by S E Turner
Namir and Torré were warming up in their corners while Bagwa rang out the rules. 'I will be watching for a fair game. There will be no punches to the groin, no high jumping or kicking, and bare fists only. In the event of a tie, I will make the final decision. If anyone breaks the rules, they will be disqualified. My decision is final. There will be no contesting my authority, is that understood?' He looked around to make sure everyone acknowledged him, and when he was satisfied, he exited the ring and gave the signal to start.
Torré and Namir moved from their positions on the outside of the ring and met each other in the middle. They faced each other with stern faces and Torré gave his first bit of advice. 'Remember to think of something you wish to conquer, and then feel the power of your totem guiding you.'
The sparring began. At first, they moved with exaggerated slowness, creeping on their feet and focusing through raised fists. They didn't want to make any mistakes and needed to read their opponent. An invisible chord held them together as they bobbed and ducked, swerved and retreated, using the space in the ring to build momentum.
Namir was inexperienced and misjudged his first swipe. He came in too close, and Torré struck out. Namir recoiled and dodged the strike. A gasp from the audience showed their reaction. Many voiced their own advice in loud blasts. It was an obvious lure by the champion, and Namir took time to refocus. Usually he was very quick and agile, almost knowing in advance what was to come, but he was a novice and up against a champion this day. Torré was nimble and twice as strong. He could hit Namir easily, but he continued to advise him as he danced round the ring.
'Think with your brain, Namir, and feel with your soul, then you will connect with your totem.'
The crowd swelled and enjoyed the parry, yelling out encouragement to their favourite to win. Namir raised his concentration levels. He tried to think, he tried to feel. The moves got quicker—jabbing, hooking, striking as they hopped and skipped round the arena. Each yielded nothing, holding perfect concentration and the tension grew .
Grim faces around the perimeter urged them on. Which one would concede first and lose the fight? Torré tried a succession of sweeps, but Namir blocked with strong arms and protected his head. He responded with a two-fist strike, but that was also defended well by Torré. They parried round the ring and Torré launched with a full arm thrust. Namir recoiled again and returned with a clean sweep. He caught Torré on the jaw, who staggered back and shook the surprise from his swelling face. Namir launched in again with the other fist, and Torré only just blocked it in time. They refocused and eyed each other, dancing and jabbing with continual movements. To them, nothing else was around except the time ticking by. They didn't even notice the excitable voices getting louder and louder, giving advice, making remarks and spurring them on. Torré was still giddy from the knock, but he came back into the game with a swipe that knocked Namir off balance. The invisible chord was still taut, but Namir staggered and lost his footing.
This was the opportunity that Torré was waiting for, and a full arm forward thrust put Namir on the ground. A roar went up from some, a rumble of discontentment from others. Torré was still champion. He pulled the contender to his feet and embraced him. 'You fight well, Namir. You will become a strong warrior as you grow. Develop that aggression and channel that energy. Then you will beat any contender that you face.'
'Thank you, my friend.' He bowed graciously to the winner.
Both boys shook hands and Namir exited the ring, dazed and bruised, but in no way a failure. He stayed for a while to watch Torré take on his next few opponents, and then went on to support the two-lap horse race where Ronu and Clebe were the strongest contenders.
Much merriment abounded that day. Champions were hailed and records were broken, and as the autumn shadows began to drift away, the teams began to congregate for the final activity of the games: the boy's tug of war.
'How was the archery?' Namir asked when he found Lyall later.
'It was very entertaining with lots of skilled archers today. Siri from the Giant's Claw was leading the way for a few rounds and then our Hali found his rhythm and beat him to second place.'
'So. who won it?'
'Lace, from the Marshland Tribe. With absolutely incredible skills, she took the contest with three targets in a row.'
'I didn't think girls entered the competitions?' Namir's tone was puzzled.
'Neither did I, but she had her hair scraped back in a tight ponytail and wore boy's breeches, so no one knew until the end when she told us.' He watched Namir digest the information. 'So how did your boxing go?'
