Other Worldly Ways (Anthology 1)

by Connie Suttle

  "My compliments to you and to your Sursee," he nodded to me before stepping out of the square and walking away. Sighing, I resheathed my blades and began walking toward the cooking tents for lunch.

  Some contestants were already leaving, I noticed, as I walked the distance to the cooking tents. Most of those carrying their belongings were the newly-trained who'd been sent by their Sursee or commander because they showed promise—they'd gain experience at the Trials. These were stopping off at the cooking tents for a meal before they left.

  "I'm off to my unit," the young man who sat down beside me said. "My Sursee and my commander say that in maybe two or three sun-turns, I might make a good run," he grinned at me. "What about you? Where you off to?"

  "Back to the trial grounds after my meal," I said. "I got lucky and drew single blades my first two matches."

  "Wow. That usually doesn't happen. And you're new? I don't see many newly-trained who can handle two blades."

  "You should see the man who trained me. He wouldn't settle for anything else."

  "Ah. One of those," the young man nodded his head. "Dalfar," he extended his hand.

  "Devin," I took his hand in mine. "Good luck in the next Trials," I said.

  "Good luck in this one," Dalfar grinned. We ate and talked while the heat of the Falchani sun bore down on the tent over our heads. Very little breeze filtered inside, although all the sides were rolled up to allow air inside.

  I drank extra water so I'd be hydrated for the afternoon match. While I considered how long I might last against my next opponent, I listened as Dalfar described his position in the army. He seemed proud that he'd already seen battle, and had a new panther tattoo as a result.

  Falchani rewarded those who'd distinguished themselves or were successful in battle with a tattoo. A full set—chest, back and both arms—meant the warrior was among the best Falchan had to offer. Crane, Dragon and Veykan had full sets. I had none and honestly, I preferred my skin uninked.

  Often, I imagined that part of any Falchani's prowess was in getting the full set of tattoos to begin with—they often described the pain they endured to be covered in art. Shaking my head, I politely inquired about Dalfar's single panther on his right bicep.

  "Tough at first, then I got used to it," he lifted his cup of Falchani black and drank. "Look, I have to get started now if I expect to make the first post by nightfall. I'm glad we met, Devin of the Mountain Hawk."

  With a heavy sigh, I watched him shoulder his pack and walk out of the cooking tent. Then, smiling slightly, I recalled that he wasn't wearing underwear and likely didn't own any.

  * * *

  "Up." The command was becoming familiar. I faced a woman this time, but Crane and Veykan taught me not to see gender when I fought. Crane even altered his appearance with power on several occasions, just to teach me what it was like to face a female opponent.

  After my initial bout of the giggles, Crane proceeded to beat me soundly in front of his twin brother, Dragon. I learned quickly to see only an opponent—gender didn't matter. "A warrior will take any advantage he can," Dragon informed me on a rare occasion—he always left my instruction to Crane and Veykan. "You must take care not to give an enemy that advantage. Instead, look for his weaknesses and use those to your benefit. You'll live longer." There was a reason Dragon was now First among the Saa Thalarr. He had the experience of command, as well as tactical expertise in the field.

  My female opponent fought with a single blade, just as the first two I'd faced. Wondering if I'd see a two-bladed warrior before getting ousted, I concentrated on blocking the warrior's blows. She was taller than I but in the end, two blades beat back the single sword.

  "Bout over," the officer called when I drove the woman past the boundary of the fighting square.

  "You fight very well," she offered her hand to me before leaving. I thanked her and nodded respectfully, as any good Falchani warrior should.

  * * *

  After a short trip to the nearest bucket of water for a drink, I wandered through the maze of fighting squares, watching the bouts still going on. A time limit of half a Falchani click was placed on the bouts. If the fight went to the limit, two officers had to make a decision on the winner. I watched as two bouts, both fought between warriors wielding two blades, were called because of time constraints.

  * * *

  "Up."

