by Casey Odell
A series of emotions played across his face, but it was hard to pinpoint which exactly they were. None of them looked particularly happy. Pained, confused maybe. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just looked down at her for a few moments, his hand still holding on to hers. Finally, he said, “Good night, Claire,” and he let go.
When she reached the door of the inn she glanced behind her. Farron stayed on the bridge, leaning back against the railing with arms crossed and a sad smile on his face.
Perhaps she really had reopened some old wounds. If she had, then she was both sorry and glad that he had finally started to open up. Although, she wasn’t sure she’d like everything she would discover, either.
22
“Good morning, Miss Claire.” Bren looked luminous in the morning light, dressed in a crisp white shirt and brown slacks tucked into knee-high black boots.
It paid to be an important person it seemed. Unlike her, he looked nice and refreshed. Fatigue racked her body. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have such a late night before an important date. She was sure she looked horrendous. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get the dark circles under her eyes to disappear. Mother’s home remedies just didn’t work if you had no home full of remedies. Her hair fell free around her shoulders and she was armed with freshly cleaned clothes. She was as presentable as she was going to get.
“Good morning to you too, General.” She beamed up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her sorry state.
“I was able to get us good seats.” He offered his arm and led her into the stadium.
The energy of the crowd buzzed along her skin, chasing the tiredness away. It was easily the most people she had ever seen in the same place. And the biggest building she’d ever stepped foot in.
The stadium was massive. The façade made out of the same reddish sandstone as much of the rest of the city. Delicate arches told of its Elvin heritage, but it also had a more robust feel, more utilitarian. Embedded in the walls were colorful tiny tiles of red and orange in a sweeping wave-like design around frescos featuring scenes of battle. Some even had men facing great beasts that seemed straight out of her childhood tales. Surely those were exaggerations, mythical scenes meant to excite the audience.
Bren hadn’t lied about getting good seats. They were so close to the action she could almost smell the sweat on the contestants’ skin. They were in the first row, right next to the arena, on the lowest of three levels.
“Bren, how did you get these?” she asked as she watched two big, burly men enter the arena. The noise of the crowd swelled.
“Well, sometimes it helps to be a foreign dignitary,” he said, leaning in close to be heard. His smile was brilliant. He wasn’t going to make her task easy, was he?
The challengers in the arena charged at each other and the crowd went wild, erupting into a loud roar of cheers and applause. Claire sat at the edge of her seat, caught in the surge of excitement. The two men battled it out with wooden weapons and bore little armor. One even wore a simple animal hide along his waist that exposed a broad expanse of chest and shoulders to the bright sun, his skin slick with sweat. She now had another interest in the games. It wasn’t everyday a girl could watch strong, barely clothed men fight. How could she resist?
A couple rounds went by. They booed and cheered along with the rest of the crowd. It was the first time she’d ever seen Bren so carefree.
“Miss Claire, are you having fun?” Bren turned to her after a loin-clothed man claimed his victory.
“Of course, General.” She smiled up at him, her fatigue almost forgotten.
“You know, they have a women’s division.”
“They do?” Her back straightened up. “I didn’t know.” She hadn’t seen it mentioned on any of the posters, although she hadn’t really stopped to read any either. The tournament had been the least of her concerns lately.
“Well, they did just introduce it this year.”
“That sounds great!” she exclaimed as the crowd geared up again for the next round.
“Why don’t you give it a try, Miss Claire?”
She looked at him and the smile faded from her face. Had she heard him right? “What are you talking about?”
Bren leaned in close so he could be heard over the crowd better. “Well, I heard that they are still accepting contestants for the women’s tournament due to a low turnout, it being its first year and all. I think you should give it a try, Miss Claire.” His grey eyes were alight with excitement.
She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
Bren took her hand in his. “Miss Claire, you are the strongest woman I’ve met. Well, second…” His eyes looked away briefly. “But, you were trained by yours truly, and you have gotten quite good recently.” He looked back at her with his smile in full force.
She considered quietly while slowly melting under his brilliant smile. Although she had been training for a while now, she still wasn’t too confident in her own abilities yet. “Oh, I don’t know.” She held her free hand up in protest.
“What’s to lose, my lady? You’ll be using the same wooden sword as always.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Besides, you’ve come all this way, why not be a part of it? And, you’ll have a great story to tell when you arrive back home. All the other women will be envious. ‘Miss Claire, the bravest and proudest Bantonian!’ they’ll say.”
Worry nagged at her as she studied the General. He was being oddly persistent. Perhaps he was just a proud teacher. Or liked strong women. She raised her eyebrows as she considered that last thought. Just the thought of entering terrified her. She wasn’t ready for something like that. But at the same time, she didn’t want to disappoint him, to ruin their charade. Miss DuBonte would eagerly step up to the challenge.
She searched her mind, desperate for a way out. “General, even if I wanted to, my guardians would never approve.” At least that was the truth.
“I believe I can help with that.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come, Miss Claire.”
