by Marin Landis
The quieter one of the guards had led him to a building, much the same as the other single story, unmarked buildings that sat around the inner edge of the palisade. The door wasn’t closed and in a room sat a man at a small table, this one not quite as large as the guards, but he looked a bit more like he meant business. He wore the same loose fitting tunic and trews as everyone else he saw, but his black hair was long and tied at the neck. He held in his hand a stylus and was writing something down on a parchment. He held his hand up when they entered and carried on writing, not even looking up. He wrote for about a minute and then set the stylus down and looked up, taking in both the guard and Melvekior. He motioned with a nod of his head to the chair on the opposite side of the desk to himself and said “Thank you,” to the guard who left without a word.
The man’s accent was cultured and the voice soothing, “I am Hjabandr. You are here to join the Brotherhood I believe. Is that correct, Martelle?”
Melvekior bit off his retort. Normally only nobility would refer to him in that fashion, and this man was not in that particular category. Or was he? It was a possibility. “Yes, that’s right. My name is Melvekior. My family name you have correct.”
“Very well, Melvekior it is. How would it benefit us to allow you access to our family?” He raised an eyebrow.
Family? That was an interesting way of putting it, thought Melvekior. “I am a highly trained fighter, a noble character and a faithful follower of Mithras.” He’d imagined his answer to that question and he’d answered in the fashion he decided would be the best. “I believe you have an obligation to accept me, no matter my qualities.” He raised his own eyebrow and thought better of it when he again reminded himself of the folly of constant belligerence.
“Aye, but we don’t accept the easily dissuaded, no matter the wealth or position in the King’s arse-kissing brigade. Your father has been a friend to the Order, but he hasn’t been here since that nonsense with the Felldreng. It pleases me that he hasn’t forgotten us and sent you here.” Hjabandr said.
“I came of my own accord. My father would approve, it is true.”
“I see.” He said and pulled a sheet of parchment from beneath some other sheets and smoothed it down on the table’s surface. He picked up his pen and began to write. “One moment,” he muttered. He looked up briefly, towards the ceiling and continued to write. Melvekior tried to read his writing upside down but it seemed to be some sort of code he was scribbling down. “There is a test you must pass before you can enter. You told me that you can benefit the Order because you are a superior fighter, of noble character and a devout follower of our Lord, the Golden One. I know that you are no such thing. If anything, you are a pagan, having consorted and trained with a follower of the Mountain God, and also with one of the Gnostic Aelvarim. Also you have not seen the inside of a church or other holy building since you were a child. You are therefore, not devout nor are you noble. Honesty and integrity are cornerstones of a noble character,” he was speaking not with distaste or judgmentally, but factually, “therefore, you will need to prove your martial prowess or be denied a place here.”
Melvekior was at a loss. “How did you know?”
“It was merely a supposition. Until you confirmed it as truth. Will you submit to trial by combat?” he asked almost casually.
“I will,” Melvekior replied, not unhappy but worried that nothing was as he expected.
Hjabandr took him to the mess hall which was nothing but a large room with rows of tables and benches. There were maybe ten men here, dotted around in pairs or singly. They were all monks if their farmer’s church-day best outfits were truly an indication. His host indicated for him to sit and walked to a wall-hatch, said something to someone through the hatch, reached in and pulled out a bowl which he brought over and placed in front of Melvekior. It was stew of some kind, he didn’t ask what, but took the proffered spoon and began to eat, ignoring the almost scalding heat of it. It was surprisingly bland, not up to Magret’s standards. He ate it gladly though, he hadn’t bothered cooking on the road and the apples and dried meat he had brought were even more tasteless than the contents of the bowl in front of him.
Hjabandr, who had until then been sitting beside him, stood. “Ushatr,” he said in greeting and Melvekior was almost pleased to see the apple picking farmer who had given him directions sit on the bench opposite.
Melvekior also stood and was about to offer some appropriate greetings when Ushatr just waved him to sit. “We don’t stand on ceremony. We’ve met, you know who I am, let’s get to business.”
