by S E Turner
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning at daybreak, Scowler and Poxface unlocked the doors and ushered the boys out. They were filed unceremoniously into the chilled morning air wearing thin grey trousers and even thinner vest tops. Despite the cold, many of them were beginning to sweat with fear, and a tense silence amplified the arena as they watched ten well-insulated guards setting up an arrangement of weapons and targets around them. When they were done, an officious looking man with the regulation ponytail signalled to get back in line. His billowing black gown covered a white shirt and black britches while behind his back, his hand was flexing the rod of a stiff cane. Everyone shifted to his command.
'I am the Teacher, and this is the Emperor's new arena, and you had better get used to the size and shape of it, because the more familiar you become, the better you will fight.'
The boys looked around them and set their eyes on the arrangement of weapons .
'You will begin to train in here and alternate with days of basic weapon training: throwing spears, swinging maces, thrusting swords. For the latter, we do not use sharpened blades for practice. We don't want to lose a boy before the Emperor has seen him fight, so we use a Palus.
'Here, catch this.' He threw the weapon right at Lyall, and his unprepared weak body buckled forward with the weight of the thing. It was amusing to the Teacher who threw back his head and laughed out loud. 'That, boy, is twice the weight of the sword used in the fighting arena. And that's why you have to train and be prepared. By practising with this heavier weight, you will become stronger, more developed, and more agile in the fighting arena.'
Lyall closed his hands around the leather-bound grips and swung it around in the air.
'Remember that a sword is an extension of its master,' continued the Teacher. 'And there is nothing like the element of surprise.' He left Lyall getting used to the weapon as he paced about ringing out his instructions.
'You will have to practise manoeuvres such as thrusting, cutting and slicing without injuring your opponent too much in the practice school. We also have a range of weapons such as these.' He pointed to the cross bows and sling shots. 'And you will use this.' He took them over to a gruesome swinging rotating device. It resembled a monster with eight moving limbs. The novice had to use his skill and strength to avoid the rotating arms with angry blades, as well as strike and aim at the heavy sandbags that came round .
'You will train in pairs and you will become elite fighting machines. And if you survive, you will come back again the next year, and if you survive that, you will be given your freedom.'
'I will be gone before that day,' thought Namir. 'Then I will return with an army of vengeful warriors and raze this place to the ground!'
The Teacher led them back to the centre of the arena. 'Every day you will train. In the summer you will fight and we will then see who is the strongest. The strong survive, and the weak will die. It's as simple as that.' He looked at the line-up in front of him and threw another heavy wooden sword at Namir. 'Fight,' he demanded.
The only boys holding a weapon at that moment were Lyall and Namir.
'You two… fight. I want to see what you can do.'
'But we're not trained yet,' muttered Lyall indignantly.
The Teacher strode menacingly close to Lyall's face, spiting and frothing at the mouth as he bellowed. 'You do not answer me back, do you hear me, savage?'
Namir felt Lyall shiver into stillness, his whole body tensing for a strike.
Lyall nodded meekly in response.
'Good! Now fight!'
The other boys hung their heads low in case they were chosen for something worse. A sickening gush went through everyone except the guards. The brothers faced each other.
'It's just a game, Lyall, just a game. We have done this loads of times,' Namir tried to ease the deadly situation. 'It's what you feel and how you think, remember.' He breathed deeply, pressing the panic into an invisible ball at the pit of his stomach.
He swung his sword into the starting position. His focus encouraged Lyall to do the same. With a twist of both wrists, he brought his weapon down on Lyall's defensive cut back swing. Namir retreated and bounced on the balls of his feet, just like he did in the boxing ring against Torré. Lyall pressed forward and tried to knock his brother off balance. Namir managed to block again, but the weight of the sword dragged him over. Lyall lunged forward, forcing Namir to stop an overhead blow. They stood together, swords attached.
'Do your best, Lyall, for your life depends on it,' he whispered through the locked hilts.
Both boys retreated. They had an audience now. Even Scowler and Poxface were showing interest. This should be a good match. But the Teacher had other ideas.
'Stop playing around. You're like kittens playing with a ball. You do it like this.'
The audience shuddered. No, surely not. The Teacher threw down his cane, grabbed Namir's sword, and launched in with an attack that split Lyall's cheek over the bone. He crumpled down onto all fours, stunned, dazed and totally confused. He looked up at the Teacher and shook his head like a dog, splattering blood all over his white shirt.
'Element of surprise. Yes, I must do better,' Lyall seethed. He was fired up now. 'Fight me,' he snarled between bared teeth .
'Don't be a fool, savage,' grimaced the Teacher.
'What are you afraid of?' He focused on the monster, his eyes narrowing and burning bright blue from the wolf within him.
'Lyall, please,' urged Namir.
'Let me do this brother. I couldn't fight you because I don't hate you.' He glared at the blood splattered Teacher. 'But… he is different.' Lyall dug his palus into the ground and hauled himself up, never once taking his eyes of his prey.
