“You are pathetic, you’ll go nowhere with this pantomime. Why don’t we end it here? Surrender, at least save yourself from this thrashing. You know how this will finish.”
There it is Selot thought this very slight, almost imperceptible flicker.
“I’ve kept it,” he said, as if they were sitting at the dinner table together.
“What?” Marrhit asked as he plunged his sword with a majestic thrust. He wounded his chest, protected by his mail.
“The stick you used to pummel me, that first day we met,” Selot went on, regaining his balance after a hit.
Half a second to answer, maybe less. In any case it was a delay that Marrhit needed to retort to an unexpected statement.
“You really are an imbecile. You did well to keep it. It will come in handy in the future.”
There it was, that flicker again, under the surface, only minimally more heightened.
“What’s her name?”
“Who?” Marrhit snarled. Selot endeavored to lunge, and exchanged a look with his opponent provoking him to defend. Marrhit responded by striking his sword with all his might. His left hand had such power that made Janavel’s blows seem like they were delivered with feathers. Selot prepared for the impact and used his weapon as a shield, only just managing to keep it between his hands. But he kept on talking, as if he were having a pleasant conversation.
“I don’t believe it! You don’t know her name?”
“Who are you talking about, you idiot?”
There it was again, a very low tremor, almost audible now to a Vetem’s capability at its highest peak. Selot had an inkling he could work on that ‘disturbance’, to turn it up. It was a crack where he could insert a lever. He made every effort to dive into Marrhit’s soul.
“The woman who I caught you with that morning.”
“What does it matter to you? You didn’t surprise me. She’s my woman.”
“She got in the thick of it. She saw you when I was about to plunge my blade into your throat.”
“That’s not true!” Marrhit screamed.
“Yes, it’s true. And you know it.” Selot evoked that moment and made it visible to Marrhit, who was fast losing his patience and focus at the idea. Selot finally managed to clasp the fleeting sensation, the slight ‘noise’ that came from his rival.
“I got you good and she saw it. I saved you and her. You were ill-prepared.”
“Bastard!!” Marrhit growled, throwing himself into an attack with a cruel smile that deformed his face. Selot managed to just avoid that tremendous swing, but Marrhit made a second blade materialize from somewhere he couldn’t even imagine. He stuck it deep into his shoulder which was protected by a light strip of leather. He dug it in without mercy. The blade slid under the bone. It was a definitive strike. Marrhit pulled the blade out of the flesh slowly, increasing the suffering. The young Vetem screamed, but he immediately ordered himself not to pay any attention to the searing pain. He told the pain he would take care of it later. He changed guard because his right arm was now out of commission. He dried the blood on the hilt on his vest, and held the hilt as tight as he could with his left hand. Weary and without the use of his good arm, he was out of the game now.
Janavel gasped. Blood started pouring abundantly from the injury. Selot kept on talking in the same light tone, as if nothing had happened.
“It was a great show.”
“Stop it!”
“There it is! Selot said. He picked up on the rhythm of the vibration, a very precise frequency now that he could distinguish it.
“To see you come out all hot and soft after your bed games.” Marrhit was used to winning; he considered himself superior, the final product of sentient beings who had created a superior race. He wouldn’t admit he’d been caught unawares not even once; to be beaten by someone who he thought was inferior.
Selot knew he would have to move fast. He didn’t have much time. His resistance was waning.
“To see your expression when you realized I had a sword pointed at your throat.” The underlying noise became evident, almost to the point of being a physical and visible sensation eclipsing the figure of Marrhit. He was on the right road, but that was not enough. Marrhit was losing his patience. He couldn’t allow that half Vetem make fun of him. Selot thought quickly. His mind returned to that morning, and he tried to recall what had released the spring in Marrhit’s mind, suspending his conscience. He knew the spring was highly wound. The only thing missing was the trigger.