Up close, Melvekior was able to really appreciate why this man was known as the silver bear. He was enormous, not merely in stature but in build. He was literally the size of a bear, a big one. Easily seven feet tall, his arms were as thick as Melvekior’s legs, he had the neck of a bull and his hands were scarily large, crossed on the table in front of him like a threat. Confident in his own physical abilities, Melvekior hoped fervently that he wouldn’t have to face this man, though he was at least three decades his junior, in the test of combat.
He pushed his bowl away, suspecting he would have to clean it himself. “I would like that,” he said attempting to maintain confidence while looking the man he had come to see directly in the eye.
“Ye’re an unpleasant sort; spoiled, rich, entitled. You also lie to get your own way, ah,” he held up his hand to forestall Melvekior’s stuttered excuses, “and I reckon you’d attempt to bully your way through this process, using yer noble title and education to make others feel inferior and confused. You intimidate others with yer size and strength. A bully.” He leaned across the table, “What say ye, supplicant?”
It was true, all of it. Never before had someone been so direct with him. Aeldryn, his father, Ottkatla, Magret, none feared him, but all loved him and more than likely overlooked his faults. His lack of self-awareness hit him like a lead weight. Was he indeed a spoiled nobleman’s son? He almost laughed when the absurdity of it hit him. Almost. He wanted to repair the damage he had done.
“Everything you say is true. I’m a little shocked to admit that.” He sat back on the bench and took a deep breath. “All the more reason I need to be here.”
Ushatr nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes; the smallest of smiles on his weathered face.
“Brothers,” he bellowed suddenly, startling Melvekior and Hjabandr in equal measure, “we have a young’un here from the ranks of the nobility. He will face one of you lot in combat as his trial of entrance. Who will it be?”
There was silence as the monks in the mess hall looked over appraisingly at Melvekior. He met their gazes the best he could. He would have to fight one of them and he didn’t want to appear weak or an easy victim. In fact, he relished the thought of proving himself.
One of them stood, “I’ll be glad to,” he grinned nastily, his numerous missing teeth making him look all the more sinister. He wasn’t particularly big but he had a rangy look to him, his hair short and dark, flecked with gray and his face pockmarked. He looked like he’d had a hard life, probably eager to teach the young nobleman a lesson.
“Very well, Nuvian,” a common enough Uthite name, “when midday comes in the yard.”
“Aye,” he said and sat down again, continuing his conversation with another monk like nothing had happened.
“He’s got something to prove, Martelle. Thinks that all nobility should be rounded up and hanged. Sure yer up for this?”
“Yes. I won’t let such a man scare me. That attitude doesn’t seem to fit with what you’ve both been saying however. Is he a new brother?” There was doubt in Melvekior’s heart but he knew to ignore it.
“No and don’t think that we expect our brothers to be perfect. Your faults are your own, as long as peace is maintained within these confines. None of us want to be lied to though, nor can we be bullied. You will learn if you are successful today.”
“Is it to first blood? Surely it’s just a test, it’s not lethal.” He
suddenly realized he could be in real danger. Sure of himself though he was, he didn’t know anything about this Nuvian. He could be some sort of maniac. For his age he was a prodigy, but these were all seasoned fighters to look at them. Could he have signed his own death warrant?
“Yes, to the death, boy, how else could we maintain our numbers the same?”
Melvekior felt a brief moment of panic until he realized that Hjabandr was laughing.
“Of course not to the death. I’ll be the judge and I’ll make the final decision myself. It is a test though, not a light morning spar with my beautiful ‘dreng mistress. You’ll need to learn a lesson.” With that ominous and unsmiling announcement he stood and without a further word, walked from the mess hall.
CHAPTER TEN
Trial by Combat
“The Second Trial of Entrance to the Brotherhood of the Hammer was the most harrowing thing I had experienced since almost having my throat bitten out by a living corpse.” - Melvekior
Midday was rapidly approaching while he sat and spoke with Hjabandr. It felt like an agreement to buy some horses rather than joining a religious martial order.