'Well, I'm still standing, put it that way, and Torré is still champion. But Dainn from the Hill Fort Tribe is the one to watch. Torré will have his crown taken next year, you mark my words.'
'Hmm, interesting. Torré and Lace from the Marshland Tribe and Dainn from the Hill Fort. Let's hope they're not in the tug of war together. '
Namir laughed. 'Come on, we had better get to our positions. Silva will be getting everyone ready.'
He put an arm round Lyall's shoulder as they strode off to discuss strategies that would put their team in the best position possible.
'You hold the rope with an underhand grip like this.' Silva was demonstrating the procedure with the rope. 'It's not about pulling, it's about pushing with your legs. The deeper you push with your legs against the ground, the more energy you will save.' All the boys got into position as Silva continued. 'When moving, take small steps back, otherwise you might slip. It's only when we have control that we can take larger steps, and we must all do the same movement at the same time.'
'How will we do that?'
'I will call out commands, so we get into a rhythm and that will keep us focused. We don't want anyone slipping and falling, otherwise the whole team is at risk.'
'Understood,' Hass replied.
'Let's have a warm up, but not for too long. We need to conserve our energy.'
'We've got a good team,' said Namir proudly.
'We certainly have. We have a lot of strong boys here.'
As the traders and other demonstrations closed down their stalls, people slowly moved towards the centre field and took their viewing positions around the perimeter. The teams were preparing, getting focused, and limbering up .
After several quick rounds, there were two clear winners: the boys from the Marshland tribe and the Clan of the Mountain Lion.
'Let's show 'em what we're really made of,' heralded Namir.
'Come on now, boys,' Lyall urged. 'Stay focused, stay strong and let's smash this contest.'
A chorus of excited voices trailed off into the distance and sat perched on the crest of the Giant's Claw to view the unfolding final.
The teams took hold of the rope. Namir was at the front with his feet firmly in the ploughed up soil, his legs were in the squatting position, and his arms were out straight.
'Follow Namir's stance,' Silva called out from the back.
'Take positions,' came the call from Lyall to start.
'Ready boys, take the strain, dig deep with those legs and push hard into the ground,' shouted out Silva.
The rope snatched tight. The Marshland Tribe were strong. Their boys began pulling and shouting. Froth and spit burst from bellowing mouths. Sweat poured down straining faces. Snot and phlegm mixed in quantities as veins popped out of developing muscles charged with energy.
'Stay focused,' Clebe called out. 'Let them tire first. Keep a grip, dig deep with your legs. They are pulling with their arms and will tire quickly. Hold on boys, dig deep. Keep pushing into the ground.'
The brethren stood firm in the soil while the contenders used up their energy with a pulling action. They seemed to be in a stalemate for ages with the red centre of the rope hovering over the line. Lyall's arms were burning just by keeping it taut—he was not used to such strenuous activity on this scale. His comrades were more muscular and had more strength. The team began to gradually feel the tension of the rope edging t
heir way as the opposition grew weary. Their bare bloodied hands were losing the grip, so Ronu heralded his response to the thrown gauntlet.
'Boys, pull now.'
They pulled.
'Boys, dig deep take small steps back.'
They took small steps back in unison.
'Stay focused! Do not look up from the rope!'
They stayed focused.
'And heave!'
More steps back. The tension was coming their way. They had control.
'Stay focused, boys! Stay focused. Dig those legs in firm, lean back, and heave.'
They heaved with all the strength they had, having gained the advantage over the fatigued team. Low sitting thighs skimmed the soil with the exertion. Defined triangular calf muscles took the weight.
'Now big steps—move with the rope, keep momentum, and pull… and pull.'
They responded to his roars with their own deep guttural growls. Rivers of sweat poured down straining bodies, focused eyes squinted and teeth clenched hard, and young hands were shredded and raw.
With a final surge of exertion, they strode back with giant strides and pulled the failing Marshlanders off their feet. They tumbled on top of each other—a sweating, heaving mass of testosterone with arms of useless jelly. Exhilaration voided the exhaustion and they celebrated together, jumping and cheering and punching the air. The girls danced with joy beyond the perimeter and the youngsters applauded them. Silva, Hass, Bagwa and Clebe held Namir high on their shoulders while Hali, Wyn, Norg and Ronu lifted Lyall.
