by Katy Winter
"How then are you to fight?" Bethel bent his head again, clenching his teeth before he responded.
"That is part of the trial to be a warrior, Jane."
"That's cruel!" exploded Jane. "What about wrestling?"
"I guess you learn very quickly not to let another touch your wrists," came the reply. Bethel lifted his head with an effort. "Please help me strip, then give me wine."
Jane quickly helped Bethel divest himself of warrior accoutrement and then carefully helped remove all clothing, until Bethel stood naked. Jane handed him the loincloth that Bethel, wincing, put on and secured before he put back his knife belt. He made no sound as Jane removed every vestige of jewellery. Next, Jane was back very quickly with a goblet. He waited for the now seated Bethel to raise his head, hands back in the water and, when he did, Jane lifted the goblet to the boy's lips and tilted it, relieved when Bethel took several large mouthfuls and sighed gratefully.
"That will teach me to fall asleep when I should pay attention," Bethel murmured, his hands still moving, Jane noticed. He also saw the gritted teeth every so often. "How long before I must be ready, Jane?"
"Not long now, lad. Not enough time to recover from that."
"That then," mumbled Bethel, "is the idea of branding us so close to competing." He tossed his head to get the mass of curls from his face. "This damned hair," he growled. "It is so long it floats in the water."
Bethel leaned forward so Jane could plait the thick mane into a queue that was long and heavy, before he tied it in a tight knot, then Bethel leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Tactfully, Jane went outside to retrieve the discarded helm and then again inspected the weapons.
He returned inside to see Bethel rested back, hands still in the water, still with closed eyes. When he heard someone enter the pavilion, Jane looked up to see it was an older warrior who stood there staring at Bethel. The warrior crossed to the youth and kicked him unceremoniously on the foot.
"You are due on the field," he said curtly. "On your feet, boy!" Instinctively, Bethel wrenched his hands from the basin that was upended over the ground, and stood erect, head bent and water dripping from his fingers. "Get yourself ready and tell your slave here to bring your weapons."
Bethel shot Jane a warning glance that made the older man grind his teeth, glare at the warrior who wasn't facing him and hold his peace. Instead he began to gather the weapons. Bethel shook his hands and picking up the goblet, tossed off what wine was left. His wrists throbbed unbearably and he needed a little longer to fully set pain controls in place - he knew he'd have to cope. He looked sideways at the warrior whose expression was faintly contemptuous.
"I am ready, my lord." The contempt deepened.
"Check your slave has your weapons, boy," Bethel was advised.
Bethel flushed with chagrin and obeyed, before he found himself roughly shoved towards the entrance. Outside, he and the warrior quickly mounted, the warrior watching while Bethel leaned down to take his javelin from Jane. The pain stabbed in his wrists but Bethel ignored it. It wasn't for nothing he'd endured considerably worse from his master for cycles.
"At the ground, Jane," he said quietly, applying pressure to his horse's flanks.
"Aye, lad, I'll be there. Mishak will be there to take Brun."
The warrior had already spurred his horse forward. Bethel half-turned to give Jane his peculiarly sweet and wistful smile before he followed. Jane turned to Mishak and directed him to help carry the weapons.
"Hold onto those," the boy was instructed, Jane fixing Mishak with a basilisk stare. "Let anyone touch them, boy, and I'll scalp you myself. Go now and be ready for Brun."
~~~
Most of the trials were to be held on the huge open meadow that lay behind the warlord's pavilion, where Lodestok was seated comfortably in the shelter of trees and was surrounded by his elite warriors. A tankard of ale, that he refreshed himself with liberally, was kept constantly filled by whichever haskar was closest to him. The warlord didn't notice because his eyes were on the meadow where youths lined up with javelins held high.
Bethel was the youngest going for warriorhood; the other youths were between seventeen and eighteen cycles - Bethel wasn't yet seventeen. He was, however, by far the tallest figure among them. Already the boy was as tall as the warlord and Lodestok knew the youth hadn't finished his growth, nor would he for at least another cycle. Beside the Churchik he looked a slender child, still without the trace of beard that began on the other young would-be warriors' faces. Lodestok could see his boy quite clearly and noticed, with a grim smile, that Bethel hadn't removed his knife-belt. He was the only one who ran with knives. The warriors were expected to be able to run some distance more than once and hurl the heavy javelins several times, an exercise that put strain on tortured wrists. That made the warlord smile appreciatively.
