by Nick Webb
Aeden and Priam sat outfitted in their armor with the Rossam family near the middle row of the stands. The two boys watched the matches intently, critiquing the fighting styles of the warriors with Aeden’s father, who, to Aeden’s surprise, generously bought Priam food and drink from the vendors since his parents were absent. Aeden wondered what could be so important that they would miss this, but Priam said they had gone out hunting again.
A gasp went up from the crowd as a man screamed. They looked around, and Priam pointed to the ring on the right on the other side of the lawn. A man had fallen, clutching with his left hand his right arm, which spurted blood. They looked closer and saw the lower half of the arm laying on the ground, the steel bone glinting in the sunlight. A healer rushed forward and his assistants quickly wrapped the wound, pressing on it to staunch the bleeding as two guards discretely approached his opponent from behind and grabbed him, holding his arms to his side as he struggled and protested.
“Who is it?’ Aeden asked. His father shrugged his indifference. The other duels had paused to watch the commotion. A messenger from the city guard ran up the steps of the stands and approached the lord of the city.
“Oh no.…” Priam muttered.
“What? What’s wrong?” Aeden asked in confusion.
“He’s a commoner. The wounded man is a noble. His opponent is a commoner. Oh no....” Priam murmured. The messenger ran back down the steps and towards the waiting city guard. A discussion ensued, and Aeden could see the master healer approach the men.
He argued with them, waving his arms, though Aeden could not hear the discussion over the murmur of the crowd. One of the guards pointed up to the lord of the city, who gave a single, grim nod. The master healer fell silent and stormed off, still visibly angry, though contained. Two guards held the commoner and turned him to face the lord of the city, kicking his legs to force him to his knees. One guard placed a boot on the man’s back, forcing him to hunch over with his head hanging horizontally before a third guard. A guard holding a gleaming sword in his hand.
The man sobbed, pleading for mercy from the lord, audible even high up in the stands as all hushed themselves in morbid expectation. The lord of the city raised his arm, and held out his hand flat.
The crowd fell silent, the mob of people on the hillsides hushed their murmuring and watched the fate of the poor man. The guard before him stepped to one side, positioning himself next to the kneeling man, sword still raised high, and swiftly brought it down.
It stopped an inch over the quivering skin of the man’s neck. Slowly, the guard lowered the sword the rest of the way and nicked the man’s neck. The man screamed and the gash spurted blood onto the ground. The guards released him, and the swell of people on the hillsides burst into a rapturous cheer and applause, tumultuously voicing their praise to their merciful and just lord.
The man, now covered in his own blood, rose to his feet and, still quaking in pain and fear, bowed low to the lord of the city, thanking him and proclaiming his lord’s grace and mercy. A healer rushed over to the man and assisted him with his injury, wrapping the wound and touching his head to heal him.
The scene over, Aeden looked over at his friend. Priam clutched the edge of the bench, knuckles white, and trembled, an evil look covering his face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Priam jumped, startled out of his thoughts, and looked at Aeden as he released the bench from his iron grip.
“Oh. Nothing. I just felt sorry for the poor man. I mean, he didn’t mean to cut the guy’s arm off. Accidents happen.”
“Yeah. But imagine if it happened to you. I’m sure you’d want the other guy’s arm off too,” Aeden retorted.
“Sure I would. But it wouldn’t happen because I’m technically a commoner too. And it wasn’t his arm that the law required, it was his head, idiot. And if I was that poor man,” he paused, looking at the still-celebrating commoner, “I would not have dropped to my knees and begged for mercy, and my head would be there on the ground right now. But if that man was a noble, nothing would have happened to him at all.”
Aeden fell silent, not wishing an argument, and focused his attention on a duel that had just resumed. Priam continued, “Sorry. I just felt bad for the poor guy. Ok?”
“Ok. Hey look. They’re starting again.” Aeden changed the subject, pointing to the ring in front of them.
