by J. T. Wright
“Good, then maybe we should go to the Trial now.” Trent pulled the cloth from his eyes. “You should drink water first if you’re coming with us. And the rest of you should explain what you want.”
Kerry sat up confused, and the water skin that would have landed on his chest hit him on the chin. It fell into his lap as Kerry looked at the audience they had acquired at some point. Fifteen dirty and amazed children sat in a broad circle all around the trio. Kerry had never noticed them arriving and suddenly felt very self-conscious about the morning’s activities. In his eyes, he hadn’t exactly lived up to the image of a hardened Adventurer.
The circle of children was quiet at first. Most were unwilling to meet Trent’s eyes as he waited for them to reply. That reply, when it came, was from the most unlikely source. Kerry expected one of the older boys to speak, but it was a young girl, about six years old, who stepped forward.
With straw-colored hair and cheeks red from the slight chill, the girl kept her eyes trained on the ball of mud that Dreq had become as she asked Trent, “Can we play too?”
“Play?” Trent scratched his head uncomfortably. “You can join us if you like. We can train awhile longer. We'll have to change things up some, though.”
Kerry wholeheartedly agreed with that. Trent shouldn’t be allowed to use a stick anymore, and at least one of his legs should be tied up behind his back. Perhaps, they could find a bag that would slide down over his torso. It would be more comfortable than a blindfold and restrict the use of Trent’s arms.
Kerry started to search for a way to diplomatically word his suggestions, but when he saw Trent begin to rub out an oval-shape that had been drawn on the road, he burst out, “No way! No way were you staying in that circle the whole time!”
“Of course I was!” Trent looked hurt by Kerry’s accusation and Kerry was tempted to fling the water skin at him. “There would be no challenge if I could move anywhere I wanted. You would never have gotten close. I'll need more space with so many people, though, otherwise you'll get in each other’s way.”
Trent’s assertion that the elimination of the confining circle was for his opponent’s benefit brought Kerry to his feet with a roar, “All right men, gather round! We go to war!”
**********
The war went badly for Kerry and the army, which he named the Farmers Field Militia. He blamed himself. Maybe coming up with a more inspirational designation for his troops or providing more charismatic leadership would have brought them success. As it was, they were outmatched from the beginning, and Kerry could only watch as his men were slaughtered.
The first casualties fell to fatigue. The legendary fortitude of farm brats wasn’t able to compete with Trent’s limitless energy. Kerry tried to rotate his teammates, allowing some to rest while the others battled on. Somehow, there were always more laying down than running.
The straw-haired leader was the biggest shirker. She claimed Dreq within the first five minutes and pulled the pup away, depriving Kerry of not only her services but also those of his most dedicated fighter. Kerry didn’t hold it against the Dog. Dreq looked none too pleased to receive a shower from Trent’s water skin and a snuggle from the implacable six-year-old.
Morale was also an issue. Not for the children. Kerry’s motivation took hit after hit, though he tried to hide it for the sake of keeping up his army's spirits. He might have had a brighter outlook if it weren’t for Trent’s stick. Trent used his hands with the children, sending them tumbling with light cuffs and pokes that made them giggle. Trent saw no need for kid gloves with Kerry. Every time Kerry turned around, wood whistled for his forehead or chest.
He should have had victory in his palm. Kerry had numbers on his side and a handful of experienced ten-year-olds, who were large for their age and wise in the ways of bullies. Only, just when Kerry was sure they had the Beggar cornered, Trent would flip over the heads of his assailants, wearing a serious look and calling for them to take their training more seriously.
It was Trent’s mobility that finally had Kerry waving the white flag. Kerry could only approach his foe when Trent allowed it, and Trent only allowed it when he decided Kerry needed a fresh introduction to the grass. The final act that broke Kerry’s will to fight was when Trent stole every stick to be found, and after an impossible flip, he landed on Kerry’s shoulders. Launching the spare sticks like javelins with his left hand and tapping the back of Kerry’s head with the branch in his right, Trent crushed all resistance. No man could continue on after that humiliation.
