by Jeff Altabef
She whispered, “Just concentrate on what we worked on last night, and you’ll be fine. He’s a bully. Once you cut him, he’ll crumble.”
The importance of first blood could not be overstated. It meant everything. It would sow doubt in Fintan’s mind and add confidence to Eamon’s.
We need first blood.
Dermot moved toward them, his gait stiff with worry. When Eamon threw his sword into the Circle, Dermot had seethed and stomped from the Courtyard without uttering a word. He might have said nothing, but every step screamed his displeasure as if he shouted from the top of the stone palisade.
His eyes now looked soft in the firelight as he faced Eamon. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? I can still talk to Fin. If you withdraw, he might accept it.”
“I don’t have a choice. Fintan will destroy the tribe if he becomes King, and I will not be thought of as a coward.”
Dermot sighed. “No, you are brave, and now both my brothers will fight to the death. What can I do to help?”
“Make sure no harm comes to Aaliss and Wilky.”
Dermot nodded. “Done. They will be safe while I’m alive.”
“And don’t forget about Jillian. Aaliss knows where to find her, so you can bring her back.”
“I will. She’s like a sister to me. Now, are you sure you don’t want to wear the metal shirt? And are you positive you want to use this... short sword instead of your normal blade?”
Eamon nodded. “I’m much quicker without the shirt, and Aaliss’s sword sings through the air.”
“It’s time. I have to start the contest.” Dermot leaned close to Eamon’s ear and whispered just loud enough so Aaliss could hear him. “How many times have you seen Fintan spar with someone?’
“Too many times to count.”
“How does he start every session?” Dermot didn’t wait for the reply. He merely slapped Eamon hard on the back, turned, and left.
“What does he mean?” asked Aaliss.
“To start every sparring session, Fintan bangs his sword hard against his opponent’s shield with an overhead chop.” Eamon grinned. “It’s a habit. I’m sure he’ll do the same against me now.”
“A habit,” she said mostly to herself. Habits were dangerous things. Her sword master beat all her habits out of her with a cane.
She smiled. “That’s great. When he pulls back to make the strike, raise your shield to meet the blow, spin, and slash at his right leg. You’ll have to guess at the timing, but that should give us first blood.” Hope started to crowd out the fear she felt a moment ago, but something looked off in Eamon’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Eamon shrugged and looked away. “It’s all becoming so real. I’ve known Fintan my whole life, and now....”
Aaliss grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “Look at him!” She spun him so he faced Fintan. “I mean... really look at him. I’m not sure who he was as a boy, but that man standing there will kill you the first chance he gets. He won’t be thinking about your fifth birthday! He killed Maeve’s sister and plotted to poison Dermot. Either you’re all in, or withdraw right now!”
Eamon’s face hardened. “I’m in.”
“Good, now don’t forget about Fintan’s temper. Use that against him. If he gets angry, he’ll get sloppy. Take advantage of it.”
Eamon nodded, and she pounded hard on his shield for good luck.
Dermot whistled and waved for his brothers to join him.
Eamon smiled at her. “Dermot will be good to his word. He’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She brushed a few strands of unruly hair from his eyes.
She wanted to say something profound or encouraging, but a large lump formed in her throat that no words could circumvent. So instead, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, her lips just brushing his skin, and she turned away before he could see her moist eyes.
He went to join Dermot, and she scanned the crowded Courtyard. Small children sat on adult shoulders, and a few torches burned on the outskirts of the field. One tall man with wide shoulders and big arms, who looked like a smith, waved the Butcher’s flag.
She imagined the crowd wanted Eamon to win, but she really couldn’t tell whom they favored. Clearly, those around Cormac were ardent supporters of Fintan, but everything else was an uncertainty. She didn’t even know whom Gemma rooted for—both were her brothers.
What am I doing here?
The thought kept popping into her mind with alarming frequency. Each time she pounded it downward with a mental chop.
Her eyes followed Eamon. She would rather face terrawks or a Devil’s Storm or tribeless rogues or Axemen or even the Viper, than have to watch him fight Fintan. This was worse than the fire that took her parents. Now her own life felt like it was on the line, and she was helpless.