  I faced my first two-bladed warrior in my final bout for the day. Considering it might be my last bout in the Trials, I watched him carefully as he gripped both swords in his hands and came after me.

  This one taunted me as we fought. "How long have you been off your mother's breast?" he jeered. I ignored him and paid attention to his feints and blocks. He was weak—very weak—on his left side. No surprise, as he was right-handed. I focused my attack on that side, ignoring his insults. Those became fewer and farther between as he struggled to block my attack on his weak side.

  "Do not leave the fighting square," the officer warned as my opponent's heel came close. He attempted to rally against my attack, but his blows were going astray; his left arm was tiring.

  "Always press your advantage," Crane said. I did so now, my blades ringing against his in the heat of the Falchani sun as he labored to parry my strikes. The heel of his left boot scuffed across the line in a puff of dust as I lunged forward to tap his chest with my right blade.

  "Bout over," the officer called. Blowing out a breath, I watched as my opponent sheathed his blades and stalked away.

  I'd survived my first day of Solstice Trials.

  * * *

  If my math skills were correct, the first day had whittled the competition to a fraction of what it had been in the beginning. I stopped to watch a few bouts on my way to the shared tent—I needed a bath before going for the evening meal.

  With a clean, white gah, the rough bar of soap and a comb in hand, I walked toward the bathing tents. There would only be three bouts the second day; two in the morning, one in the afternoon. The same schedule would be used on the third day, with the final match on the afternoon of the third day, marking the solstice on Falchan.

  The water in the bathing tents was tepid at best, but it was welcome as I cleaned the dust off my body and out of my hair. I averted my eyes whenever someone walked past my open bathing cubicle, but they had no aversion to staring.

  Most Falchani resembled Crane and Dragon, who seemed Asian in appearance with long, dark hair braided at their backs. Many of those who wandered through the bathing tents had tattoos as well—some with full sets, others with only arms or backs done. The chest was always the last area to be inked. I was the only one there with no tattoos at all.

  "Look at that," a Falchani with a full set of tats pointed in my direction. "Have you ever seen hair that color?" He studied my light red hair with interest. "And see—it's the same below." He laughed when I went pink and wrapped a towel around my body.

  He stayed to watch as I dressed in my white gah—everyone else around me was dressed in black gahs. They were seasoned warriors; I was the neophyte. Grabbing my leathers, boots, comb and soap, I walked out of the bathing tent with as much dignity as I could muster.

  My tentmate lounged on his narrow pallet when I walked into our shared tent. "Staying to watch the Trials?" His voice held contempt.

  "No, I'll be competing tomorrow," I replied, refusing to look at him.

  "You made it through today?" He didn't bother to hide his incredulity.

  "I sure hope you take a bath while you're here," I snapped. "I can smell you from here." He laughed as I walked out of the tent, leaving him behind. I shouldn't have said anything, but honestly, there was no excuse for him to smell as he did. At least the cooking tents waited, and I hoped they'd have something vegetarian on the menu.

  * * *

  "Still here?" Camala smiled as she set her bowl of noodles down next to me and climbed onto the bench.

  "I'm just as surprised as anybody," I replied. "Noodles are good." They were good,
just not as good as what I'd gotten from Turtle's bar in the past. Turtle's bar was far away—on the border before you reached the mountains and the domain of the enemy. I wouldn't be going there this trip.

  "You must have drawn the weakest of the lot," the mountainous Falchani dropped his tray on the table across from me.

  "Is rudeness how you defeat your enemies?" Camala snapped at him. "I hear she dropped Simmas before he could draw his blade."

  "Simmas went down?" the mountain blinked at me.

  "In his first bout," Camala replied smugly.

  "Look, I've been lucky," I said as the air between Camala and the mountain became frosty. "Simmas didn't expect me to have any talent at all. I was faster drawing my blades."

  "He always has been slow at that," the mountain grunted before spearing a chunk of meat and stuffing it in his mouth. "Who taught you?"

  "Veykan of the Wildcat Tribe," I replied.

  "Hmmph. Never heard of him."