“That should do it.” Bren looked proud, his hands rested on his hips.
“Do you even think they will let me enter with all this?” She held her arms out and looked down at her new ensemble. They stood in the middle of a little shop along the main causeway. Bolts of fabric lined the walls arranged by color.
She still couldn’t believe she was being suckered into such a thing. A black scarf had been wrapped around her head and the lower half of her face that left only her eyes exposed. She was only thankful it was a light material or else she would have suffocated. The purple over-shirt was replaced by a dark grey one, the sleeves rolled up to her elbow. It was a boy’s shirt, taken in at the sides a bit, but it would have to do on such a short notice. She was starting to look like a certain elf. Why the drab colors?
“Miss Claire, they’re pretty desperate.” He folded the purple shirt up and paid for her new garments. “Besides, you won’t be recognized with the new disguise and they don’t have any rules outlawing certain outfits.”
He took her by the arm and led her back to the coliseum, but instead of their seats, he took her to a side room with a table set up. The woman behind it perked up in her chair, her green eyes sparkling when she saw Claire. She let Bren enter her in the tournament and her nerves grew steadily as the day went on.
Was she really doing this? Underneath her sinking stomach lay a fine layer of excitement. She would actually get to use her training for something, she tried to reassure herself. How strong could the other women be? A General had trained her after all.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” She paced back and forth in the room they sent her to. The scarf was down from her mouth so she could breathe easier.
Bren sat on a bench against the stone wall. The cheers of the crowd pressed against the oak door that lead out into the arena, doing nothing to ease the nervousness growing inside of her. Although she had seen
a few of the other women, and figured she could take them, she battled a new foe from within called stage fright. Never before had she been in front of so many people.
“You’ll do fine, Miss Claire. You saw those other women.” He got up and placed his hands on her shoulders to stop her pacing. “I believe you can do it. And I will still like you even if you lose.” He kissed her lightly on the lips.
Claire’s body relaxed a bit. What was she so nervous about again? It wasn’t a fight for her life, after all. She would show them her strength. And when she won the trophy she’d rub it in that damn elf’s face.
“Alright.” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves a little. “I can do this!”
“Are you ready?”
“Now?” Her voice came out a little too high.
“Make your teacher proud.” He kissed her again a little forcefully, and turned her around towards the door.
Claire took a deep breath before she pulled the scarf up over her mouth again. She drew the wooden sword supplied to her and gripped it tight in her right hand, though it was slightly longer than her own and felt a bit awkward to wield. Bren began to massage her shoulders, loosening up her muscles a little as she silently summoned up courage. She could do this!
Slowly, she opened the door and the noise of the crowd hit her like a wall. The stands seemed to have thinned out a little, but a considerable amount still filled the seats. She tried to swallow the growing lump in her throat, but it persisted. Her heart felt like it was trying to pound its way from her chest, and the clammy moisture along her skin did nothing to help her condition. She stepped out into the dirt arena, her steps crunching on the light brown dirt, kicking up dust. The sun’s heat seemed much hotter than before, although that could have been the new clothes. Or her nerves.
The cheering swelled as she made her way to the center of the arena. She glanced around the stands. No elves at least; maybe she really could pull this off. Another wave of cheers swept through the audience. She took a deep breath before she turned to face her opponent-- and froze.
A large man with a bald head marched towards her, his stride and fierce gaze unflinching, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake in a storm of fury. Dark leather armor covered his body but left his thick arms bare. He carried a club in his right hand-- more like a tree stump than an actual weapon-- already splintered from an earlier fight. Sweat dripped down his face to mix with blood seeping from an open wound on his forehead.
That wasn’t right. Quickly, she glanced around. Surely, there was some mistake. Someone would stop the match, wouldn’t they? She wouldn’t stand a chance against his man.
The man’s stride didn’t slow as he drew nearer. Claire held the fake sword up in front of her along with a hand, her legs bent, ready to run.
“Wait!” she called out to him, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She glanced around again for anyone that would be able to help.
The man growled, snapping her attention back to him just in time for her to dodge the club he swung at her head. She ducked quickly, her breath escaping her in a rush.
She managed to stumble away from him, but the man charged after her as he released a spine tingling howl. When she turned to run, his club hit the back of her legs suddenly and she tumbled to the ground. She turned over, grabbed a handful of dirt, and waited for him to get closer. It had worked the last time she wanted to run away; maybe it could do the trick now.
The man tried to wipe away the sweat and blood from his eyes with his forearm, the dust having formed a thick layer on his skin. Perhaps he couldn’t see well enough to tell that she was a woman, or maybe he just didn’t care. He bent to pick up his club that he’d thrown and she hurled the dirt in his face. The man screamed as his hands went up to his eyes. Claire grabbed her sword, scrambled to her feet and started to run for the closest door. She didn’t care where it led, as long as it was out of the arena.
The man growled again and his heavy footsteps approached fast from behind her. He seemed just a little bit angry; the diversion hadn’t lasted as long as she’d planned. She spun around abruptly and held her sword up in front of her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun him this time. He swung his club down at her when he drew near, but she dodged out of the way and circled around him.