With his back to him, the Teacher removed his gown and handed it to Poxface, then he turned round and carved a putrid smile. The hairs on Lyall's neck instantly stood upright as his back hunched and his spine curved, his toes curled into the sand and he felt warm saliva spill into his mouth. The wolf was growing fast, so he focused his energy, mentally unleashing his feral side, and lunged at the creature in front of him. The heavy sounds of wood on wood chilled the morning mist while sparks of Lyall's hate crucified the air. His left arm steadied him while he got used to the movements and gradually found his balance. He was still reeling from the forceful blow as they danced and shuffled, jabbing and swiping, attempting to unsettle each other with each missed shot. The Teacher was relying on the hunger and evil in his body as his main focus of attack. He managed to catch Lyall's supporting arm and the crack echoed round the arena. The blood from his face wound was spilling onto his thin vest. The Teacher smelt the blood and began to jump towards him. Lyall held out the wounded limb for balance. The Teacher caught him again on the balancing arm. Lyall groaned in pain, and then he howled. Like a wolf, he shook himself free from his human body.
'Give up now, savage.'
'Never!'
The Teacher taunted him and jibed at him. He was deliberately disfiguring his facial expressions to scare him and mouthing obscenities to distract him. But he didn't know the monsters that Lyall had already encountered and the strength that he had got from those demons. Remembering his parent's death, the terrifying ordeal in the cave, being brave in the face of what he thought were savages, and now here he was surrounded by demonic devils disguised as guards and hierarchy. Laith was right: the only monsters that prowled the kingdoms were demons pretending to be human. Channelling that hateful aggression, he focused his energy on this ogre in front of him. Lyall moved about lightly, got into his rhythm, and roared. He stabbed at the Teacher's torso and caught his shirt.
'Very close, savage. Too close, in fact,' the Teacher teased, looking at the frayed material.
As the challenger looked down, Lyall swiped his face and blood oozed from a gash in his cheek. The Teacher stumbled back as surprise took over and he reached up to the wound with his fingers. They parried as the wooden swords orchestrated together in a sinister musical renditio
n. Lyall advanced nimbly, swiping the Teacher's other cheek and drawing more blood.
'Good, good,' taunted the Teacher, wiping the blood from his other cheek.
That goaded Lyall even more, and he rushed in screaming, bellowing and shouting. The Teacher retreated quickly. Lyall pushed him further back with each invading step. He jabbed forward and the blow brought bright red blood streaming from the Teacher's nose. The challenger staggered and tripped over his entwined feet and he crashed to the ground. He looked up smiling. This was the chance Lyall had been waiting for.
'Go on, savage. Do it. Get angry, hate me, kill me!'
Lyall looked at the Teacher, his pumping heart full of rage, full of hate. He was panting with fury, he was bellowing his lungs out, his face was smeared with sweat and blood, and his hands were shaking. He held the sword above his head, ready to strike the monster, searing determination and force into the final blow.
Scowler and Poxface were poised ready. They had never seen anything like this before. Guts and grit from one so young was seldom seen. The Teacher held up his hand to hold them back. He tilted his head to catch his breath.
Lyall stopped in his tracks. He could so easily have smashed the monster's skull. But at what cost? The safety of the other boys would be in jeopardy. That would be stupid. He lowered the weapon and stepped back, allowing the devil some room. He threw down the palus and retreated back in line with the other boys. Scowler and Poxface rushed in to help the Teacher stand up and he brushed himself down. He wiped the blood from his face and glared at the terrified boys. 'Now, that's real fighting. That's hate and aggression. That's what I'm talking about. That's spirit. Channel that fire into your battles and that will keep you alive in the arena.'
Roma came into Skyrah's room with her breakfast. She put the tray down on the chest of drawers and pulled open the curtains to let in the early autumn sun.
'Good morning Skyrah, did you sleep well?'
'Yes I did thank you,' Skyrah replied, smoothing the sleep wrinkles from her garments as she sat up. She swung her legs out of the bed and slipped into the robe slung over her bedside chair.
'And how was the General?' continued Roma.
'Everything you said he would be.'
'That will happen three times a week.'
'And the rest of the time?'
'You stay in here.'
Skyrah nearly choked on her hard-boiled egg. 'What? I do nothing? Not even go for a walk outside?'
'I am sorry, but no. The girl before you was allowed to go out for walks, but she got away. Her family were burned to death in one of the cages as a punishment. We are all terrified now.'
'She got past the guards?' asked a shocked Skyrah.
'Yes, she completely out-smarted everyone. So, with you, as her replacement, any form of freedom is forbidden.'
Skyrah knew she had to be clever now. She couldn't let on that she was contemplating an escape—Roma would most certainly tell the General. Besides, Skyrah was going to take the boys with her. Too risky to get someone else involved. No, she couldn't let on; instead, she had to act as if she was perfectly fine with the arrangements and use the time wisely to conduct her plan. She had a plan—a fool proof plan. It would take months to get Roma to trust her, but it would work.
'Well, if I am to stay here indefinitely, perhaps you could bring me some flowers each morning, and I will ask the General if I can have some paper and colours so I can paint for him. I think he would like that.'