She looked to the moon and said a prayer to the Creator, one she hadn’t spoken in quite some time. She hoped He was listening—at least this once.
***
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Chapter 53 – Eamon
Eamon joined Fintan and Dermot in the center of the Ring. He remembered watching Dermot in the Ring of Fire when it was his turn to become king. No one opposed him. Before that, his uncle and two cousins battled to the death. He didn’t remember that much about the actual fight but he did recall cheering when the fight ended and his uncle won. Now he couldn’t say why he’d cheered then. Maybe he was happy it was over, or maybe he just followed the crowd. He was too young to recall his father’s contest.
Dermot told him stories that made his father seem like the best warrior that had ever fought, although Eamon was pretty sure Dermot made those stories up. He noticed how they changed over time, but Eamon never pointed out the inconsistencies. Now, he wondered what tales would be told about his battle. Certainly no one would remember him as fondly as they did his father—if anyone remembered him at all.
Fintan shattered his thoughts with his mocking tone. “Where’s your ringed battle shirt? I’ll let you borrow one of mine if you’ve let yours go to rust from lack of use, or maybe you lost it among all the books that keep you company.” Fintan laughed, but his eyes looked cold and calculating in the firelight as he twirled his sword gracefully in his hand. “You might as well fight me naked.”
Aaliss is right. He’ll kill me first chance he gets.
“Eamon is free to wear the chain mail or not. It’s his choice.” Dermot stood between the two brothers, separating them. He lowered his voice so only they could hear. “Is there some other way for us to settle this dispute? We don’t have to rely on combat. We could forge a new path, one where no one dies.”
Fintan arched his back and erupted in a full belly laugh, his body shaking with mock amusement. “Maybe we can have a reading contest or something with numbers? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Dermot? No, we must rely upon the old ways and settle matters amongst the flames at midnight. The law stands. Only one of us will leave the Ring alive, and I have plans later this evening.” Fintan paused for a heartbeat and continued with a snarl. “If he gets on bended knee right now and proclaims fealty to me as king, I will let him live.”
Eamon remembered the doubt that flickered in Fintan’s eyes when he talked about the axeman he had killed.
“Let it be said that you gave Fintan a chance to withdraw,” he said with a wide grin. “It’s one thing to twirl a sword in practice, Brother, but another when your life depends upon it.”
Eamon had added as much feigned confidence as he could muster into his voice, and he saw Fintan’s demeanor change from unbridled self-assurance to something less. Exactly what, he could not tell in the uncertain light.
He has doubt. I’ve got to use that.
“What about that toy sword?” Fintan pointed at Aaliss’s sword in Eamon’s hand. “He should fight with a real weapon. That’s our custom. I don’t want that toy to mar my victory.”
“What’s the problem, Fin? Are you afra
id of this short sword?” Eamon slashed it in the air. “I thought I’d give you an advantage with your longsword. You’re going to need it.” He glowered at Fintan, inched closer to him, and rose up to his full height, which lifted him just slightly higher than his brother.
“I’ve had enough!” Dermot’s face flushed angrily as he lifted the Sword of Power, blade pointed to the heavens. “I had hoped there would be some brotherly love here at the last, but I guess that’s asking too much.” He faced Fintan. “The law requires each combatant to use a sword and shield. Eamon is free to choose whatever sword he wants. When I plunge the Sword of Power into the ground you shall begin the combat. The winner can claim the Sword of Power and will be our next king.”
Dermot stalked away from his two brothers and spoke to the crowd. He turned in a slow circle so everyone could see him. The torchlight enveloped him and made his face shine with an otherworldly glow. “The Circle of Destiny is closed and the Ring of Fire is open! Our next king will be determined through battle and blood, as it is written. I call upon our ancestors to guide the contest and choose the best king for the tribe, as they have throughout time. May the herd forever be strong!”
The tribe repeated the prayer in a thunderous explosion: “May the herd forever be strong!”