  "She fights with two blades, and I heard from Deena that she's good with them."

  "Deena still in?"

  "No. This one here took her out, too."

  Mountain chewed noisily while he studied me with new interest. "I'll see how good you are tomorrow. The Trial Masters will determine those bouts."

  He was right—the weaker ones always went against the stronger when the Masters chose opponents. It was like a college basketball tournament, where the lowest seeds faced the higher ones. That didn't mean that a low-ranking team wouldn't be on the rise, however, and take down a better-positioned club. At least I comforted myself with that notion while I remained quiet and ate my noodles as silently as I could.

  * * *

  Jugglers, acrobats, minstrels and storytellers provided entertainment that evening on the grounds. I went to watch and listen for a little while, hoping my tentmate had chosen to bathe while I was out. I didn't see him; I knew that much.

  In the distance, on the northern edge of the trial grounds, stood the Warlord's and General's tents. Brightly colored flags lifted occasionally in the evening breeze but those tents and those of officers around them, were too far away to glimpse any activity.

  The warrior who won the Trials would be invited to the Warlord's tent to receive the prize. If there was any space left for a tattoo, that would be given as well. Hunching my shoulders, I turned away from the troupe of tumblers before me and began the trek back to my tent—I needed a full night's sleep if I were to be any good at all in the morning.

  My tentmate was missing when I arrived and I was grateful. My gratitude was short-lived, however. I'd been asleep for an hour at most when he arrived, bringing a woman with him. The shrieks, grunts and other noise they made while coupling had me stuffing my head beneath my thin pillow in an attempt to shut it out.

  Sleep didn't come until the woman left, and even then, the noise of my surly tentmate's snoring woke me on occasion. In the morning, while preparing to go to the cooking tents for tea and breakfast, I decided that Surly was a good name for him since he hadn't bothered to introduce himself.

  * * *

  "That's Iver—Lord Inver's brat," Camala informed me quietly as I pointed Surly out to her. He'd wandered into the cooking tent without bothering to bathe or comb his hair. Others stepped away from him—no doubt he now smelled of sex as well as sweat.

  "Brat is a good description," I agreed as I sipped a second cup of Falchani black. "I was calling him Surly, because he didn't tell me his name." Crane would have used his blades to drive him into the ground for showing up in public looking and smelling as he did.

  "His Sursee claims Iver is a natural at bladework. I haven't heard of a true natural in many years," Camala huffed. "There are always wild claims, but they generally lose on the first day."

  "He's still here," I shook my head. "Maybe he knocks his opponents down with the smell. My Sursee always said to use every advantage."

  "Iver's chosen an unusual tactic, then," Camala observed. "I can only imagine what some of the better warriors will say to him if he comes to the fighting square looking and smelling like that. There are more than a few officers in the Trials, and I pity Iver if he comes under any of their commands."

  "He isn't in the army now?" I blinked at her.

  "No. His father has seen to that, as he's asked for a reprieve until Iver marries and has a son. Iver is Inver's only child."

  "Iver was certainly doing his best last night," I said. "I have no idea who the woman was, but they made enough noise to wake the entire camp."

  "That's not supposed to happen, but I figure Iver paid her way past the guards," Camala snorted. "You could file a complaint with the Lord Marshall against him."

  "I don't think I'll be here long enough to file a complaint," I said. "I'm more worried about who I'll face today."

  "You're probably the only one wearing white who's still in the Trials," Camala agreed. "They'll pair you with a warrior who's made a good run in past turns, at the least."

  "That's what terrifies me," I said. Camala laughed.

  * * *

  My first opponent that morning had his shirt off, showing his full complement of tattoos. A snarling Falchani tiger graced his chest as his breaths came slow and measured. Two blades were on the ground, ready for his grasp, as he wore no harness and sheaths. Folding to the ground as gracefully as I could, I gave him a last glance before working to get into a meditative state.