“You knew of my existence,” he attempted, “but I bet you hoped I’d been lost forever. You never thought I’d pop up, did you? You expected me to be buried away in that Abbey for the rest of my life.” He gave his words as much power as possible. He was an infuriation to Marrhit. He did everything he could to make that infuriation vivid. And he certainly managed it, because Marrhit’s face twisted into a mask of rage and hate.
“What is it that bothers you about me? What are you afraid of?” Selot piled it on thick.
“You are merely manure! You are ridiculous, I am not afraid of you!” Marrhit’s sword hit Selot’s, and sparks flew.
“Yes, you are. That first day you tormented me because you wanted to prove to yourself that I didn’t represent a threat. But that wasn’t enough. Who am I for you, Marrhit?”
“You are no one! You are nothing more than a bastard!” the Vetem spat, as he continued with his powerful blows.
“If I am no one, if I am only a bastard brother, why did you wait for me to return to the village? Did you want to see me staggering, blind and beaten? Were you hoping for reassurance? Is there something you do not wish to tell me, or is there a weakness you are afraid to show?”
Marrhit lunged forward with another devastating attack. Selot blocked it, but only partly. He had run out of strength. He lost his balance and fell sideways. His sword flew far away. He was unarmed and on the ground. Marrhit approached him, ready to strike which would give him the victory. He would show no mercy. Janavel closed his eyes. The Council was listening, but they would not intervene with the switch of the Xàmvetem. The master had ordered a free fight: apart from lethal blows, everything else was permissible. Selot was fully focused however, and he lifted his head and his chest, putting the weight on his left arm. He grasped the humming frequency that Marrhit emitted so evidently now, looked at him intensely, and asked:
“What am I to you?” The words came out perfectly, fully aligning the mind and emotions. A perfect question. It left no space for escape, and it demanded an answer. It had penetrated into the Existent, so that it was the universe itself asking Marrhit the question, without any possibility of ignoring it. Marrhit had to respond, but his will opposed it with an equally powerful force. These two powerful energies remained in precarious balance for a few moments. Then one annulled the another. Marrhit’s brain went into the fog and his conscience suspended itself so it didn’t have to answer. His eyes were finally transparent to Selot, who could not read a thing though.
Marrhit was immobile, merely a body without a conscience.
“You did it ...” Janavel murmured incredulously. Selot knew that the loss of Marrhit’s presence would not be long. He forced himself up, and still trembling leaned over his brother. He removed the sword from his hand and held it. He raised it with his working arm, pointed it at his chest and waited for him to awaken with the little energy that remained within. Marrhit’s absence lasted nothing more than a few heartbeats. He regained consciousness and saw Selot on his feet in front of him.
“Checkmate, brother,” he said, pressing the sword slightly at the height of Marrhit’s heart. As soon as Marrhit realized what had happened, a flash of painful frustration crossed his eyes. Selot caught sight of it and that made it even worse.
Janavel interceded quickly, with the tone of a teacher at the end of a normal exercise session. He gave no importance to the event. He stood beside Marrhit, as if to take sides.
“Selot, your specific role was to individuat
e the premonitory signals, to understand them during battle and put yourself between the enemy and him in the quickest time possible. I trust you have been able to do that,” he asked sternly.
Selot lowered his sword. Marrhit looked at him with hate.
“Yes,” he replied, worn out. “I clearly understand how it is borne and I will know how to recognize it well in advance in any situation,” he confirmed. He pronounced the words between general fatigue and the pain in his wound.
“So from now on you will be his shield. You must not fail,” he concluded with the inflexibility of a master.
“Yes,” Selot accepted, bowing in front of them both. He offered the sword to his brother, the hilt turned towards Marrhit. He tried not to let his hand tremble too much.
“Marrhit, this is your shield and your armor bearer, by the will of the Council,” Janavel ended. “Now you are complete.” Marrhit turned his back. He left without a word, and without taking the sword.