Dermot plunged the Sword of Power deep into the earth.
Eamon bent at the knees, shield high in his left hand, sword in his right. His heart pounded as he tightened his grip on the leather hilt and tried to recall Fintan’s sparring sessions.
What exactly does he do? A mental picture formed. He hesitates, smiles, and darts forward to batter his opponent’s shield with his sword in a chop.
Fintan snarled, “I never liked you, pretty boy. I’m not going to make it quick.”
Eamon focused on the details, his senses working overtime.
Fintan’s knuckles turned white on the hilt of his sword. Then he smiled.
That’s the smile.
Eamon lifted his shield high to meet the chop as Fintan started the blow, and spun in a tight circle when Fintan’s sword clanged off his shield, raking a short sidestroke across Fintan’s exposed right calf. The blade ripped through Fintan’s leather pants, leaving a ragged gash behind. Fintan turned and backslashed at Eamon’s head, but Eamon darted backward, just out of reach.
Fintan groaned and glared at his leg and the blood that seeped onto his boot. “What type of trick was that? You’ve cut me!”
Eamon knew the wound was superficial, but for the first time he actually believed he could win, and that belief fueled him. He felt lighter, stronger, quicker than before. “That’s the point. You’d know that if you had ever been in a real fight.”
Fintan sneered and leapt at him, sending a flurry of strokes at him. They came fast, seemingly from all angles: backstrokes, overhead chops, sideswipes, and thrusts. Some were aimed at his legs and others at his head.
Eamon labored to deflect them, but Fintan’s attack was sloppy, driven by anger rather than technique, and Aaliss’s sword seemed to jump through the air.
Frustrated, Fintan started breathing heavily and slowed.
“Is that really the best you can do?” Eamon said. “I bet Cormac is a lot better. At least, that’s what everyone says.”
Fintan’s eyes narrowed and he lunged forward, delivering another barrage of heavy strokes with renewed energy and muster. They rained down on Eamon’s shield.
Each one shook his arm and wrenched his shoulder—one after another.
Thud! Thud!
Fintan’s rage grew stronger, the blows heavier and less balanced.
Thud!
Bits of Eamon’s shield chipped away from the onslaught, but he held it firm.
Thud!
“You swing the sword like a cattle butcher!” teased Eamon. “Perhaps you missed your true calling!”
Fintan reared back to put all of his strength and weight behind a vicious chop in an attempt to cleave Eamon’s shield in two, but Eamon anticipated the blow and stepped back as Fintan brought the sword down.
Fintan saw Eamon move too late. He couldn’t control his momentum and staggered past Eamon awkwardly.
Eamon seized upon the opportunity and kissed Fintan’s back with his blade. The super sharp steel tore through the metal rings and into Fintan’s flesh.
Fintan spun and slashed at Eamon, but once again, Eamon jumped backward, outside of his reach.
Fintan winced in pain, fear and doubt clouding his eyes.
Eamon’s heart tightened. He felt none of the exhilaration he had experienced when he had killed the axeman or the tribeless outlaw. Everything seemed clear and straightforward then: he had to kill. Now, his world turned cloudy, as he could not bring himself to hate his brother. Rather, he felt sorry for him.
“This isn’t happening. I’m supposed to kill you!” Fintan shouted, and charged forward in a full rage, crashing his shield hard against Eamon’s.
The clash staggered Eamon backward, and Fintan pressed the attack with his shield again. This time Eamon pushed his shield against Fintan’s, thrusting the two into a deadly game of push. Sweat rolled off both of them.
Fintan suddenly stopped shoving against Eamon’s shield, hoping to throw Eamon off balance, and swung his sword at Eamon’s side.
Eamon moved quicker. He deflected the attack with plenty of time to spare.
Fintan growled, sounding inhuman, desperate. He stomped hard on Eamon’s foot, pegging him in place, and when he shoved with his shield, Eamon wobbled off balance. Fintan slashed at Eamon’s sword arm, scratching through Eamon’s stiff leather shirt.