“Full name?”
“Melvekior Martelle.”
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
“Next of kin?”
“My father, Earl Mikael.”
“Residence?”
“Saens Martelle, my family seat. It’s a couple of days to the northeast.”
“Just the answers, please, no need to elaborate.” Hjabandr didn’t even look up. “Purpose here?”
“As you know, I want to join the Order for the initation into Heiligr.”
“Well, I didn’t know that. Stick to the facts please.” He looked up. “I’m not going to question you about what you know, I’m going to explain the reality. The Heiligr, or the Holy Warriors of Mithras, are those men you see around you. They are, on the whole, not of noble blood, nor are many of them particularly polite. Many of them, in fact, respond only to violence and it is the threat of violence that keeps them in check. That is not to say that all here are well behaved, but the rules are few. Disputes are often settled by partaking in honorable combat. Dishonesty, sneakiness and underhanded behavior is frowned upon. Ushatr does not believe in hierarchy, but has a heavy hand and should you be expelled you would not be allowed to return. Your minimum stay will be six months. Should you express a desire to leave before then, you will be imprisoned alone in a small cell for the remainder of the six month period.”
“Hells, that’s not what I expected, but reasonable. I acknowledge that and agree to abide by the monastery’s dictates.”
“Very well. You’re now an initiate in the order. Contrary to what most expect, there is no uniform, nor will you receive any arms, save your maul. I’d advise you to dress like the rest of us, it’s comfortable and functional, you’ll be singled out for wearing those fancy clothes.” Melvekior looked down at his finery. He had never thought about it before but he looked like a fop in comparison to the simply dressed monks. Merely a distraction he could do without.
“Is that all?” He had expected more of a ceremony.
“Yes, bar the combat. It’s about time.”
He led Melvekior back out into the town square where he could get a good look at the extent of his new brethren. Surely the entire population of the monastery and the surrounding lands were here. Maybe all new initiates go through the trial by combat, making it a popular spectacle for easily pleased yokels. He shook his head. This was not a fitting way to view these men. They were Brothers of the Hammer and he a mere acolyte. Benches had appeared from somewhere and arranged in a manner that the further back from the square one sat, the higher up the bench, enabling all to see the event. There was easily a hundred men here, most were talking amongst themselves, but stopped when Melvekior stepped out of Hjabandr’s offices.
He felt conspicuous. Even more so when he considered his mode of dress against the others. He wasn’t particularly flamboyant at any time and wore travel clothing consisting of loose black leggings, high leather boots, a brown tunic and a warm overcoat. In comparison to the assembled throng he was an effeminate popinjay. Never before had he cared how he dressed, but he needed to fit in.
Someone in this Church would know about the Dead.
Melvekior, emulating Nuvian, stripped down to his leggings and kicked his boots off. He had the size advantage over his opponent if not the height advantage to which neither could reasonably lay claim. Nuvian and Ushatr stood in the middle of the square, both looking casual as if this were an everyday occurrence. He was struggling to keep his cool and he could feel sweat starting to drip from his hair at the nape of his neck. It was a warm day, but still he cursed the need to perspire. It made him look weak, a look he could ill afford, more so now the congregation plainly felt him a fop and a dandy.
He couldn’t see any weapons, which was a slight relief. At least there would be no accidental maimings and broken bones in fist fights were usually limited to noses and fingers.
“Boys, I don’t want to see anything underhanded. This isn’t the battlefield. No poking eyes or twisting pods. And remember, you may well need to count on each other in the future, so show mercy if not restraint.” He didn’t address either of them in particular. Melvekior was warmed by this. The conclusion wasn’t foregone after all.
The ground was hard and dusty beneath his feet and he could feel the thrill of adrenaline start to course through his body.
He stood still and waited for the signal to start, but there wasn’t one.