Trent looked disappointed when Kerry sank to his knees and gave up. Most of the children were sprawled in the grass, happily exhausted with the day’s game and unable to go on. One brave boy managed to stay on his feet long enough to approach Trent and ask to examine the blindfold. After verifying that it did indeed block all sight, the boy’s doubtful gaze became worshipful.
“How'd ya throw the sticks like that, iffen ya couldn’t see?” The boy exhaled, gripping the blindfold tightly.
Trent scratched the back of his head. Before he could explain that it was the children’s noisy laughter and heavy feet that gave them away, an angry adult voice shouted, “Oi! What’s going on here? Who, by the bleedin’ abyss, are you two?”
Three burly men came running over and, based on their rough clothing, Kerry guessed they were the Farmers, probably fathers or brothers to some of the children in Kerry’s army. Pushing himself to his feet, Kerry sought the words to explain why he and Trent were standing amidst a group of obviously exhausted and slightly battered children.
His tongue feeling as thick and clumsy as the rest of his body, Kerry realized there was no good explanation. There wasn’t a large age gap between himself and the kids, and he suspected that gap was even smaller for Trent. That wouldn’t matter to angry family members. In the eyes of the World, they were adults, with Status and Skill. Worse they were strangers, and Farmers were often suspicious of unfamiliar Adventurers.
Trent didn’t suffer from Kerry’s sudden tongue paralysis. He introduced himself to the largest of the red-faced Farmers with a short bow and offered an apology. “Sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to interrupt their training.”
“Training? What are you talking about?” The straw-haired girl ran up and grabbed the man’s hand, still clutching a miserable looking Dreq in her arms. The man pushed her behind himself as she tried to explain, and she kicked at his ankles in annoyance.
“You’ve got three seconds to tell me what’s going on here! You Adventurers aren’t welcome at the… you've got violet eyes!” The man’s own eyes were wide as he took in Trent’s appearance. “You’re Al’rashian!”
It was not a question. The man recognized Trent’s features, and Kerry silently cheered to hear Trent’s race announced. He had been nearly certain Trent wasn’t human. It was another personal subject he’d been avoiding. Not that there had been a lot of time for personal conversation with the ongoing war efforts.
Trent had squared his shoulders and lowered his chin at the Farmer’s aggression. When anger turned to astonishment, he didn’t know how to react. He was prepared for a fight. Now every eye studied him, marveling, the way Trent would at the sight of a new sword or Skill Stone.
“You’ve come for the festival? Of course, you have, and you’re welcome. Come along!” The man swept the little girl up with one hand and beckoned to Trent with the other. “Folks will be glad to see ya, never had an Al’rashian join the festival before! The games are about to start; you’ll want to hurry to get in on them.”
“Festival?” Trent’s voice was conflicted. He’d never been to a festival before. “We should be getting to the Trial.”
“You would be looking to clear the Trial, with those eyes, of course, you would!” The man’s head nodded approvingly as he shushed the girl in his arms who was clambering to be put down. “But the Trial will be there in the mornin’, and folks will be heartbroken iffen ya don’t join us.”
“They will? Why?” Trent found an arm
around his shoulders and let himself be led away from the road.
“It’s the Festival of the Fall,” The man said as if that explained everything. “Your friend can come, too, if he likes. He’d best behave himself, though.”
Kerry had been walking slowly behind the group that somehow excluded him. Suspicious eyes shot his way, making him stop. It made no sense to him for the Farmers to welcome Trent and not him. In every way, Kerry had more in common with the human residents of Bellrise’s outskirts than Trent did. He probably even knew some of the people that would be present. He’d done chores in the form of Quests for plenty of local Farmers.