Selot drove it into the ground. He forced himself to stay upright a few moments longer. He went and picked up the silver coin placed on the rock and handed it back to Janavel. “You owe me a hundred.” Janavel could barely hide his smile, and he stepped aside to stifle it. Selot’s legs were giving way. His face was bloody and he felt cold, but he didn’t faint. With Janavel’s help he managed to sit on the rock. From a distance, Asheeba was coming to his rescue, summoned by the energy of the Valley that had recounted all that had occurred that day.
He was allowed three day’s rest. Asheeba taught him how to speed up the healing process through meditation and song. His wound healed so quickly, it left him astonished.
At dawn on the fourth day, a young Uicic passed by to let him know he was to report for training with Janavel. Seeing as it was already late, he readied himself in a hurry and started running at a good pace towards the lake. He didn’t feel very strong, and hoped there would not be especially difficult trials and training exercises planned for that day.
When he got there, he saw a small group of people. Lya was there, and two men and two women he did not know. And Estela. His heart beat fast. He went over and said hello. Lya smiled.
“Good morning to you, young Xàmvetem.” Lya made a gesture towards one of the two women. The Uicic stepped forward and handed him new clothes just finished by the tailor, folded neatly. Selot wiped his hands on his shirt to dry the sweat that he’d worked up from his run. He accepted the bundle with open hands, palms facing upwards. They were clothes of a warrior, sewn with wonderful craftsmanship.
“Our tailors made these with extreme care and dedication,” the woman said with pride.
Selot looked over them without daring to unfold such perfection. The trousers, shirt and tunic were made of cotton, leather and silk. They smelt of spices, which was what the Uicics usually employed to perfume objects and rooms. The fabrics gave the impression of being very durable, while at once being enriched by wonderful cross-stitching. It was enough to leave him open-mouthed. Selot had never seen such wonderful clothes. Lya handed him gloves for battle and heavy strips of leather to protect his arms and legs too. A one-inch thick leather and iron breastplate was embellished with the figure of an eagle on the front, its wings spread out wide. Selot accepted these as well, and bowed his head while Lya laid them on the first bundle.
It was now the second woman’s turn. She offered him a black cape with an ample hood made waterproof by means of a wax technique used only by the Uicics; it was elegant and robust, practical and luxurious thanks to its precious details and hem woven with a gold thread.
One of the men came forward, a tanner. He placed a belt on top of the cape and a remarkable case for weapons that could be clasped behind a warrior’s back: it could hold four long knives and twin swords. Another case had been made to fit onto his belt and it was destined to hold the biggest sword. The leather had been admirably worked, and it too had been embellished with symbols and animal figures. Selot admired it with his eyes wide open. Above all this, the man then added a pair of marvelous boots. They were knee high, and waterproofed till they were black, thanks to innumerable layers of the best wax in the Valley; they had a metallic border and very fine incisions with the same symbols as the case.
Selot held everything in his arms like a precious baby. He looked at Lya, then Janavel, the tailors, Estela and the other men, as if to ask what he was supposed to do. How was he to handle it all? Lya smiled, sparking smiles in the others.
“You must put them on. We must check to see they fit you perfectly when you fight.”
“I am curious to know how you look in them,” Estela added, her face lit up by a smile as fresh as dew in summer.
