Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  "Make sure he doesn't get sick on you, Berke," one of his teammate's called out, just loud enough for everyone to hear, which brought a burst of laughter from the Gravenhage team. Collin's temper flared and he started to get to his feet, but a surprisingly firm grip on his shoulder restrained him. He hadn't even heard Father Thomas come up behind him. Giving in to the pressure, he sat back down and fumed. While the laughter slowly abated, Collin noticed that neither Jerrel Rozon nor Giles had taken part in it.

  Well, there's a point for them, he thought.

  The faint smile on Mathew's face also faded away.

  "You would be wiser to demonstrate your skill with a weapon, as opposed to your tongue," Lieutenant Herne snapped. "Are you ready?"

  Both boys nodded, and he gave the command to begin.

  I hope Mat wipes that stupid grin off his big ugly face, Collin thought.

  Playing to the audience, Berke adopted a menacing look, took a quick advance toward Mathew with his arms spread wide, and jutting his head forward, suddenly said, "Boo!"

  If Berke expected Mathew to jump or faint, he was sorely mistaken. From a seemingly casual on guard posi­tion, his blade virtually trailing on the ground, Mathew suddenly snapped out a tremendously powerful lunge. Caught completely by surprise, Berke took its full force directly in the chest and went down like a bag of sand. Mathew stood over him for a moment, shrugged, and calmly walked back to his line, where he appeared more concerned with flicking lint from his sleeve than he was with his opponent. Half the population of Devondale, who had turned out for the competition, erupted in a cheer. A few laughs could also be heard from some of the other competitors. Carly Coombs jumped out of his seat, pumped his fist in the air, and shouted "Yes!" but a stern look from Lieutenant Heme quickly returned him to his place.

  "Are you all right?" the lieutenant asked.

  Berke scrambled back to his feet but didn't answer. He stood there with his chest heaving, glaring at Mathew, who in contrast seemed unconcerned with what had just happened. Instead, he stared directly back at Berke, which was the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull.

  "I asked if you were all right?" Lieutenant Heme re­peated.

  "Fine," Berke snapped. "Let's get this over."

  "Very well, then. Begin!"

  Both boys advanced to close ground. It was plain to Collin that Berke wanted to engage and try to control Mathew's blade in the four line, or chest side, as fencers called it. After allowing their blades to cross just at midpoint, Mathew returned the slightest pressure with his fingers in opposition. Berke overreacted. Mathew saw as much, feinted straight forward, then drove a perfect dis­engagement to the opposite line, hitting him cleanly on the shoulder.

  Lieutenant Herne awarded the hit, and Berke, incredu­lous, looked all but ready to chew nails. The third and fourth hits went in much the same way, with one scoring to Berke's high line and the other to his low line. After each touch, Mathew shrugged as if it were no big deal, shook his head, and strolled back to his line.

  Collin pulled his eyes away from the bout for a mo­ment to glance at Lara. She was beaming with pride, both of her fists were clenched so tightly, her knuckles were showing white.

  On the fourth hit, Mathew even started back for his on guard line before Lieutenant Herne made his award, as if the decision was a foregone conclusion. This only ap­peared to infuriate Berke further. Now down four to noth­ing, with only one chance remaining to him, when the command was given Berke charged down the strip, swinging his blade wildly from side to side in an attempt to score on Mathew's flank. With their bodies in close proximity, both blades became tangled. And while each competitor was straggling to get his weapon clear, Berke abruptly raised his forearm and struck Mathew under the chin, snapping his head backward.

  "Halt! that was a deliberate foul, and you are warned," Lieutenant Heme said. "Repeat this conduct again and both you and your team will be disqualified. Do you un­derstand me?"

  The lieutenant was clearly upset. Lara took a wet cloth to Mathew, whose lip was split and bleeding. After hold­ing it in place for a moment, she said something to him that caused Mathew to look at her sharply before she re­turned to her seat. Fouls happened all the time in compe­tition, and everyone more or less expected them, but few were ever committed intentionally. This one was about as

  serious as you could get. Collin glanced over at Jerrel Ro-zon. The former general did not appear pleased.

