, due to the backgrounds and histories Colbey believed were required from each applicant to the army. In any event, becoming a soldier meant starting at the bottom. He had no intention of being subordinate to another man’s whims.
So what then? Given the nature of the village’s assailants, he did not believe the kingdom forces could prevail unless they struck hard from the onset. As they were unknowledgeable about their foe, they most likely would fail to commit fully until far too late. Then they would rush to obtain as many fighters as possible, and so would snatch conscripts from any towns left standing, hiring every mercenary available.
This possibility attracted Colbey. The mercenary bands were infamous for loose organization and wantonness. If he could find the right band, he would eventually bring his skills against those whose destruction he yearned for. In the meantime he could remain himself without strict rules or army regulations choking him. He might also be able to hone his skills further in whatever battles the mercenaries he joined found themselves involved in. Perfect.
Inquiries in taverns and merchant halls and caravan staging grounds revealed the information he sought. The Crimson Kings were the largest band in the kingdom. When the nobility contracted fighters, they usually sought that band first. In addition, their hiring season was fast approaching. With such a standing among the upper class, with such a reputation as the strongest in Galemar, they would undoubtedly be the first contacted for the impending battles. Colbey departed for Kingshome.
And now, watching the fighting men who believed their skills were advanced enough to gain them entrance into the best band in the kingdom, Colbey revised his estimates. If these were the best the kingdom could offer, could there be any hope for this land if the threat turned out to be as fearsome as he imagined?
“You…and you!”
Colbey forced the wave of memories back into submission when the old man running the show chose his next pair of carnival fools to dance and tumble for his amusement. He must be growing bored, or wished to hurry the proceedings, for he had paired a young man of average build with a walking cider press. This second man easily dwarfed his opponent; twice as wide and a foot-and-a-half taller. His arms in a sleeveless tunic recalled to Colbey the giant Euvea roots, gnarled and twisting through the pool’s placid waters.
The cider press must be with friends judging by the impromptu cheers from the crowd’s fore. They jostled others with their exuberant shouting, sending ripples through the crowd, knocking several men to and fro. Colbey’s neighbor reeled against him, forcing him into the boulder he’d stood beside. He shifted his eyes to glare at the man from the corners. As expected, the man, who had begun to make an imprudent comment, shuffled back, his own gaze intensely interested in anything else.
Colbey had discovered this curiosity the longer he wandered the outlands. These men were less dangerous than they believed themselves to be, yet they instinctively recognized the threat inherent in a confrontation with a Euvea Guardian. Simply gazing at a fool causing him trouble with the force of his skills at the ready usually prompted most to reconsider. Obviously this was a natural recognition between the weak and the strong, as Colbey had witnessed in many animal societies inside the forest. In this crowd pushing forward for the best view, Colbey surrounded himself with a forceful personal space which none of these fighters cared to violate.
Or perhaps his appearance had as much to do with it. This time of year the scouts always dyed their hair to match the colors that the coming winter would paint the outer forest in. Without a second thought, Colbey had changed his hair to the almost transparent gray that would soon be displayed by the leaves in his sector. The unusual hair color seemed natural to him after the years spent among the scouts at home. He reluctantly reconsidered later, admitting, as much as he hated to, that he might have made a mistake following the habit here in the outlands. After receiving several long stares the bearers were unable to conceal, he studied the surrounding people and noticed that no others shared the color.
Colbey was not about to live his life trying to please people he would never meet twice. With the same pride and obstinacy that helped him master the Guardians’ training with astounding speed, he refused to change his hair back to match the fools among whom he walked.
On the tableau before him, he watched the two figures standing at the tables, answering whatever questions the judges asked. Finally, the younger man turned to select a sword from the pile, probably the same used by the swordsman before him. He looked nervous while he took his place for the fight. The giant claimed the wooden claymore sword used once before. His manner when he swung it to get its feel suggested he hardly believed sparring fights should be fair or safe.
When the fight began, the younger man took the initiative by closing the distance quickly as his predecessor had not. Though the giant wooden replica represented an edged weapon, it still fell prey to several of the same weaknesses as the staff due to its length. Colbey approved the maneuver while the sideline experts questioned the mental state of a young man who seemed eager to rush to his death. The smaller swordsman lacked substantial experience, to judge from many small clues obvious to Colbey, but he looked to possess fair judgement which usually accompanied an ability to learn. Given time, a few battles and the right training, this one might amount to something one day.
Colbey climbed atop the boulder, easing to a crouch and settling into the waiting game that frequently comprised a major portion of the scout’s job in the forest. He saw. He listened. He made his plans.
* * * * *
If I survive this, I will kill that old bastard!
The thought kept repeating in Marik’s mind during the walk toward the judging tables. He refused to look at Janus. That old man would never have the pleasure of seeing his irritation. There was no question that pairing him against this two legged bull had been deliberate. Marik would get to the bottom of this as soon as the old man broke cover and stepped into his line of fire.
For now, he needed to stay alive.
“Your names?”, asked the extra clerk at the table.
“Marik Railson.”
“Beld Friar.”
“Hmmm. Friar, Railson…..Friar, ah, here we are. Fourteenth page, Fri
ar, Beld!” he directed at the other clerks who flipped pages until they each found what they wanted. Pages were handed to the officers, who began reading. “Thirty-first page, Railson, Marik.”
The clerks found the new pages. They held them ready while the officers directed questions at Beld.
“You stated your skills during registration as sword fighter with capability using a crossbow. Your abilities include strength and endurance.”
“It’s what I said.”
“You want to join the band for steady income?”
“Yeah, anything wrong with wanting regular metal?”
Ignoring that, the middle officer continued, “Have you had any trouble with any law enforcement offices in the past?”
“Might have been a misunderstanding or two.”
“Are you currently wanted by any of those offices anywhere?”
“Nope.”
The officers paused to read Marik’s sheet. “Marik Railson, your stated skills include swordsmanship, moderate herb craft and weapon and armor repair.”
“Yes. I’d like to add capability with horses to that.”
“Horsemanship?”
“No, I’ve never ridden one, but the care of them are known to me.”
“Animal Handling then. Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“I was in a rush during the registration. I was thinking of weapon and fighting skills and didn’t think to include my experiences handling the caravan animals in my hometown.”
“Very well.” The clerks scribbled on their pages. “Next, your abilities listed are ‘strength in training’, that’s a new one, endurance, accurate hearing and comprehension. Anything to add?”
“No.”
“Then explain that last one. I’d like to know what you meant by it.”
“If I don’t know what I need, I can usually learn it and remember later. Any general skills I don’t have I can learn given the chance.”