But the expression on the face of the straw-haired girl’s father made it clear that while he said Kerry was welcome, his words were for Trent’s sake. That almost sent Kerry back to Bellrise on his own. The sight of Trent’s back getting smaller as he was dragged away, steadied Kerry’s resolve.
Welcome or not, he would be joining the festival! Too many opportunities had slipped through his fingers of late. Kerry thought he had made real progress with Trent that morning, and he wasn’t about to lose the ground he’d gained just because some pig-faced farmer gave him a dirty look!
Twenty-Four
The Farmers had set their festival up not too far from the road. Kerry was amazed by the preparations. The field had been transformed into a city of tables and tents. Areas had been roped off for various competitions, and fires built for cooking sent pleasant aromas flitting through the air. It seemed that every farming family within one hundred miles had gathered. Whatever the Festival of the Fall celebrated, the locals took it seriously.
And it was definitely the Festival of the Fall and not the Fall Festival. The children were the only people who seemed happy that Kerry had joined in the festivities, and even they looked at him cross-eyed when he made the mistake of misnaming the day’s events.
Kerry and his troops dogged Trent’s steps, eager to stay in their victorious foe’s shadow. Had there been the opportunity, they would have claimed the Al’rashian for their own. Their energy had been restored by the copious amounts of food to be had at the gathering, and they were ready for another round of Beggar Taunt.
They were no match for the adults, who had a firm hold over Trent’s time, and the younger crowd had to accept that. Kerry munched on a slice of warm apple pie while Trent was led from one group to another and introduced loudly again and again. The straw-haired father of the straw-haired girl was named Mick, and Mick announced Trent’s presence as if the Al’rashian boy was his own son, home after long years away at war.
That would have been amazing enough for Kerry, but if Mick was proud, Mick's neighbors were no less joyous to meet Trent. It was his eyes. They gaped over his Al’rashian features and complimented him on his firm grip when they shook his hand, but it was Trent’s eyes that they focused on.
Kerry did not get it. In a girl, the shade of purple that colored Trent’s corneas would be pretty. In a man, Kerry thought it was a silly color. Not that he said anything. It wasn’t an opinion that anyone else shared, and Kerry’s presence was barely tolerated as it was. He kept his mouth shut and looked for a chance to reclaim Trent for himself.
That chance never came. The Festival of the Fall did not meet Kerry’s expectations of a country celebration. Some of the traditional trimmings were there. A stage had been built by setting several wagons close together, and musicians played lively tunes while sitting atop a platform of planks laid across wagon beds. There was a space for dancing, and food could be found near to hand wherever you stood.
The musicians were largely ignored, and only a few young couples occasionally made use of the dancing area. It was the games, or rather Trent’s participation in said games, that drew the crowd’s attention, and those games were far more martial than Kerry expected.
Axe throwing and wrestling, even archery, Kerry could understand. It was the sword and knife competitions that were out of place. Except for the Militia members, most of the Farmers hardly knew one end of a blade from another. Trent looked embarrassed as they pushed him into the ring where he won handily, hardly expending any effort.
Kerry found himself growing uncomfortable as he witnessed Trent disarm yet another Farmer, only to have the older man gush praises instead of being suitably outraged at his defeat. It was like the man wanted to lose, as if Trent’s winning was a mark of honor for the community.
There were traditional games interspersed between these inept military displays. Foot races, pole climbing, and log tossing, Trent joined in these as well. In the log tossing, Trent saw his first defeat. That competition was won by a man twice Kerry’s height and width, however it was during these peaceful events that Trent came alive. Kerry thought it was the true competition that made the difference.
With a wooden weapon in hand, Trent was untouchable, but he came in second during a distance run, and only claimed victory in a sprint by a hair. His biggest opponent in the sprint was a slip of a girl who was none too pleased when Kerry intruded on her shy congratulations to slap Trent’s shoulder and comment on what a close race it had been considering his competitor.