  My adversary was ahead of me in that respect; already sitting, his eyes were closed, his body relaxed. Here was the seasoned warrior Camala warned me about. Squashing my worry, I worked to control my breathing and shut my eyes.

  "Up." Both of us were up in an instant. When the signal came, he was on me. Crane could have taught this one, I knew, as he had the economical movements that my Sursee did—saving his strength and striking where it was most effective.

  At least I recognized his movements and felt comfortable falling into what Crane called the dance—that's what the battle between two experienced warriors resembled, when they'd been trained to fight with two blades.

  "Are you planning to go on the offensive or are you content to spar all day?" he asked after a while.

  "Actually, I thought about complimenting your tattoos—I've never seen a tiger done so well," I said through gritted teeth as I blocked two swift, consecutive blows, his steel ringing against mine.

  "I've never broken a sweat until now," he pointed out. "Who trained you?"

  "Veykan of the Wildcat Tribe," I replied dutifully. I was only allowed to report the one who'd signed me in, after all.

  "Never heard of him," he grunted as one of my blows caused his left blade to sound its ringing complaints across the grounds. I hadn't noticed until then that a crowd had gathered around our square. Pulling my attention back to the bout, I studied my opponent.

  "Veykan will be disappointed to hear that," I turned aside, allowing his right blade to miss mine completely. It was one of Crane's favorite tricks, and allowed me to come in under his guard.

  "Bout over," the attending officer called as I held the point of my blade at the warrior's throat.

  "And so it is," my opponent nodded as I pulled the blade back. "Well done, warrior." He gave me a respectful nod and walked away. The crowd parted to let him through.

  * * *

  Two clicks later, I dispatched my second opponent of the day—he was good but the first one had been better and would have given Crane a workout. Crane still would have had him, however, when all was said and done.

  The bouts were moving closer to the Warlord's tent. My first had been halfway there, the second, half again as close. The third looked to be quite close. I knew the final bout would be held before the elevated benches built for that purpose.

  The center and highest level was shaded by thick, red cloth embroidered in gold—the Warlord and General could observe the bout from comfortable seats in the shade. The warriors in the fighting square below would be sweating in the heat of the Falchani solstice as
they fought for the Warlord's prize.

  * * *

  After a lunch of the Falchani version of hummus and flatbread, I faced my third opponent of the day—Camala. She grinned at me as she stepped inside the square and I breathed a shaky sigh. "Friend or enemy, they'll all attempt to win," Crane always said. "Don't let them win."

  "Up," the attending officer commanded. The crowd was large—perhaps larger than the one against my first opponent of the day. Money changed hands amid quiet whispers—onlookers weren't allowed to distract combatants.

  I figured Camala would come at me fast when the signal came. I wasn't disappointed. I waited for her to get into her rhythm and become comfortable. "Always watch for the pattern," Crane taught me. "And then look for a way to upset it. Throw them off balance and move in with your best attack."

  Camala was good, but still my first opponent of the day was better. She stepped out of bounds as I drove her back with a flurry of blows. "Bout over," the officer called. Camala grinned as she sheathed her blades and walked toward me. I thought she meant to take my hand. Instead, she leaned in to kiss me.

  "I know you prefer men, I saw that the first time we met," she whispered in my ear. "Otherwise, I'd have asked to unbraid your hair that first night."

  She moved away amid catcalls and laughter as I stood, immobilized in shock, watching her braid swing down her back as she strode through the crowd.

  * * *

  "Warlord," the General stood at the Warlord's right hand, watching with disinterest as the Warlord signed yet another requisition form.

  "General," the Warlord replied noncommittally.

  "You're not going to believe what I saw today, Warlord."

  "Why is that, General?"

  "The proper question is 'what is that,' but I will overlook your misuse of the language for now."

  "Did you come in here, only to inform me that my language skills are lacking?" the Warlord looked up at his General.

  "No, I came in here to inform you that Pheran Tiger was beaten today. This morning, in fact."

  "Pheran, out on the second day? That's preposterous," the Warlord turned back to the papers requiring his signature.