Selot’s face reddened to the tip of his ears. Everybody laughed. He made to depart because of the presence of the women, but Lya stopped him with an amused expression. “You truly have been raised by humans.” A sense of modesty barely existed for the Uicics when it came to nudity, both for men and women. He looked around in embarrassment and then decided he’d best get used to it. He stood in his shorts under the interested gaze of Estela, and began to dress with extreme care. He put on the clothes, the tunic, and the breastplate. He attached the case behind his back and admired the intelligence in which they had been designed: very easy to attach and detach with a simple flick of the hand. The tanner observed him and nodded with satisfaction. He donned the protective leather strips on his legs, his arms and his wrists. He slid his feet into the incredibly soft and comfortable boots. He adjusted his cape and put on his gloves. Everything fit him perfectly, and the clothes flowed around him in lightness and perfection. His movements were easy and natural, as if he were wearing a light shirt and nothing more. Everything gave way and moved according to his body like a second skin, and still he had the idea he was protected by heavy armor. He was astounded. He was having difficulty in believing his own sensations. Everybody was watching him with great attention, admiring the great change that had come over him as soon as he’d donned the clothes of a warrior. The second man stepped forward at that point, and handed him a big, heavy bundle made of rough leather. Selot handled it attentively and opened it. He studied the weapons it contained. Amazed by their beauty, the hilts were covered in precious stones. He immediately took up the biggest sword, and passed it from one hand to the other. He had the feeling it had been forged together and fused to his arm. He enclosed it in its case which was attached to his belt; it wrapped around the hilt to its exact measurement. Then he tried out the twin swords. They were incredible thanks to their lightness and for how they conformed to the shape of his hands. It was as if they were alive.
“Janavel studied your motions and methods of combat,” the blacksmith said. “He guided me in making these weapons perfect for you.” Selot had immediately noticed that the twin swords were slightly different in the grip and in their internal balance. He decided instantly which one to adopt for the right hand and which one would suit his left. “Yes – the blacksmith confirmed – like that.” Selot’s amazement was at its peak. Four long knives, which could be used for throwing or for a direct assault, were also beautifully presented in the leather wrapping. He slid the swords and the knives into the casing behind him; they were light and fitted perfectly. There was no need to even think of the movements. It was all well-thought out and crafted so his movements could be as quick and rapid as possible. He was stunned.
It was Estela’s turn this time. Selot held his breath. “I make objects out of wood as you know. This is my best creation for you.” She presented him with a big bow, and arrows in an exquisite quiver, just as fine as the casings for his swords. Selot didn’t think it was possible to be any more amazed, but he hadn’t counted on seeing this object. It was a masterpiece. The surface was covered in an elegantly engraved weave, both on the internal and external linings.
“It is indestructible,” Estela said. “It’s made of a very resistant and flexible type of wood from a tree that only exists in our Valley. Now, hold it in your arms, listen to it
with your hands,” the girl suggested.
Selot obeyed. The bow had just the right amount of pull, as if it were a natural part of his body. He got shivers from a thrilling sensation as he carried out the motion. The bow had been measured to suit his height and the opening width of his arms. He put it over his shoulder. He was wearing everything, including all the weapons, and yet, he felt almost weightless. He was enveloped in a sensation of lightness and power at the same time.
He pronounced the first ‘Wow’ of his entire life.
“Come on Selot, show us how you look.” The final visual effect was impressive. In front of everyone’s satisfied stares stood a splendid warrior. In the midst of men he would definitely command reverential fear. Everybody admired him and observed their own handiwork upon the body of the young Xàmvetem, sparing no compliments. Estela whistled her sincere appreciation, which no one had difficulty in interpreting. Not even him obviously.
“Estela!” Lya playfully scolded her, as she opened his arms up wide to show him off. A shout of victorious joy went up from everyone: ‘Uch’. Janavel patted him on the shoulder. “Well, boy. Now you are ready.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he said turning to them. It was a request for help. “Whatever I say is not be enough...” and he was sorry he was so poor with his words. He looked at them, and with his eyes apologized for his inability to express himself. “How can I deserve all this?”
Lya answered him. “These clothes and these weapons carry the knowledge and art of our people; they carry our friendship, Janavel’s training, and the trust and affection of all of us. They carry everything you have learnt, and everything you have become since you started your life here. You deserve it all.”
Janavel invited him to kneel for the official investiture. The moment was a simple one with the Uicics. It was performed by the village chief without ceremony, in front of the master of war and those who had consented with absolutely no obligation to craft clothes and weapons for the new warrior upon the instructions of the Council.
The Creed Page 10