  The moment the bout resumed, Berke again charged down the strip at Mathew. This time, instead of making a chest parry as he had before, Mathew reversed himself and swept the line in the opposite direction, using a counter parry. He caught Berke's blade cleanly, but rather than going straight in, executed two quick disen­gagements. Berke fought madly to recover and defend himself, but to no avail. The fifth hit landed, and Mathew scored the victory. Lieutenant Heme didn't even bother to announce the call. He simply shrugged and pointed to Mathew, who stood waiting to shake his opponent's hand. The only sign belying Mathew's ap­parent outward calm was the continued tapping of the fingers of his left hand against his leg.

  For a moment it looked to Collin that Berke was either about to start a fight or stalk off the strip, but with every­one watching, he grudgingly accepted Mathew's prof­fered hand.

  As soon as Mathew got back to the bench, he was the center of attention, being hugged from all directions by his teammates.

  "That was just amazing!" Collin said when they finally sat down. "I'm telling you it was just... hey, are you okay?"

  Looking closely, Collin saw that Mathew was rigid and tight-lipped. Though his face was impassive, it appeared that he might get sick again. Inching closer to him, Collin said in a low voice between clenched teeth, "Mat, if you give them the satisfaction of throwing up, I swear I'll kill you myself."

  Collin continued to smile and nod and was about to add something even stronger when it struck him that Mathew's casual behavior during the bout had been an act. Collin had always known his friend was intelligent— but this was better! Devious, even. Maybe Mat had possi­bilities after all. On Mathew's opposite side, Lara slid closer to him, kissed him demurely on the cheek and whispered some­thing in his ear that returned the color to Mathew's face. He responded by clearing his throat while she looked primly ahead.

  Lara didn't fare as well in her bout. Despite putting up a good fight, she lost. So did Daniel, followed by Carly, whose enthusiasm still appeared undiminished. For the next hour the score swung back and forth between the two teams. The second round was a repeat of the first, as was the third, and once again the outcome of the meet rested on the last bout, which, as luck would have it, fell to Mathew and Giles.

  After both boys took the strip, Mathew glanced over at his father, who was standing next to Jerrel Rozon and Thom Calthorpe. Bran gave him a quick smile. Not only were the competitors from both teams on their feet to watch the bout, but just about everyone in Devondale was also there.

  "Gentlemen, are you ready?" Lieutenant Herne asked formally.

  "Ready," they both answered.

  "Begin!"

  Giles immediately advanced, as did Mathew. Each be­gan to probe the other's defenses with a series of feints and small attacks. Father Thomas was fond of telling his students that fencing was much like playing a physical game of chess at lightning speed, and this bout was prov­ing an excellent example of that concept.

  Giles was the first to score with an attack to Mathew's flank. Mathew responded by winning the next two hits. After that, the tempo of the bout began to slow, and nei­ther was able to gain an advantage. Much later, Mathew would tell Collin that he had no idea how long they had been fencing. His mouth felt dry as dust and he'd won­dered if Giles was feeling the same thing. Seconds later, Giles attacked again, evening the score at two hits each,

  and then went ahead to lead by a single hit when Mathew's counterattack missed.

  Mathew went back to his on guard fine, seemingly frustrated, Collin thought, because
at the last moment Giles contorted his body to avoid his riposte. On the next hit, Mathew drew even once more, but now, his leg mus­cles must have been burning and his weapon would have felt a good deal heavier. Like him, Giles appeared to be breathing harder. Perhaps buoyed by the observation, Mathew pressed his advantage and launched a long at­tack straight at Giles's chest, only to miss when his oppo­nent twisted and ducked. It resulted in another score against Mathew.

  Mathew went red with embarrassment, and Collin guessed he was berating himself. He was now behind four to three, and the winner would need five hits. Collin and Garon called out some words of encourage­ment, but Mathew didn't seem to hear them, so intent was his concentration.