An uncomfortable silence hung between them before Priam jumped to his feet. “I’ve got to go. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Priam!” the Rossams all called out to the boy as he ran down the steps towards his ring. He paused by the judges’ table, conversing with his opponent as they waited for the current match to end. The crowd cheered, and the boys looked up from their conversation to see a girl stand tall and strong over her fallen opponent, who, face bleeding, clutched his arm as well, the girl having lightly cut it moments before. Two wounds now received, the match was hers, and she ran around the ring pumping her fist into the air, drawing ecstatic cheers from the crowd.
The judges looked at the boys, one of them saying, “Ready.” The two duelists walked to the center of the ring. They shook hands, bowed to each other, and drew their swords. They circled slowly for a moment or so, and then the other boy charged Priam, who deftly swiped the sword aside and tripped the other with his foot, twisting around to give him a boot to the pants as he stumbled past. A laugh went up from the crowd as the boy regained his footing.
“He’s a real crowd pleaser, your friend is.” Lord Rossam leaned over to his son.
“I taught him everything he knows.”
In just another minute, it was over, Priam taking just one blow to the shoulder (“He scratched my armor!” yelled Aeden) before he went into a flurry and landed five scoring hits to his opponent in rapid succession, ending the round. The two rounds that followed were equally swift, and Priam managed to make the other boy trip once again, eliciting yet more laughter and applause from the crowd. Red in the face, the boy stood before Priam and only half-bowed. Priam mirrored him, then grabbed the defeated boy’s hand and shook it vigorously. The two turned and bowed to the lord of the city, and the crowd cheered. Priam ran back up the stands and collapsed next to Aeden.
“Phew! I’m beat! What’s to eat?” Without waiting for a response, Priam began to devour the food the elder Rossam had purchased for the boy. The lord raised an eyebrow in mild amusement.
Lady Rossam leaned over to Aeden, “Don’t you think you should get down there?” she asked. He nodded, grabbed his helmet and got to his feet, walking confidently down to the judges’ table. There, he saw his opponent, who he recognized as John Hillrest from the previous day.
“Hello. I’m Aeden.” He said, holding out his hand to the young man, who grasped it, replying,
“I’m John. You’re a little young—” the man said, looking him up and down, “—sorry, I don’t mean to offend, you actually look very fit—muscular, even. Just … young.”
“I am. I was permitted to join the higher division.” He yawned, “Something about my superior skills with a blade … or something like that. They weren’t too clear, really.”
The man laughed, “And you’ve got sass. I like it. But don’t be offended when you only get half a minute of dueling time against me.”
“These aren’t timed. We’ll have far longer than that.”
“No, you won’t,” the man looked down and absentmindedly adjusted an armor strap, “it’ll be over very soon.” It took Aeden a moment to understand his meaning, but when he did, he laughed. It was a good day. He rotated his shoulder again.
The previous match finished, and the two approached the center. They shook each other’s hands, each bowing low to the other. “Good luck.” John said.
“You too,” Aeden answered, and drew his sword. The man instantly lunged, and Aeden skillfully knocked the blade away. John charged once more, and again, Aeden parried the blows, getting in two scores before the round had even reached a minute. The crowd cheered him
on. He circled his opponent, who circled as well, and Aeden dashed forward, slicing his way through the man’s defenses. John’s sword knocked against his shoulder, and Aeden swatted it away, spinning in towards the man as he knocked the sword out of his opponent’s grip, elbowing him in the stomach. John stumbled backward, the wind knocked out of him. The crowd went wild, and Aeden finished off the round swiftly, his opponent unable to defend himself.
The next two rounds followed just as quickly, ending in victory for John the second round, with Aeden claiming the final one. The pair shook hands, John looking clearly disappointed. “Congratulations, Aeden. You are truly skilled,” he said. They bowed to each other, then turned and bowed to the lord. Aeden sheathed his sword and bounded up the steps to his family and Priam. His mother pulled him in close and hugged him. His sister cheered, and his father firmly shook his hand.
“Good fight, Aeden, good fight.” Priam said, slapping his shoulder armor.
