by Garry Ocean
“The Westgeyers,” Whisperer responded quietly.
“But no, old man, you are confusing something. The Westgeyers don’t make good warriors. And no one heard about them for a long time.”
“Yes, deary,” Whisperer agreed, “I must have become slightly deaf at my old age, so I am indeed confused.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the fat man laughed, with his tummy shaking in a funny way, and shouted immediately, “Who throws a javelin like that!? Lots of people from all lands, but the real warriors can be counted with fingers! Finish him already!”
Whisperer tried to calm down his wildly beating heart. His back from waste up went numb from the tension. The stone bench he was sitting on did not have any back support, so he leaned on a man on his right. The latter, nervously eating fried peanuts, did not even notice. Just like everybody else, he was transfixed by what was going on in the Arena.
Little by little, Whisperer’s breath evened out, his heart stopped pounding. “So far, so good,” he tried to persuade himself. “Nick has not been wounded, all the contest challenges are behind him, only the final one is left.” Whisperer did not remember when he was here last time to watch the Ritual. It seemed like it had been in his previous life. However he did remember that only about a dozen participants got to the final stage. And many of them quit then. Some because they had already received the approval of their bride, some because of the inflicted wounds, and some because they did not want to risk their life.
However, today at least three dozens of warriors got to the last stage. Given that the previous contest was still finishing, one could expect more. Whisperer did not know if the Ritual organizers had expected an outcome like that. But he had no doubt that it would end in a bloodbath.
According to the rules established more than three centuries ago, in the final stage participants were divided into two equally numbered teams by draw from the lot. It was acceptable for the situation when, for example, four warriors were fighting against five. But what could be expected when thirty people fight each other to death, each for his life?
“He should drop out from the further Ritual,” Whisperer thought quickly. “It’s equal to suicide. But then what happens to the hunters? Even Frice could not help. Why does this have to happen now?”
The long horn’s sound signaling the end of the Appeasement contest made Whisperer shiver. “Pull yourself together, Rich!” he ordered himself. “Your task is to be with Nich, to ensure his safety. That’s what you should do!” This helped, as it seemed. Whisperer started to slowly count the warriors who got to the final stage, checking them out for their state of mind. This was not easy to do. Many of them moved from one place to another, forming small groups that fell apart in a short time. Some others were surrounded by armor-bearers who fixed their gear or tended to their wounds.
Only on the third attempt Whisperer finally managed to count everyone more or less exactly. His estimate was about forty people who got to the final stage. More than a half were eager to fight despite wounds of various severity. Their auras were exuding the magenta color. The rest were determined to go through the final challenge. Whisperer looked for Nick with his eyes. There he was! He was sitting on the edge of the Arena, away from everyone and not moving. From afar, he looked like a statue. It was impossible to tell if he was moving at all. Almost automatically, Whisperer looked at him with his inner eye and nearly screamed in surprise. No, he didn’t see Nick’s aura that was so natural for any other person. Just like before, he couldn’t see it. However, around Nick there was some unusual airiness, like when the air moves above a heated rock. Whisperer even blinked several times to make sure, even though he understood that his inner vision didn’t depend on the usual vision.
“Hang in there, Nick,” Whisperer said with his lips only, “And let the Departed Gods help you.”
Above the entire Arena, the whole huge structure, a loud hum of people’s voices was hanging. The spectators were discussing what they just saw. Some were joyful, others, on the contrary, cursed the fallen warriors because they lost their bets. And now the bets were collected for the last deadly fight.
People were anticipating even a bloodier spectacle. Very soon they will know the name of the Winner! And he will stay a hero until the next Exodus, and all doors will be open for him, and even the Guardians will consider it their honor to invite him to their feasts.
The deep and low sound of the trumpets muted the Arena’s cacophony. The spectators turned their eyes to the Arena: the drawing to determine the teams started.
“And I’m telling you, this is just so stupid – to bet all your money on just one!” Whisperer heard the fat man’s voice from behind. “Only the Departed can know for sure who will win.”
“But can you imagine the amount!” his vis-à-vis responded. “Do whatever you want, but I will bet on that huge steppe dweller. This barbarian…” the man gave out a short laugh, “whose name cannot be pronounced even when you are sober, so Kuun, you know, my father-in-law, told me in secret that this steppe dweller is a bodyguard of the... grrr, their chief, the most important one.”
“He very well may be, but take the alvars, for example,” the fat man would not give in, “Do you think they are just like our bread makers who had never held any arms beyond pots and pans in their hands?”
“Well, I don’t know, my father-in-law, when he is drunk, tells such stories about these steppe dwellers that your blood will curdle. And he is not just a simple man, he works in the Guard’s Headquarters and because of that knows a lot.”
“Do whatever you want,” the fat man gave up. “As for me, I am going to wait for the draw. And then I will see which team to bet on. This will be better.”
To Whisperer’s surprise, only six warriors decided to leave the Arena. This was understandable: They were losing a lot of blood from their open wounds and already could not walk by themselves. Something was wrong. Whisperer was feeling out the remaining warriors one by one again and again. He had no doubt now that at least a dozen of them did not want to fight. A bad feeling that had not left Whisperer even before, now was much stronger.