'Well done, boys,' they shouted together. 'Well done, all.'
'And now we have a year to prepare ourselves for the stag hunt,' Namir reminded Lyall. And they marched off arm in arm to stuff themselves silly and get drunk on weak beer.
In the distance, two men smiled as the boys ran off; but the air of sweet camaraderie was blanched with a sour reminder.
'You still haven't told him, have you. I am deeply concerned. I see that you have aged with the burden and the worry.'
'I know, my whole body aches with the torment. It never seems the right time, because it's not just him who it affects; and on top of that we have worrying news of the General. So, help me Zoraster, what do I tell them first?'
Chapter Eight
The air of contentment in the pause between autumn and winter did little to conceal the harshest of snowfall that would follow that year. It was four months since the celebrations, and the full brutality of the unforgiving northern hemisphere was under way. The biting east wind was once again preparing its gusts of icy blasts. By day, the sky was a shimmering blue gauze that sprawled out over the horizon. By night, the sky was full of grey swollen clouds, and a polished drizzle scattered over the surface of the ground, making most areas impassable and dangerous. Life stood still in these torturous winter months—everything had to conserve its energy until the spring brought the welcomed thaw.
The tribe were ready for the chill by stocking up with their regular supply of meat, fish, eggs, berries, nuts and vegetables. The orchard trees had been stripped of their fruit, ready to be made into wines. The herds had been brought down from the summer pastures. The best animals were put into shelter, and the rest had been slaughtered. Their meat had been dried and salted and wrapped in layers of animal hide. Some families kept a few sheep and goats in their huts for added warmth, even using their droppings as a heat catalyst on the open fires. The mighty aurochs with their thick hide and woolly coats were undaunted by the biting winds. They gathered in groups when the temperature plummeted, where their breath loomed in clouds, hovering, momentarily suspended in the freezing air.
The first heavy flurries of snow meant regular inspections of the livestock in the barns: breaking the ice in the water troughs, giving them food, and checking the clan's supplies.
On that crisp bitter morning, Lyall left his hut to check on the animals and the supply of wood. Clouds of smoke hung in plumes above the thatched roofs, and frigid icicles clung like daggers of steel from every eave and crevasse. He could feel the ice-cold flakes land softly on his face while the crystalizing snow and frozen ice crunched beneath his feet. The biting air chaffed against his skin, so he pulled his aurochs robe tighter and tilted a fur hat over his eyes. Round a corner, a ghostly shadow approached him, and through a haze of misty condensation he could tell who it was immediately.
'Lyall, I am so glad I have bumped into you. I didn't fancy trawling round for hours in this cold.' Namir breathed warm air into his cupped hands.
'I was just going to check on the supplies, Namir. To make sure we all have enough timber.' Lyall began to wave his arms and slap his shoulders in a futile effort to keep his body warm .
'Good idea, and I'll give you a hand with it later, but right now, my father wants to see us urgently. He seems quite agitated about something.'
The snow was falling heavily now, and the bitter north east wind stabbed and slashed at their skin like sharp silver swords. They needed a heavy shield to protect them from this force, but without such a device, they gripped onto each other and carefully tackled the frozen ground. When the two boys found Laith, he was in his hut, the thick hide from an aurochs wrapped around his body, hunched over a low simmering fire. A pan of boiling water was balanced on a triangle of molten lead. 'Anyone for a brew?' he asked.
'Yes, please,' they said together, eager to fight off the bitter cold.
The piping hot nettle tea was dispensed into three mugs which were grasped with thawing fingers. Laith looked at the boys under untamed eyebrows and a creased forehead which gave away his ageing years. 'You are still so young, and yet you will be treated as men by this time next year.'
'Yes, we are practising our skills. Ronu and Clebe take us out most days as they made their kill last year.'