  Mathew's father had told him a good fencer needed confidence in equal measure to his talent to achieve suc­cess. He'd told Collin as much. Unfortunately, at the mo­ment Mathew seemed consumed by embarrassment at missing an opportunity to prevent an ungainly maneuver. He was still one hit away from leveling the score, but he was also one hit away from losing if Giles landed first.

  When they resumed, Giles closed the distance and Mathew seemed to see his opening—Giles was keeping his arm too far to the inside, exposing his flank. Mathew seized the opportunity and lunged with everything he had. The attack caught Giles by surprise. It looked certain Mathew had the hit, until at the last moment Giles some­how managed to make the parry. Mathew barely avoided the riposte, and redoubled his attack, only to be parried again a split second before his point landed. A furious ex­change followed. Abruptly, Giles crouched down and sprang forward, attacking from an unusual angle to Mathew's high, inside line. Try as he might, Mathew was unable to deflect the blade, and Giles scored the final hit, winning the bout.

  There was a stunned silence from the Devondale team and spectators. Eventually someone remembered their manners and began to applaud. Both boys shook hands, and Giles grabbed Mathew around the neck, hugging him. Mathew shook his head, smiled, and returned the hug.

  When he sat back down, Collin tossed him a towel and patted him on the back. Whatever else Mathew was feeling at the moment, there was no indication of it on his face.

  "My friends, if you will please give me your attention, I would like to make the awards," Father Thomas an­nounced. "This has been a wonderful competition, and we have seen young men.. . ah . . . and young women, with fine talent. I know that your teachers are proud of you all.

  "For the victorious team, I present this banner made by our own Margaret Grimly, to Jerrel Rozon of Graven-hage." Rozon came forward and shook hands with Father Thomas, while the members of the Gravenhage team cheered enthusiastically and the Devondale spectators applauded politely. After he accepted the banner, Rozon raised it aloft, acknowledging the spectators. It had five gold stars in a circle on a field of dark blue, representing the five provinces of Elgaria, with the name "Devondale" stitched in gold at the bottom.

  "Now, if Masters Naismith, Lewin, and Miller will kindly step forward, I will make the final awards. For the individual winners, I have three fine prizes, courtesy of Harol Longworth," Father Thomas said, pointing to a table that had hurriedly been set up. On it were a belt knife, a large blue and white porcelain bowl, and a thick ring of reddish-yellow metal.

  "As our champion this day, the honor falls to Giles Naismith to select first."

  Giles walked up to the table, looked at the prizes, and after a moment's reflection, selected the ring. He smiled,

  tossed it in the air, and caught it again. Mathew went next and took the knife, leaving the bowl to Collin. Each of the boys stood together holding up the prizes for the crowd to see, as both onlookers and teams cheered.

  Collin watched two men removing the fencing strips and planting torches in the ground as they hurriedly set up ta­bles. Several of the town's ladies brought out trays of food and drink, just as Father Thomas had promised. The pungent smell of roasting meat in the air reminded him that he was famished. After shaking hands with everyone he was supposed to, he stepped away to gather up his equipment and look for a place to change into a fresh shirt.

  Lara was already there, talking to Beckie Enders, an­other girl from Devondale. Her things were tied in a neat bundle. She had somehow managed to change into a dark green dress and comb her hair, which impressed him since he didn't see how she'd had the time to do it. On top of everything else, she was wearing rouge on her lips. It was the first time he could recall her doing that.

  "May I see your bowl, please?" Beckie asked as he joined them. She was about a year younger than he was, a pretty girl with big brown eyes and curly blond hair that fell to her shoulders. Her father ran the mill just outside of town. At the last Winterfest, Collin had danced with her and even toyed with the idea of stealing a kiss or two behind the barn.

  "Sure," he said, handing it to her.

  "It's really lovely. Congratulations, by the way. You did so well today."

  "Really?" He was surprised and slightly embarrassed by her comment, because it didn't seem like a great ac­complishment to him.

  "Of course. You were wonderful," she said, hugging him.

  "Oh . .. well that's nice."

  She didn't break away immediately, and when the hug lasted marginally longer than it might have, Collin felt his face begin to feel warm. Beckie certainly smelled nice, he thought.