The noon hour approached, and Lady Rossam left, returning with roasted turkey legs for the family. The afternoon dragged on, Aeden and Priam each winning two more matches. According to the boards standing next to the judges’ table, each of them had made it into the top four of their respective divisions. The section around the Rossams had taken the two boys as their mascots and gave them a hero’s welcome whenever one of them returned from a successful duel, rapping them on the shoulders, cheering as they bounded past, reaching out to mess up their hair. The two boys ate it up and grinned broadly, basking in their newfound fame and glory. This was life, Aeden thought.
Priam’s next match ended in disappointment. In his first round, he tripped, falling backward, and though his opponent stood by respectfully to allow him to stand, the stumble rattled him and he lost the round. During the second round he eked out a narrow victory, five to four, but the final round ended when he sustained two wounds on his arms.
The crowd near the Rossams moaned before politely cheering the victor, and, after the healer had attended to his wounds, Priam returned to his seat. The crowd applauded as he made his way up the stairs but soon the applause turned to ecstatic roars of approval. Confused, Priam glanced around to see Aeden sprinting up the stairs after his own victory before he remembered that they had fought their matches simultaneously this time.
“Wonderful job, Priam. There’s always next year.” Lord Rossam told the boy, who hung his head in utter defeat.
“Hey. Cheer up. You made it to the top four. That means you’re the fourth best duelist in the city. In our age group, of course.” Aeden tried to console his friend, but Priam didn’t speak another word.
The tournament now nearing an end, each duel spurred the crowd to its feet, roaring its excitement and approval, and soon the championship matches were announced. The youngest division went first: the crowd shouted and yelled and clapped thunderously as the two youth, a boy and a girl, circled each other, trading ferocious, yet clinically precise blows.
The boy knocked the girl down, allowed her to stand, and delivered two more quick strikes to her chest. She emerged the victor from the second round, and the third round kept the audience in suspense as the two dueled to a near draw, neither scoring on the other nor drawing any blood for nearly seven minutes. Finally, the girl managed to disarm her stunned opponent, and ended the round quickly after three swift blows and a deft touch to the head, to the obvious delight of the crowd.
As Aeden waited down near the judges’ table for the match to end, he recognized one of the women sitting there from the day before. She had sat right next to Lord Bleak at the pre-trials—Aeden could hardly forget her bright red hair.
“Excuse me, madam. Where is the gentleman who judged with you yesterday? Where is Lord Bleak?” he said over the din of the crowd.
Her eyes, which had followed the swords of the two combatants, now focused on his eyes, piercing him with what Aeden could only guess was suspicion. “Nobody knows. He didn’t show up to the tournament. He wasn’t even at the pub last night—creator knows he wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
“I see. Sorry to interrupt.” Aeden looked away, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that she still eyed him for several seconds before returning her attention to the duel. A knot began to form in his stomach. Disappeared? Would his father really…no. Impossible.
Aeden turned to look at his opponent next to him, a young man who looked to be in his early twenties, and a commoner by the looks of his tattered and rusted armor. They made polite conversation as they waited.
The two youth bowed to the lord and walked away, leaving the lawn clear for the waiting duelists. They approached the center of the ring, and, bowing and shaking each other’s hand, wished the other luck. They drew their swords and immediately began circling each other. A hush fell over the crowd as all watched intently. Neither one made a move until well after a minute had passed: Aeden lunged, but feinted, drawing the other man to swat at his sword as he ducked and swiped at the man’s legs. Reading Aeden’s mind, the man jumped and brought his sword crashing down on his opponent, who lifted his to block the blow just barely in time. The crowd erupted.
This continued for several minutes, until finally Aeden made a mistake. The man started a swing at him and Aeden readied to block and follow up with a quick flurry of strikes, when the man unexpectedly spun and struck from the opposite direction. Aeden’s sword twisted around nearly out of his grip, and the other man rained down a storm of quick swipes on his chest, shoulders, and helmet, landing four before Aeden could recover. The younger man now dazed and enraged, the elder quickly finished the round with a well-placed swipe after an unsuccessful lunge by Aeden. He skulked away from his opponent, the judges declaring that round for the commoner.