Carefully, as if he were a light breeze, Whisperer felt out the minds of the guards who were drawing the names now. They didn’t show anything unusual: No traces of an outside willpower on them. But something was still wrong! The feeling of danger he developed in all those years he had spent in the Forest never failed Whisperer. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been sitting here. But this was no Forest, and even though it may seem strange, he felt much safer in the Forest.
Meanwhile, the name drawing was nearing its end. Nick ended up in the same squad with four alvars. It also included several missionaries and warriors from the Middle Lands. This time, the fate played a mean joke on the Great City. Not counting Nick, recorded as a freeborn city resident, their squad included only two more city folks.
Whisperer looked at the adversary team. “Wow,” he whistled, “this looks like a trick by the Departed.” As if by design, the squad included seven steppe dwellers. Only two of them were lightly wounded. The remaining ones were exuding animal-like strength mixed with hate.
“This is not just a coincidence,” Whisperer thought, “definitely not a coincidence…”
Something was being planned, but what? Whisperer could not understand this, and only when the horns signaling the end of the draw blew, he had a revelation. The old man jumped as if bitten by a poisonous moss and charged through the dense yelling crowd. He knew that he wouldn’t make it, but he couldn’t stay in place. The fat man, who had just been animatedly arguing for the advantages of the alvar style of contact fight over that one of the steppe barbarians, followed Whisperer, first with his eyes, and then strolling on foot.
Meanwhile the two teams went to the opposite sides of the Arena. The warriors were busy preparing for the upcoming fight. A guard came up to Nick and gave him a curved sword and a small rectangular shield. Nick looked at the sword with disgust, hesitated a little but decided to take it. He
waved the sword several times and smirked. When he dragged his thumb on the sword’s edge, Nick simply said, “Hmm.” It looked like the sword had never been sharpened. The balance was off, too. The shield, if it could be called so, will not hold even one medium-strength strike. Still, Nick gave up on his own plan to fight with no arms. “It is important not to get dog piled,” he decided, “and then I’ll just go with the flow.”
The horns blew again and the two squads, lined in a chain, started to charge at each other. Nick tried to walk in sync with everyone else, neither falling back nor getting ahead. At almost thirty steps from each other, the warriors stopped. The Chief Guard came out to stand between them. With a metal funnel at his lips, he shouted in a loud voice, “By the Guardians’ will, I am asking you, those ready to die: is there anyone who will reject the last fight?”
The spectators calmed down. In the absolute silence, one could hear only slight clanking of the armor on the adversaries facing each other. To reject the fight at this point meant to be disgraced forever. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw his chain moving. A warrior took two steps toward the Chief Guard and with the loud clank that seemed to have echoed all the spectators’ rows took the sword out of its scabbard and threw it on the sand. Nick, unfamiliar with the Ritual traditions, was looking intensely at the faces of the adversaries standing in front of him. Some of them looked ahead indifferently, the others’ eyes were oozing disdain and gloat. Someone even spat on the sand.
The Arena rolled with a voice roar that died out almost immediately. One by one, nine more warriors stepped forward and threw their swords to the Chief Guard just like the first one.
The spectators’ rows started to move. Those who had still been sitting jumped to their feet. The noise became loud. It was impossible to understand what the people were saying. Nick turned his head around in confusion. The Guard shouted something into his funnel but the crowd’s roar quickly absorbed his sounds. The warriors who quit the fight hurried toward the East Gate. The spectators threw everything possible at them, including peels and unfinished fruit. Some angry disabled person even threw his clutches down at them. The warriors covered their heads with their shields and quickly retreated behind the life-saving gate.
Meanwhile, the crowd’s roar changed into some more or less understandable yells. The spectators were divided into two camps. Those who put their bets on Nick’s team were shouting something angry at those who betted on his adversaries. The latter were joyfully shouting back and showed various indecent gestures. Here and there, short clashes took place. The guards were running in the rows trying to prevent the unrest from growing into a larger fight.
At the background of this confusion, three more warriors from Nick’s team threw down their arms and headed for the exit. Just a little to the side, four alvars stood together, shoulder-to-shoulder. Nick couldn’t see their faces hidden behind the face guards of their helmets, but their stance was telling. These warriors would never give up. Nick came up and stood next to them. He was feeling something he’d never felt before. The roar of a many-thousand crowd, the Arena’s sand soaked with blood. Somewhere very deep in his subconscious, the ancient instincts Nick had no idea he possessed started to stir. His heart was pumping blood with a force, washing over, as it seemed, all cells in his body. Nick’s lungs were loudly pumping air. His brain, having received a killer dose of adrenaline, was clear but at the same time euphoric.
“Are you staying?” he finally heard a voice talking to him.
“Yes,” Nick recognized the man. It was the same warrior who lent him his bow at the beginning of the contest. Now, fully equipped, he could hardly be distinguished from the warriors in the Central Pew.
“And what’s going on now?” Nick decided to clarify the situation.
“This is a great way to die with dignity,” the warrior said casually. His eyes told Nick that this was not bragging but a simple statement of fact. The warrior, however, allowed himself to show some emotion, smirked with disdain and added, “Although, you can still leave.”