'I think he would be most agreeable, Skyrah. That would please him immensely.'
Long cold dark days were spent cultivating and hatching, planning and orchestrating. Often, she would look out of her window to find a face that she recognised. To give someone a sign. To give them hope. But the cold frosted glass of winter allowed no such passage of communication.
Chapter Seventeen
The new year came in an abundance of celebrations, and the palace concubines were attended by courtiers dressed in their fine silks and jewels who fanned themselves between sets of games, dancing, gourmet food and music. Exhausted cooks prepared a range of braised meats, game pies, sweet pastries and fancy cakes while harassed maids rushed between the kitchens and storerooms to keep the palace running smoothly. Young boys kept the log fires burning continually through the day and night and worked tirelessly to ensure the waves of aromatic steam rising from the sunken pool, infused with cinnamon and ginger, were warmed from the pipes below. Housemaids had decorated the indoor ornamental gardens and fountains with gold and silver coins, and the tiled mosaic floor and trestle tables were festooned with a range of winter grasses and exotic plants. The Emperor had instructed that the marble pillars be adorned with his own bunting and banners to herald the rewards of another successful year. And to top of all the ostentatious extravagance, by chance, an impressive meteor shower lit up the sky that night and the General was typically pleased to explain to all the ladies what a meteor was.
'They are the sparks from the golden chariot of the gods, pulled by the fastest stallions in the whole of the empyrean above, and it brings you tremendous luck if you catch a falling nugget.' He wove the story in such fastidious detail, dancing around each word with delicious intricacies and delicacies, that his captivated audience was spellbound and hanging on his every word.
Apart from the brief meteor shower, outside was dull and boring grey. There was a thick layer of deadly dirty ice over everything. Lyall's face was healing now, the bruise fading into dull browns and yellows. The boys struggled to keep their accommodation warm with the few logs they had left. They had even thought about burning a few of the wooden beds to toast their chilled bones, but they didn't have the strength to break them up. Their well had frozen over, and massive icicles hung like murderous crystal swords and wicked daggers from the rim. Forgotten by the attendants who were now consumed with the preparations at the palace, they had to smash into the well for water and make rations of stale bread go round equally. Without adequate food or logs, their shivering bodies found it difficult to stay awake, and they went to bed early to dream of distant shores.
The next morning, Scowler and Poxface came crashing in and forced the prisoners from their frozen slumber. It was still glacial outside, and the boys awoke in the numbed shapes they had fallen asleep in. Crooked necks shot daggers of pain through stiff, contorted skeletons. Parched dry mouths, desperate for warm food and fluid, couldn't move at all. Cold limbs and muscles tried to penetrate life through iced veins by straightening out into a stretch.
'Get up now!' Poxface screeched and began to hit their feet with a biting rod.
Recoiling instantly, the frozen disorientated figures forced apart congealed eyelids, and breathed out billowing wafts of condensation. Scowler began to beat a torturous baton in the palm of his hand: rhythmically, systematically, spoiling for a fight. The boys stumbled out of bed and kept their blankets tightly around them. Their toes curled automatically and tried to avoid contact with the frigid stone floor.
'The Emperor wants some entertainment on this grey morning,' Scowler growled amid his thumping.
The boys tried to focus as their eyes squinted, and their bodies swayed to keep warm.
'There are food and clothes in your dining area. Eat now, get changed and in one hour, you will be the amusement for some of the guests. Don't keep us waiting. Be ready in your teams for a tug of war.'
The door was locked with a clang and a grating of keys while the thumping sound still reverberated in their ears.
'What the hell is going on now?' asked Lyall who was now blue with cold.
'I have no idea, but at least we get some food,' said Dainn .
Ignoring the warmer clothes, the boys fell on the feast—the leftovers from the night before were far more inviting. Unbelievably, there was enough to feed a small army, so they decided to save a lot of it for the coming weeks.
'Better late than never,' said Clebe as he stuffed a whole venison pie into his famished mouth.
'Too right,'
said Bagwa, swallowing thick spongey cakes.
'Don't mind doing a little tug of war for the old man if we get this first,' said Ronu.
The other boys laughed out loud and their food and spittle sprayed everywhere.
'I think I'm beginning to thaw,' said Siri. 'I can actually feel my fingers now.'
'My belly is swollen,' said Hass, looking worse for wear. 'I literally can't move.'
'What a great feeling, though.' Hali belched into the air.
That started a cacophony of burping, all the boys wanting to outdo each other. At last they could laugh out loud. Smiling faces joked and messed about. Now they could celebrate the new year, albeit a little delayed.
With the added strength from the food, they broke up one of the beds and got a fire going. They were then able to heat up some water. Bagwa suggested taking some the meat from the pies to make a warm broth for the evening. The only good thing about the freezing weather was that food wouldn't deteriorate so quickly, and there were no flies and wasps to bother them. It was cold enough in their dormitory to freeze anything, but the boys wrapped the left-over food in the cloth it had come in and put it on top of the frozen ice in the well.