The next round went to Aeden, though only through a great deal of luck. A strap on the man’s shabby armor came loose, and in the split second it took him to wrest it free, Aeden managed to score three points. The man regained control of his sword, and the next several moments were a blur of swipes and parries. The man scored once, then twice, but Aeden received another bit of luck as the man stumbled backward on a piece of debris, allowing him to end the round with two quick swipes to the man’s legs.
After a quick breather, they approached one another again, bowed, and Aeden wasted no time in charging the man, concentrating hard as he spun and jumped and slashed into his opponent, who staggered back in surprise at the ferocity of the onslaught. Aeden scored a hit, then another, before the man re-asserted himself, using his quickness and agility to his advantage, moving faster than the younger boy and outmaneuvering him.
Before long, the round stood at four points for the man, versus just two points for Aeden. Fearing defeat, Aeden cried out and charged the man, knocking the other’s sword high and slamming into him. Being somewhat larger and more muscular Aeden managed to topple him over, and, dropping his own sword and grabbing the wrists of the man, he wrested the other’s blade free and quickly spun around, grabbing his hair, yanking his head back and held the sharp edge pressed firmly to the man’s neck. The commoner froze, and the crowd fell silent, held in suspense by the scene unfolding before them.
“Yield!” Aeden yelled in the man’s ear, his spittle dripping down on the man’s sweaty face, his fist clenching the hair and pulling the head back even farther. The man said nothing, but grabbed Aeden’s hands and struggled. Aeden pushed the sword in harder and a thin line of blood appeared on the man’s neck. He stopped struggling and lay there, his chest heaving up and down.
“Yield, you common trash, yield!” Aeden yelled again, flecks flying from his mouth, spraying the man’s face and bleeding neck. He couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth, and he instantly felt dirty. He felt like his father. He wished, even then in the heat of the moment that he could take them back.
The man, still silent, closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his face screwing up in a look of fury. Aeden looked down at his trembling hand holding the sword, and his white-knuckled hand press
ed up against the scalp, enclosed around a fistful of hair, and in the intensity of the moment his mind drifted back to the master healer. He considered for a split second, then focused on the man’s head and screamed in his own mind, YIELD! In that moment, he felt a rush of anger and shame assault his own mind from within, and the man opened his eyes wildly, blinking rapidly in surprise.
“I yield!” the man cried, and Aeden released his grip. The crowd roared once more and a stunned, euphoric Aeden dropped the man’s sword and walked away in a daze towards the stands, only to come rushing back a moment later to shake the weeping man’s hand, bow to him, and bow low to the lord of the city who stood and clapped. Retrieving his own sword, he ascended the staircase, still overcome by shock, as the mass of people in his section mobbed him and hauled him onto their shoulders, carrying him up to his proud family.
The following three duels did not even register in Aeden’s attention as he wrapped himself in the adulations of the crowd around him, still riding high on their hands and shoulders and cheers. They did not set him down until the next match had started, and still they thronged around him, slapping his shoulder guards, his helmet, touching the sword sheathed on his back. Priam yelled something at him, a smile on his face, but he couldn’t even hear the words amid the deafening tumult of the celebrants. He took off his helmet, leaped to his feet, and turned to the crowd again, pumping his fist in the air, and the people responded like thunder. He sat, laughing, resting his arm around Priam’s shoulders, who wore a wide, but thin, strained smile.
The remaining duels came to a close with the winners celebrating and the losers weeping openly. The judges stood and requested the presence of the five victorious swordsmen. Aeden sprinted down the stairs, stumbling on the last step to the delight of the crowd, but of course he recovered quickly and approached the table. The lord of the city stood and descended the steps slowly, gracefully, and stood before the victors. The crowd fell silent as he turned and faced the crowd.
“People of Elbeth!” he shouted, “Behold, your champions!” The crowd roared, and quieted itself as the lord held up his closed fist. He turned and motioned to a servant who brought a wide wooden tray, draped with a flowing cloth, which held five steel crowns laced with laurel leaves. The lord lay each crown one by one upon the heads of the kneeling champions and then presented the glowing victors once more to the people, who applauded and cheered even more wildly than before.