The large meadow was ringed by crowds, hundreds of them. The atmosphere was electric. It wasn't unknown for a youth to be badly hurt in the struggle to become a warrior and today danger was added by the meadow being dampened overnight. Anticipation of slips, falls and injuries was keen.
The warlord watched as the runners sprinted, losing sight of Bethel in the rush forward. Shrugging, he took a swallow from his tankard and lounged back prepared to be entertained, his eyes following the trajectories of graceful, speeding javelins across the meadow. There was no rest. The youths sprinted back and repeated the exercise, the competitors reduced in number with each run and throw. The warlord's flagging interest was revived by the sight of Bethel brought forward as the third runner out of four. Idly Lodestok watched as Bethel ran fastest but didn't throw the furthest. Amused, the warlord lounged back and drank deeply.
Wrestling was a trial of fortitude for Bethel because his long, graceful body wasn't designed for this discipline and he knew it would be an effort of sheer endurance to hold back young men built three times more powerfully than himself. What he'd learned to do was move his body sinuously and thus make it difficult for an opponent to hold him for the required length of time. He'd also learned how to avoid any spinal injury, knowing that warriors were frequently deliberately crippled by that means.
Each contestant he met seemed more formidable than the last and Bethel was sorely tested. His chest heaved. When he found himself facing Manas he knew he'd more than met his match - he was unsurprised when he was flung so hard on his back on the ground he was winded. He struggled desperately to wriggle out from under a grip that refused to give and succumbed with a sigh. Grinning at him, Manas let him go. Decidedly enervated, Bethel sat on the grass and tried to get his breath back. Sweat ran into his branded wrists which made them smart painfully - he sank back, hands to his diaphragm.
He became aware of Jane beside him with his bow and quiver, and the man also held a waterskin. With relief, Bethel gulped the icy water.
"You wrestled very well," said Jane, with an approving chuckle. Lying back on the grass, Bethel moaned. "You're a bit winded, aren't you? Take several deep breaths, but let them out slowly."
Bethel did, then, with a gusty sigh he sat, stared at his wrists, took the waterskin and poured water over the marks before he cupped his hands, filled them and splashed the water over his head and face. Then he rose and took the bow and quiver. Jane smiled encouragingly at him, watching the tall slight figure walk quickly to where Sarssen acted as marshal.
The targets were on the near side of the meadow and to the warlord's right, so Lodestok had an excellent view. Each youth could shoot his five arrows in his own time, but any delay was unacceptable, each contestant expected to step to his mark and follow through with precision and speed.
The warlord kept his eye on Bethel whom he could see quite clearly. Not for nothing had Sarssen taught Bethel archery. The boy was calm and methodical, and arched his bow with seemingly little effort. He went into the second round, then the third, and was finally in a play off for success. There was a breathless hush when Bethel stepped forward again, his arrows fired in an al
most continuous stream. The warlord's face wore an odd smile when he saw his boy won and he turned briefly from the field.
Jane was waiting. Bethel's axe rested blade-first on the ground. Bethel walked slowly to him from the targets. Jane, noticing he still wore his knife-belt, offered to take it, but was met with a gentle shake of the dark head.
"It never goes off me except at night when I'm with the warlord, Jane. You know that," Bethel reproved quietly. Jane looked at the long, lean figure and gnawed on his lower lip.
"Lad, it may hinder you in an axe fight. These Churchik play for keeps," he said urgently. Thinking, Bethel frowned then he gave Jane a searching look.
"If you will wear it for me, Jane, I will," he said finally and unwillingly. Jane looked highly relieved and held out his hand patiently while Bethel unbuckled the belt and watched as Jane put it round his waist. He hefted the axe and turned to go, a faint smile in already tired eyes.
"Beth," called out Jane softly. Bethel glanced back over his shoulder. "Beware the wet grass." Bethel nodded.