The crowd went wild with another wave of cheering. If they only knew…
The man spun around, swinging the club out around him. She jumped back out of range and he let out another growl. It seemed he was getting frustrated at her dodging attempts. Men never did express their feelings very well.
“Claire!” someone called her name out from the stands.
She looked away from the man for a second to scan the crowd, but that was all it took before something solid slammed into her left side and sent her flying to the ground. She cried out, gasping for air, her whole body racking from the blow. She managed to turn onto her back to keep the man in sight, and started to crawl back using her right hand. He raised the club above his head and time seemed to slow down. This was it. She was trapped. Her weapon was long gone. Not that it was doing her much good, anyway. Her left arm hung useless at her side, numb from the impact.
In a flash, Aeron appeared in front of her, his sword drawn. She didn’t know why he was there, but she was grateful. Farron appeared like a dark blur and kicked the man’s legs out from under him. He quickly drew his daggers and pointed them at the man, their blades glinting in the bright light.
“Come on, my lady.” Aeron pulled her to her feet and rushed her to the room she had been in before.
The door slammed closed behind them, dulling the loud roar of the crowd. The elves had certainly made the show much more interesting, but she wondered what Farron was doing to the man out in the arena. He may have been a dolt, but she wasn’t so sure he deserved whatever punishment elf was surely dealing.
Aeron sat her down on the wooden bench Bren had sat on earlier and knelt in front of her, setting his blade down on the stone floor. He began to unwrap the scarf from her head, his eyes and hands frantic. Pain started to replace the numbness on her left side and through her arm. She let it hang limply at her side, afraid to move it.
“My lady, I came to look for you at the tournament, but I did not think that you would be in it.” Aeron removed the scarf from her head and examined her for any wounds.
Claire leaned her head back against the wall, and took long, deep breaths. Her body shook. She had to clench her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering. Dust covered her from head to toe, sticking to the sweat in a thick layer. So much for the new clothes.
There must have been a mix up in the schedule. But where was Bren? He was missing from the small room. Had he left her there? Alarm started to rise within her. Why hadn’t he come to help her?
The door to arena swung open and Farron marched in with a scowl on his face. He was covered in dust and his daggers were still drawn, held in one hand.
“What were you thinking?” His voice filled the room. Anger was clearly written on his face and sent chills down her spine. He pointed at the door with the blades. “You could’ve gotten killed out there!”
She froze on the bench. Her eyes went wide as she looked up at the looming elf. Aeron rose to his feet, turned to Farron, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Farron, calm down. She is fine. Just a few scratches and bumps.” Aeron turned back to her.
Claire winced as he helped peel the dark over-shirt off. Even breathing started to hurt. Her ribs must have been bruised. Aeron lifted her left arm up and she gasped through clenched teeth as pain shot through her body. That wasn’t a pleasant feeling. She glanced down to see the damage. The skin on her upper arm had turned a bright and swollen red. The mark on her right hand remained dormant, oddly-- and she was grateful now that it hadn’t come to life.
“Aeron, please.” She sighed and rested her head back against the wall, tired of being prodded.
Aeron lowered her arm to her side gently. He gathered his sword up off
the floor and sheathed it. “Stay with her. I will see if I can find anything for that.” He pointed at her arm and turned to leave.
The door closed quietly behind him, leaving her alone with the furious one. She glanced up at Farron; he stood in front of her, his shoulders tense. He looked down at her, his ice blue eyes colder than usual.
“If I said I was sorry, would you stop glaring at me?” She was too tired and in too much pain to deal with him. “I just wanted to prove that I was strong. To see if I could fight.”
“Claire, you don’t need to--”
“Yes, I do.” She took a deep breath. “Not for you, but for me.”
He looked away; his hand squeezed the hilts of the daggers tighter.
The door to the hall burst open then.
“Miss Claire, are you alright?” Bren rushed into the room, his face frantic.
Farron turned to the General and threw his daggers to the floor, the sound of metal on stone clanging loudly through the tiny room. The elf rushed over to Bren, drew his hand back and punched him on the side of his face. The General stumbled back to the wall, his eyes wide in shock, and his hand shot up to his cheek where the elf had hit him.
“Farron!” Claire yelled and pain shot through her ribs. She cringed.
The elf leaned in close to the General, grabbed him by the shirt and pressed him up against the wall. “I suspect this was your doing, General.”
“Farron, stop!” Claire sprang from the seat and flung her arms around the elf’s waist as she tried to pry him away from the General, but he only budged slightly. “It wasn’t his fault! It was just a mix up.”
“I only meant for Miss Claire to enter the women’s tournament.” Bren gripped onto the elf’s arms, his brow set in a scowl. “Or is that not what you’re really upset about?”
Farron released him suddenly and Bren hit the back of his head on the wall and winced. The elf backed away from him and brushed Claire’s hands away before he turned to her.