Nuvian sneered at him and stepped back. Melvekior noticed the scars on his neck, thin lines over his shoulders and around his throat. The then took notice of his wrists, smooth scar tissue indicating years of servitude. This man had been a slave. No wonder he despised those he perceived to be the cause of his previous torment. The rich. The uncaring benefactors of the sweat of another man’s brow.
There was no slavery of any but the Mountain Folk in Uth however, and hadn’t been for decades. This man was from elsewhere and he could just about hear it in his accent when he spoke.
“You don’t have the heart,” he growled and fell into a fighter’s crouch.
Melvekior merely stood, affecting a disinterested pose. His knees were almost imperceptibly bent and his body loose, his awareness heightened by the ancient survival hormone raging through his body. Years of training by an otherworldly being inhabiting the body of a beautiful young woman had taught him how to control his body to a degree none of these men would have believed possible. While he couldn’t stop himself sweating, he could bring himself to absolute awareness in an instant and react just as quickly to danger.
Nuvian swung his arm out stiffly, testing Melvekior’s defenses. The young man easily evaded the half-hearted blow, swaying back without losing what little form he displayed. The older man then feinted with his other arm and a fraction of a second later brought his leg round in an attempt to sweep Melvekior from his feet, at which stage the bout would undoubtedly be over.
Melvekior struck. His fingers stiff, he jabbed them into the left wrist of Nuvian’s outstretched arm and lifting his leg, he kicked out, blocking the sweep and unbalancing Nuvian into the bargain. His opponent yelped as he spun around, barely keeping his balance. There was a general eruption of surprise from the audience and then many confused shouts when Melvekior did not press his advantage. Not from any sense of fairness but because he didn’t know how far he was expected to go. The audience reaction however gave him all he needed to know.
Nuvian again fell into his fighting stance and he looked angry. He looked angry enough to gouge some eyes or twist some testicles and even the worst fighter in the world can get a lucky dig in, so Melvekior felt that he should finish this combat as soon as he could.
He was surprised when Nuvian ran at him, violently shouting and clenching his fists. That was never a safe move in hand to hand combat, but if he took the fight to the deck, he could use his
teeth and Melvekior liked his nose where it was.
Melvekior simply swiveled out of the way, not wanting to get within grappling range. He was bigger and stronger than Nuvian, but he wouldn’t bite or go for the soft areas. He didn’t have the cynicism yet. That said he wasn’t about to give the older man the upper hand by getting within range of those sorts of attacks. Nuvian stopped, swore again and advanced slowly, arms outstretched, going for the wrestling game.
The advantage he did have was being taught most of his fighting by a woman. As powerful as Ottkatla was, and prodigiously so for a woman she was, she couldn’t match a strong man. Therefore her hand to hand strategy included a lot of fast strikes whilst keeping out of grabbing range. Melvekior never once managed to pin her or even hold her for long. Every time they had practiced this style of fighting he would come out with arms like rotten bananas. Black bruises up and down their length.
Ducking below a swipe he aimed a hard punch at Nuvian’s tricep and connected heavily. Hopping backwards, he evaded a blow from his opponent’s other hand and struck down with another equally powerful knuckle first punch on Nuvian’s forearm. That arm would hurt now and it caused the older fighter to lose a smidgen of confidence and start dealing more calculated attacks. Melvekior though was simply too fast and well trained to be taken in by him. He aimed a jab to the young nobleman’s face as a feint and tried an almighty roundhouse as a knockout blow. Neither connected.
The instant he led with his weaker arm to distract Melvekior, he knew he’d made a fatal error. The boy had been expecting such a move and had already started spinning, dodging the first attempted blow, coming full circle to land a thunderous punch on Nuvian’s eye socket, bashing him to the ground.
It was a move Ottkatla had performed until she noticed Melvekior becoming more proficient and then gave it up for less risky moves, but in this case, against a largely untrained back-alley fighter type like Nuvian, it was more than effective. Is this the level of competency the Brotherhood possesses?
