by V M Jones
‘And so it is, in our business,’ said Blade. ‘We dare not leave without it, Lyulf.’
‘There will be some growing wild along the way, though it is early in the season. Closer to Limbo, perhaps …’
‘Fire-tongue!’ breathed Jamie reverently in my ear. ‘That’ll have something to do with fire-eating, the most dangerous act there is!’
But my attention was focused on the exchange between Lyulf and Blade. I figured the more we could find out about the circus set-up and our new companions, the better.
‘I don’t know how much use he’ll be,’ Blade was saying. ‘I asked if he had any experience, and he said he did. But … well, you know how they are.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Gen curiously, staring across at Borg’s caravan. A tall, strongly-built figure was deep in conversation with him — or rather, Borg was firing questions at him while the man stood impassive as a rock.
‘I don’t know,’ said Blade. ‘He was standing near the docks. The galley from Karazan had just come in, and at first I thought he was waiting for someone. But everyone was already off and still he stood there. So I asked if he was from Karazan.’
‘And what did he say?’ prompted Jamie.
Blade shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ echoed Lyulf.
‘He’s … well … different,’ said Blade. ‘But when I said we were looking for performers, leaving for the Borderlands tonight, he seemed keen enough to join us. And you know Borg,’ she finished, with a meaning glance at us. ‘He’s hardly fussy.’
‘In what way is he different?’ asked Kenta.
‘He doesn’t talk, for one thing. Could be he can’t. They cut people’s tongues out in Karazan for speaking out against the king. And for another …’
She didn’t finish — didn’t need to. At that moment the tall man turned away from Borg and stared towards us. At least, I assumed that was what he was doing: it was hard to tell. His face was completely hidden by something I thought at first was a kind of helmet … but then I saw it was a shapeless mask, a leather hood over his head with two slits for eyes.
Lyulf grunted, almost as if he was approving, or even amused. ‘Well, it seems we have one at least with a ready-made stage name. He can be the Masked Man. And if he doesn’t talk, so much the better — he won’t argue.’
But Blade was watching him with a small frown. ‘I hope I did right,’ she muttered. ‘He’ll keep to the company of the men, or so I hope. And I’d counsel you all to stay well away from them. They’re hardened, professional performers: a rough lot, made the more surly and ill-humoured by injury and idleness.
‘And now, we’re ready to leave.’
We took up our place at the rear of the straggling cavalcade, and by nightfall, as Borg had promised, we’d left Four Winds far behind.
Circus arts
Much to our relief, what Blade said was true. From the start there seemed to be an unspoken division between the men, who smelled of dirty dressings and unwashed flesh, spoke in growls and grunts and behaved as if we didn’t exist, and our cheerful campfire. Borg kept to the men’s group, ignoring us as much as possible, barking the occasional order and generally treating us with dismissive contempt which seemed at odds with his initial eagerness to sign us up. And the Masked Man seemed happy to keep to himself.
‘So tell us about your circus course, Jamie,’ said Rich after our first breakfast, a silent meal of lumpy porridge made by Lyulf and choked down by all of us to be polite.
We were parked up among some trees beside a river, the caravans and trailer grouped in a rough circle with the campfires in the middle. Borg had growled something about a ‘training session’ and stumped off, presumably to fetch the equipment, leaving the five of us — you could hardly count Blue-bum — to do the clearing-up.
‘Yes,’ said Gen, ‘show us some tricks, Jamie!’
‘Well,’ said Jamie, looking rather bashful, ‘all I can do is juggle a bit with three balls … sort of, and not for very long. I’m out of practice.’ He hesitated, then took a deep breath and went on: ‘The course was part of a youth programme my parents sent me on. It was supposed to help with personal and social development, confidence, cooperation and creativity. I think Mum and Dad hoped I’d make some friends.
‘But actually it turned out to be a dumping-ground for problem kids over the holidays. You’d be surprised how many things kids like that can find to do with juggling scarves and fire torches.’ He swallowed. ‘It wasn’t much fun for me. Though I guess it was for them.’