The anticipation amongst the onlookers swelled with the advent of the axe fights, because they were always dangerous, youths not hesitating to cut at an opponent in any way they could. Bethel knew Churchik boys played with axes the way Samar children played with toys and he was under no illusions about what he now faced or his opponents.
The youths had to be very quick and light on their feet. In this Bethel had the advantage of being slender and lithe, but Churchik young were stockier built with considerably more power to their thrusts. Up to this point, none of those competing had encountered a personal frontal attack with a weapon. That had changed. Bethel eyed his adversary and saw in the pale blue eyes a ruthless desire to quickly cripple him.
He moved cautiously and was quick to jump when the axe was swept in a circle at his legs. Once he was too slow, was caught a glancing but extremely painful blow on the shin and suffered pain that lanced up his leg. He fell back, a little troubled by it. His opponent saw his advantage and rushed forward with his axe poised to strike. Bethel immediately feinted, turned, and lifting his axe, swung it, all in one rapid movement. The blade of his axe missed the Churchik's arm, but the head of it didn't. The warrior's axe arm fell and his axe flew a short distance before settling in the dirt. There was a look of frozen fury when he went to retrieve it. In minutes Bethel disabled him, until with a grunt the warrior conceded, his look at Bethel unforgiving.
The next fight was even harder. Bethel panted with exertion. Twice he slipped on the grass and got cut. Three times he caught glancing blows that badly shook him. Neither youth could disable the other and the battle seemed endless. Sweat trickled into Bethel's eyes, his wrists ached viciously and he knew he bled. Relentlessly the fight went on. Neither youth gained an advantage. Bethel stood gasping for air, only vaguely aware his opponent was in a similar condition, too exhausted to lift his axe. It was only when they were both too weak to do other than grapple aimlessly, because neither could wield an axe, that hands pulled them apart and they were both flung backwards.
Bethel staggered to his left, then felt a guiding hand on his arm. He knew it was Jane. He let himself be led to one side where he crouched, nearly reeling to one side except for hands that supported him. He felt other hands shove him backwards, then knew a waterskin was pushed at his mouth.
"Enough," he gasped. Hands tried to help him sit, but he brushed them away. "Leave me!" he said in a fierce whisper, bringing up his knees and bending over them as he tried to recover his breath. Where he'd taken a nasty crack on his left arm and shoulder hurt and he was conscious of searing pain. He gripped just above his wrist. Someone proffered more water. "No more, damn you!" Bethel snarled. "Do not cosset me!" He struggled to his feet and stood uncertainly, brushing an unsteady hand across his eyes. "Give me my sword!" he demanded.
Wisely, Jane handed it over and stood back, his eyes on the tense, strained young face. He realised he'd never seen the gentle face so grim, or the attractive mouth set in such hard lines.
"Have a care, Beth," he said in an under-voice. He doubted Bethel even heard.
The sword fights were fast and furious, hurt almost inevitable at this stage of the trials. The youths already carried cuts, slashes, deeper wounds and burgeoning bruises, and not one of them thought of anything other than survival. Getting through the trial was all that mattered. They'd all been forced to fast, too, and this began to tell.
The thrust and parry was vicious. Bethel was as good a fighter as any other, usually graceful and deft in his swordplay and with a flexible wrist, but today his wrist was more drawback than blessing. He was often clumsy and missed openings, and though he cut at his opponents he was cut himself. He struggled to hold his own.
In the last bout, when he felt his feet were leaden and he had little strength left, Bethel was caught a slashing cut across his right shoulder. The warrior stepped back satisfied, lowered his sword, and turned from Bethel in a casual way. The anger Bethel had locked inside, since Sasqua a cycle before, resurfaced with the surge of pain that shot through him. He ignored the pain and the blood and turned on his opponent with a fury that startled everyone close by. The warrior was beaten back until he fell into one of the Churchik judges and when he parried, Bethel gave a quick flick of his wrist. It was sheer agony. He seemed outside himself as he struck his opponent's weapon from his hand. Bethel stood panting, his anger gone as fast as it came. Shakily, he stepped back. He didn't see Lodestok's expression of utter surprise and approval, nor those of the haskars who came closer to watch the sword fights.