“I’m here to win,” Nick felt that this man appreciates honesty and straightforwardness. The warrior’s eyes glistened with interest and, as Nick thought, some respect. He looked at Nick as if evaluating him and said, “Then you will need something different.” He then threw his arm above his head three times in a row.
Nick understood what it meant only when he saw the familiar armor-bearer rushing to them. The boy was hauling bronze armor, bent under its weight. Another one with a large round shield on his back was following the first armor-bearer.
“Déjà vu,” Nick whispered in French.
Putting on the alvar armor, Nick noticed again how similar they were to the Hellenic ones. Even the fastening straps were in the same place. The masters from two completely different worlds followed the same logic while making the armor.
He was also surprised that given the new circumstances the guards did not conduct a new name draw. Five against seventeen was a clearly unequal contest. However, he could not call this whole Ritual a contest any more.
Nick now understood why Whisperer was so much against his participation in the Ritual. Nick, a fool, thought that it would be something like the Earth’s Olympics, but it turned out to be a simple massacre. And now he, Nick, cannot get out of it. He remembered the hunters’ faces – Ron with his purposefully sullen look, big funny Valu, and Sith, still a boy who wants to be seen as a grownup. “I will get you out of there, my friends, even if I have to kill someone for it. And conscious? Well, I will have to somehow live with it. Father, I hope, will understand me. As for mom and grandma, I hope they will never find out,” Nick even looked up in the sky, checking if perhaps a probe from the Earth was hanging there.
The sky was absolutely clear, not counting scattered white little clouds looking like little lambs. The local star was shining with tender. It was just an idyllic picture, if you don’t take into account the fact that somewhere up in the farther orbit there was an unknown object that had destroyed the Valkyrie in seconds and nearly killed Nick. And now he was facing seventeen armed warriors whose looks suggested that they were not going to leave him alive today.
Nick felt a stare and turned around. The familiar warrior wanted to tell him something but thought that he was praying before the fight and did not dare interrupt him.
“What’s your name, warrior?” he finally asked.
“Nick,” he responded, but then noticed how the warrior’s brows started to rise in confusion, quickly added, “Nick of the Westgeyer clan.”
“I am Brand of the Terr clan,” he said with great dignity. “This is my brother’s armor. Don’t disgrace him.”
Instead of response, Nick bowed his head with respect. He realized that words were not needed here and that Brand’s brother was already dead. And that he had died in battle. These warriors had no other reason to part with their armor.
“I wish I had a spear,” Nick thought. “I only have a shield and a short sword.”
However, neither one of his adversaries had a spear. They will have to fight at close range. Thinking about this, Nick was carefully watching his adversaries. He immediately singled out a group of seven warriors. They all had similar armor, and they were sticking together during the entire contest. Nick remembered someone calling them steppe dwellers, “Aren’t they the ones Sith was chatting about on the way to the City?
In that group, a huge warrior with a shaved head stood out. He was showing off his powerful muscles, playing with a large and heavy bludgeon in his right hand. Its thick round fighting end had metal spikes. A small round shield protected his left arm. His other tribesmen were armed with curved swords of medium length. Each one of them had a heavy battle knife sticking out of their belts, and on their backs they had two javelins, criss-crossed in special scabbards. “I need to be paying attention to those,” Nick noted as he heard the signal to start the fight.
“Stick together!” Brand commanded, and they locked shields.
The first javelins hit the shields immediately, causing no damage. Through the arched openings in his helmet Nick saw how quickly the adversaries were approaching them. They were not in line, though. They were running as if speed mattered, as if they betted on who would do in the other squad faster. The alvars were standing without a move, and only when the distance to the attackers was no more than ten steps, they charged forward. This was so unexpected that Nick nearly fell behind. But this was also a complete surprise for the enemies. Many of them slowed down and lost pace, some stopped in their tracks, tripping those who were behind them.
The alvars cut through the enemy row like a knife through soft butter. The wounded yelled and cursed. The alvars immediately turned around and attacked the enemy from the rear, not allowing them to pull themselves together.
The Arena was filled with the thunder of the shields banging each other and clanking of the swords. The spectators were watching with bated breath every fierce charge and strike the enemies were exchanging. The fight did break Nick apart from the alvars. He was fighting three men alone. They charged at him in turns, hailing him with heavy blows. Protecting himself with a wide shield, Nick had to take little steps back, trying to keep an eye on the fighting alvars. They were holding back the attack of a dozen of warriors, including the huge steppe dweller. His bludgeon was cutting through the air like a lightening strike, with a muffled sound of its blows echoing the entire Arena. The alvars were fighting back fiercely, standing in a circle back to back, and so far they held back the storm of the attack quite well. Three of the enemies crawled out between the legs of the fighters, wounded. The Arena’s sand was taking in new blood.
Never in his life could Nick have imagined that the skills he had developed as a 12-year-old playing “The Battle of Thermopylae” would serve him now. His mother, a staunch opponent of any violence, always said it was just a waste of time. His father only shrugged his shoulders trying to stay neutral.