Kerry watched the last competition of the day while nursing a mug of cider and gently poking at an eye he was sure would turn black. It turned out Farmers’ daughters weren’t as shy as they wanted you to think and much stronger than they looked. The girl he had interrupted could teach Academy students to throw a punch; her right cross had knocked Kerry on his ass.
Oddly, that punch had also broken the ice for Kerry. It was either the punch or the lecture on how girls could run just as fast as boys. Kerry couldn’t be sure which. Either way, it turned out plenty of others had felt the girl’s fury and viper’s tongue in the past. Kerry went from an unwelcome outsider to a fellow victim after that.
Despite the de-thawing, no one was willing to tell Kerry why the mood of the festival shifted when Trent insisted on being included in the last game. They had tried to talk him out of it. It was mostly for the kids, they pleaded, and the adults were just there to keep things interesting. It wasn’t dignified! He would get dirty.
Trent would not be dissuaded, though. The prize wasn’t important, and he could certainly keep things interesting. He never cared about getting dirty; he had the Self-Clean Charm. As for dignity, he could care less.
Kerry expected Trent to look smaller stripped to the waist, barefoot, and wearing just a pair of faded black trousers. Without his armor and weapons, Trent should have been diminished into a normal mortal like all the other participants. But rolling a pair of broad shoulders and stretching a narrow waist, his compact muscles rippling, Trent made every man present question their physique. Kerry prodded his own middle with a dissatisfied finger.
It wasn’t fair! You could raise your Attributes all you liked, but some things were determined by nature. Kerry was confident in his own Strength, but no matter how much he ran, his muscles were always concealed beneath a layer of comfortable fat. The girls that oohed and awed over Trent would probably shudder to see the hair that covered Kerry’s chest like a rug.
Or maybe not. Kerry thought he had a distinctly masculine air that less vain girls would find handsome. Not the girls here today, but the right girl would. These girls had obviously been raised on the unrealistic standards of bards’ tales. They even overlooked the fact that Trent needed a haircut.
Instead, they fought over who would be allowed to fix Trent’s hair for him. That argument was won by the heavy-handed girl that Kerry expected, and he would have won coin had anyone been stupid enough to take his bet. Instead of braiding it, or simply binding it, the falsely shy vixen wove a dark blue ribbon through Trent’s black shining hair, and to Kerry’s disgust, she blushed when Trent thanked her with a bow.
Trent finished his stretching and tugged at the ribbon self-consciously. All the women present said the tie made his hair glisten and looked appalled when he suggested cutting the unruly locks. Trent did not understand what they found so upsetting
about the idea. He decided the ribbon was alright, so long as it kept the hair out of his eyes.
“Ya sure you wanna be in on this, lad?” A white-haired and bearded man to Trent’s left asked him. It was the third time he had done so. “Gonna get ugly in there. It always does. Ya might get hurt.”
“I've been hurt before. You get over it,” Trent said, rubbing his palms against his trousers.
“Yah, reckon that’s the truth.” The man’s eyes slid from a faded white scar on Trent’s shoulder to a fresher one on his back. “Well, remember, keep the kids safe as ya can. This is fer them.”
Trent nodded and flashed the man a grin. He lined up against a wooden fence with the other five men chosen to mediate the game, while twenty or so children manned the other side, tense expressions on their faces. The fence encircled an area sixty feet long and seventy feet wide. The center had been filled with mud, and considering the festival was held in a common area, far from any farm, Magic or Skills had probably been involved in its creation.
Two gates had been installed at either end of the fence. Behind one gate was an enclosed wooden pen that had been painted bright red. At the other gate, Mick stood, wearing a ceremonial white robe, and holding a staff. All eyes were on the Farmer as he raised the staff high and slammed it against the ground, shouting, “Release the Beast!”
Two girls wearing white dresses just as elaborate as Mick’s robe reached down and grasped handles attached to the red cage. They both winked at Trent before lifting the handles in unison, raising the gate of the pen. Trent wondered if the wink were part of the show and who they would have offered it to had he chosen not to participate.