The blow stung, but Eamon spun to his left and drove the spike in his shield into his brother’s exposed right bicep. The sharp point pierced the metal rings and bit into flesh and muscle.
Eamon twisted the shield, and Fintan dropped his sword in pain, his eyes furious. Eamon kicked Fintan off his shield with his boot. “You can yield, Brother.”
Fintan dropped his shield in shock. Much of his blood stained the ground, his face drained of color. He held his damaged arm with his good one and rocked unsteadily on his feet. “I’m hurt bad. I don’t understand. I’m supposed to win. I’ve been practicing my whole life. I’m better than you. It’s my time!” He staggered backward toward the center of the Ring.
“Yield, Brother. Don’t make me kill you. We can work something out.”
Fintan toppled to the ground, looking young and innocent.
Eamon remembered how they used to play when they were children, before swords and books got in the way, when their uncle was king and life was simple.
Eamon had concentrated so intently on the fight, that he only now heard other sounds and saw other sights. The crowd cheered but he couldn’t make out words, just noise and energy. He peered through the flames and turned toward Dermot and Gemma, not sure what to do.
Dermot’s face looked stoic, but tears stained Gemma’s cheeks, a silent “oh” formed by her open mouth. Kelly stood beside her, pigtails flapping in the breeze with her hands covering her eyes.
Eamon lowered his sword, and then he heard Aaliss’s voice knife through the crowd. “Look out, Eamon!”
He spun.
Fintan lunged at him with the Sword of Power in both hands. The longsword cut through the air; flames gleamed off the highly polished steel and fired off the jeweled handle.
Eamon slid to his right and lifted his own sword to block the blade just before the steel carved into his head. He felt the weight of the collision and worried that Aaliss’s sword would shatter, but it held, a few inches from his throat.
Fintan brought the heavy blade back again, but he had no strength and it clattered to the ground behind him. “I yield, I yield,” he blubbered, and fell to his knees. “Don’t kill me. Please!”
The Sword of Power belonged only to the victor. No one was allowed to touch it during the combat. It was the one rule of the contest within the Ring of Fire.
Angry, Eamon pointed his blade’s edge at Fi
ntan’s chest. “Tell the truth about your plan to kill Dermot!”
Fintan’s hands flew to his face, covering his tear-streaked eyes, his face ashen, his body shaking. Blood stained his shirt and he mumbled into his hands. “It was all Cormac’s doing. He wrote the note for the Nursery. He took the girl by Whitewater River. I didn’t know about it until it was too late. Don’t kill me. He is the one to blame.”
“Louder, so everyone can hear!” Eamon pressed the point of his blade against Fintan’s chest. “Did you plan to kill Dermot?”
Fintan threw his head back and shouted, “It was all Cormac’s idea. I can prove it. He killed that nothing girl and wanted Dermot gone so we could be heroes!”
Eamon kicked the Sword of Power away from Fintan, who collapsed, weeping.
The energy ebbed from him. Weariness heavier than anything he had experienced before bore down on him. A breeze rustled the leaves on the Naming Tree, and he lifted his head to see the names burned from its bark. Traitors could not stay on the tree. Now Fintan’s name would be charred off.
A commotion rose from one end of the Circle, where Eric restrained Maeve.
She screamed, “She was not a nothing girl! She was special! She was somebody! She was my sister, you murderer!” Eric held her firm, and her shouting transformed into a hurricane of tears.
Eamon heard a new scream rise from behind him.
What now?
He turned.
Cormac had burst into the Ring with his sword drawn. He looked like a demon running through the flames.
He’s moving so quickly.
He knew he should lift his sword, but he was too exhausted to move.
***
Aaliss bolted forward, her knees pumping to her chest. She moved fast, but knew she could not reach Cormac before he would strike Eamon. Tears blurred her eyes as she pressed forward.
A blood chilling scream ripped from Cormac’s throat.
Eamon stood statue-like, as if stone had replaced his flesh and bone.
One stride left.
Cormac lifted his sword.
Aaliss felt her heart explode, air coming in bursts. “No!”