  "My father told me Harol got it from some fellow near Sturga. What are you going to do with it?"

  "What?"

  "The bowl, silly."

  The corners of Collin's mouth turned down as he exam­ined the bowl she held in her hands. The inside contained a garden scene, with some type of tree he'd never seen be­fore at the bottom. The sides were also decorated with vines and flowers. As far as bowls went, he supposed it was all right. "I guess I'll give it to my mother," he said. "She likes things like this."

  Beckie's face lost some of its earlier warmth. "Oh, I see," she said, handing it back to him. "Yes, I'm sure she'll like it very much. Well, I'd better be running along now. Are you coming, Lara?"

  "You go on, Beckie. I'll be there in a moment."

  Collin watched her go, baffled by her sudden change of mood. He was more confused still when Lara gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  "What's that for?"

  "If you gave that simpering idiot your bowl, I'd have broken it over your head."

  "Give her my bowl? Why would I. . . ?" It took a sec­ond for Lara's meaning to dawn on him. "Oh . .. Did I look very silly?"

  Lara affectionately grabbed a handful of his hair. "No more than normal."

  He grinned. "Well, I guess that's something."

  "Have you talked to Mathew yet?" Lara asked.

  "Sure I talked to him .. . why?" Seeing the serious look on her face, he asked, "What's the matter?"

  "I think he blames himself for our losing."

  "God, that's so stupid!" Collin said angrily. "Every­body lost. He didn't lose all ten bouts, did he?" He quickly glanced around the area and spotted Mathew walking alone by the town council building.

  "I tried to tell him the same thing," Lara said, "but he's

  just so ... so ... oh, I don't know." She made an exas­perated sound.

  "Maybe I should give you this bowl to break over his head."

  Lara looked in Mathew's direction and shook her head sadly. "He always thinks everything is his fault. You'll talk to him?"

  "Sure."

  "Good. I'll see you at the dance in just a little while," she said, giving him a quick hug.

  "Dance? I thought we were going to eat. I'm starving."

  "Don't worry. You'll be able to eat all you want, but there's going to be dancing too," she said brightly. "Fer­gus, Akin, and some others are going to play music. Isn't it wonderful?"

  The last words were said over her shoulder.

  Lara lifted her skirt slightly and hurried across the grass, slowing to a more ladylike pace when she got closer to the tables. Collin watched her go and shook his head. Women never ceased to amaze him. In the last yea
r, the tomboy who could climb a tree as well as any of his male friends had undergone a metamorphosis. From the way in which she had begun to dress and carry herself lately, and the furtive glances she cast in Mathew's direc­tion, Collin was certain that she was aware of the change. He assumed Mathew would eventually get the message.

  It was almost dark and torches were already lit. Fortu­nately, the temperature seemed to be holding. Someone even put candles in jars around the perimeter of the square, creating a long string of lights, which he thought looked nice. He ducked behind a building, quickly pulled off his wet shirt and put on a dry one. When he came out, Mathew was still there, walking alone, his hands clasped behind his back. Collin put down the bowl with his things and trotted across the square, falling in step alongside his friend. Both boys walked along in silence for a while be­fore Mathew spoke.

  "I'm sorry, Collin, I tried my best. I really did."

  This is so typical, Collin thought, wishing he'd remembered to bring the bowl with him to bounce off his friend's head.

  "Look, it's no use blaming yourself," he said. "Any­body might have had to fence that last bout—me, Daniel, Garon ... anybody. It's just rotten luck it fell to you. But that's the way things go sometimes. Near as I can figure you lost one bout all day long, right?"

  "Well yes, but this one was so important. .."

  "They were all important. You could have lost the first or the second instead of the last. The result would have been the same. We all dropped bouts. That's why it's called a team competition. Get it?"

  "Sure, but. . ."

  "No buts about it. Let me see that knife you won."

  Mathew glanced at Collin, hesitated for a moment, then handed him the knife. It was about seven inches long, with a fine carved bone handle. The metal of the blade was a grayish-black, with wavy lines going through it that reminded Collin of wood grain.