'Goodness me, are they seventeen already? How time flies. They have grown into fine young men who will make fine husbands soon. They will guide you, alongside your totems, and keep you safe.' His words of praise were sucked into the chilled air as he returned to sipping on his tea.
'Is there anything wrong, Father?' asked Namir alerted by his father's heaviness. 'You look deeply troubled.'
'I am son, I am very concerned, and I don't know where to start.' He finished his tea while the silence grew heavy, and the two boys waited patiently for the leader to find his words.
'Four months ago, at the games, I had a meeting with the other leaders.'
'Yes, Father, you always do that. It is a custom.'
'But this time grave news was discussed.'
Namir and Lyall felt uneasy.
'There is a General who goes by the name of Domitrius Corbulo. He works for the Emperor Gnaeus of Ataxata, and he is the most evil creature you will ever meet.'
The two boys looked at each other uneasily as those words chilled the air even further.
'He calls himself the angel of the gods. He says that he is a tool for cleansing the kingdoms of unwanted savages and parasites.'
'So, what does he want with us?'
'We have been told that the Emperor and the General have devised a scheme to entertain his guests over several weeks in the summer. They call it the Killing Games.'
'What? I don't understand,' Namir's tone was beyond shocked.
'The Emperor is in possession of a stolen heirloom, an important piece of the realm that has given him even more power than he had before. With this legacy, he has propelled himself to even greater heights. He displays that authority by kidnapping clan boys to fight in his new arena. He considers everyone outside his kingdom a savage and a parasite that must be disposed of.'
The boys slowly digested the enormity of this revelation.
'He will send his General to come after us. He considers us scum—unworthy individuals that are only fit for his entertainment.'
'What? He really thinks he can do that?' A shiver went through their spines at the same time.
'In the wrong hands, power does evil things.' Laith's words cut like ice. 'The ga
mes have already begun. Boys have already been taken and never seen again.' He looked at Lyall. 'I, and my contemporaries, have reason to believe that this is the same General who murdered your family, and ripped the Seal of Kings from your dead father's neck for the Emperor.'
Lyall felt the vomit rise up into the back of his throat and the colour drain from his face. The tea didn't seem quite so appetising now, and he dropped the mug to his feet.
'My father told me about this man. That's why he told me about the seal and the tunnel.' He shuddered at the memory. 'So many times, he told me, but I didn't want to believe him. I was so scared. I had nightmares for months. I believed it was flesh-eating monsters that wanted to hurt us, not people.'
'Oh, believe me, it's the living that you have to be fearful of, not the monsters in your head. And just when you think you have met the most depraved human being, there will always be one more who is even worse.' Laith's voice was grim as he spoke from memory .
Namir put an arm round the lad as his father continued.
'You are safe for now. The General doesn't travel in the winter months—it requires too many resources and leaves little light to track down clans. But when the thaw begins, we have to be vigilant, we have to be prepared, so that means lots of training for any attack and taking extra care.'
He drained the final drops of tea and studied the bottom of his vessel. 'An important reminder for you both as you train to hunt the stag: make sure you acquire the skills to be the hunter and not the hunted.'
The chill in the air almost froze over as Laith delivered those fateful words.
'We must pray to the gods and ask our totems for help during these dark times. I will be informing the others in due course, but I wanted to tell you both now.'
'Lyall hasn't been given a totem, Father. Perhaps he should have one to protect him given the circumstances.'
'Yes, of course, Namir you are right.' He looked at Lyall. 'What animal serves you best young man?'
This was something he had thought about ever since Skyrah had told him about Namir's leopard tattoo, and why it was his guardian. Then after the incident with Targ and Suma, he knew what animal would protect him. He had often heard the wolf cry out its haunting howl under the cover of darkness and wondered why this beautiful animal did that. Perhaps it was like the hare and had a connection with the moon—perhaps like the moon-gazing hare it was reaching out to its ancestors for strength and guidance. Persecuted and hunted, just like his family had been, this wolf had survived and had come back fighting. Now he understood the anguish in the call. Strong and resourceful, brave and fierce; this beast was a true legend of the forest. He would like the wolf to be his totem guide and voiced his decision.