He was given no time between that fight and the trial of knives, only dimly aware Jane buckled on his knife-belt and spoke to him. He found himself standing on guard, awaiting the order to draw his first knife. Each warrior had six knives and each of those had to make contact with an opponent. Battle was thoroughly drawn, exhaustion apparent in the stance of each youth and pain etched on dusty, grim faces. Lips were drawn back in grimaces and in the eyes was fierce determination that warred with disorientation.
There was bloodlust in the eyes of Bethel's second opponent, Kone. They circled each other warily, neither attempting to make an immediate strike. Kone tried to trip Bethel, but Bethel backed, turned round suddenly and raised his hand. Youths could throw a knife, cut with it, or use it as a stabbing weapon. Bethel went on tiptoe, and, as he threw himself backwards, he spun in the air and threw the first knife. It neatly embedded itself in the fleshy part of Kone's thigh. Kone's nostrils flared. He yanked the knife out and threw it to one side before he closed with Bethel again, circling and lunging. Lodestok's concentration was intense. Bethel was unaware of anyone other than Kone.
Kone's first successful lunge cut Bethel across the inside of his left wrist, Bethel barely able to suppress a scream as blood welled up through the brand and began to drip to the ground. Scarcely able to see through the haze of pain, Bethel could discern the cut was neither deep nor critical, just extremely painful. He stood still. He breathed deeply. His eyes shut briefly before he signalled he was ready to continue.
The fight took on a grim earnestness. Kone's second knife caught Bethel across the left cheek and that made Bethel coldly angry. Kone showed he meant not just to disable Bethel - he aimed not to cut, but to disfigure. Bethel always knew, over the cycles as he matured and occasionally trained with the Churchik, that many of those he worked with deeply resented his presence and training as one of them. In training, the dislike was controlled. In this contest, it wasn't. Any attack was valid, provided it brought the desired result. Scarring the warlord's boy was the best way to ensure that young slave's demise.
Instinctively, Bethel knew the knife fights would make or break him. A grim little smile came to his lips. Anyone who'd seen him wake beside the warlord this morning could've been forgiven for not recognising him now, his thin face white under the coating of dust and sweat and his eyes burning huge and almost black as he struggled round, then backwards and forwards. Other bouts finished
before this one. The other combatants gathered round and watched. Each opponent had five knives down and one to go. Lodestok was motionless.
Bethel slipped on damp grass made greasier by their blood. As he did, Kone bore down on him with his knife poised. Bethel couldn't throw off Kone's enormously powerful torso; it pinned him to the ground in a way that almost crushed the breath from him. Momentarily, Bethel forgot where he was and just lay there, helpless in the way he so often was with the warlord, then, acting on survival instinct alone, he did what he'd always wanted to but with Lodestok couldn't. He sharply brought up his knife into the groin of his adversary.
Kone gave a grunt. His knife arm crashed down across Bethel's head and stunned him, the knife flying free as Kone's full weight trapped Bethel flat on the grass. Bethel knew little until he felt hands pull at him roughly and drag him out from under, then felt water thrown over his head before he was yanked to his feet and sharply shaken. He shook his head because he couldn't see, the vision he had of what he thought was a senior warrior very hazy. He felt a waterskin at his hands and fumbled clumsily at it.
"Drink!" he was curtly bade. Bethel drank deeply, then handed the skin back to where he thought the warrior now stood.
"Are you able to continue?" came the same deep voice.
"I cannot see, my lord," murmured Bethel, shaking his head again. "In a minute, my lord. I ask for a minute." He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the warrior who was still a blur.
"Put back his knives," the warrior ordered Jane, who hovered anxiously behind Bethel. "He has a few minutes to be ready. See to your warrior, slave." When the warrior strode off, Bethel turned blindly, looking for Jane.
"Jane?" he called.
"I'm here, lad, I'm here. Sit." Bethel needed no prompting and sank where he stood. "Lie," urged Jane, pulling the boy backwards.