I didn’t know what to say. He was staring miserably at the ground, mouth set in a determined line, chin trembling. Then suddenly Gen was giving him a hug that made him blush bright scarlet. ‘Never mind, Jamie. You’ve got real friends now. And you’ve joined an actual circus, not some silly course. Hopefully Blade will be the one to teach us; she’s really nice.’
‘It’s an odd name, isn’t it?’ said Kenta. ‘I wonder —’
She broke off as Borg appeared, staggering under the weight of a battered wooden crate the size and shape of a coffin. The equipment had arrived. Hastily we stowed the dishes away and kicked out the fire, then gathered round to look. Juggling batons, stilts, a unicycle, Jamie had said … I couldn’t wait to try it.
Borg opened the little leather bag that hung on a thong round his neck and withdrew a tiny key. We held our breath as he opened the padlocks and slowly lifted the lid.
I blinked. Had he brought the wrong box? Where were the devil sticks and the clown outfits? I looked at the others, and saw my own bafflement reflected on their faces.
The box was full of weapons. Swords, long and short, made of metal and of wood; tridents like the one Kai had used; nets, staffs, daggers and spears; weird things like spiked knuckle-dusters; clumsy-looking gloves made of steel and leather and woven chain-mail, and what looked like padded Frisbees.
The Masked Man strode up, arms piled high with huge shields the size of cartwheels; they must have weighed a ton, but he carried them as easily as if they were a pile of pancakes. He dropped them on the ground with a ringing crash, dust puffing out all round. Was it some kind of joke? I stared at the stuff, not even beginning to understand. On my shoulder Blue-bum was still and silent; his little hand twisted firmly into my hair for balance. For once it felt oddly comforting.
For what seemed a long time no one spoke. Then Gen piped up, in a strangled bleat: ‘What …’ Her voice trailed away.
Why ask the question, with the answer right there in front of us? We’d joined a circus all right — but not quite the kind of circus we’d thought.
Borg stalked off to fetch his ‘sword-master’ and while we waited we discussed the contents of the box in agitated whispers.
‘Maybe they’re juggling swords,’ said Jamie. ‘In some circuses —’
‘Yeah, right, or they’re planning to teach us sword-swallowing for starters, before we graduate to fire-eating,’ growled Rich. ‘Face it, Jamie, we’ve been conned.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Kenta. ‘Are they bandits, or what?’
‘Not bandits; gladiators.’ Lyulf was standing a few paces away, arms folded. He had an unnerving knack of appearing silently out of nowhere, moving quietly as a cat.
Gladiators! It was the one thing in the world I knew something about, from my ill-fated Gladiator Project. A memory of hours hunched over the computer at Highgate flashed through my mind, vivid images of clashing steel and blood-soaked sand mingling with the orphanage smells of overcooked cabbage and disinfectant. Without meaning to, I found myself glancing up at Blue-bum, remembering how, as Weevil, he’d stolen my project and passed it off as his own … his bright button eyes met mine full-on for a second, then squeezed tight shut.
I’d always thought being a gladiator would be way cool — the olden-day equivalent of an Olympic gold medallist … my heart did a flip-flop of mixed nerves and excitement and I felt the beginnings of a grin tug at the corners of my mouth.
But Gen spun to fa
ce Lyulf, eyes blazing. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? You said it was a circus — and so did Borg! And anyhow, gladiators don’t …’
Lyulf watched expressionlessly as she wound gradually down, realising the pointlessness of what she was saying. They might not exist in our world, but she could hardly say so — and here they all too obviously did.
‘I suppose it’s just a question of definition,’ said Jamie, always a stickler for accuracy. ‘Come to think of it, in Ancient Rome the gladiator tournaments were called circuses — it’s where the term originated. They taught us that in …’ Then Jamie too gulped and was silent.
‘Now it all makes sense,’ said Kenta. ‘The men — the hardened professionals — haven’t hurt themselves falling off the high wire.’
‘No wonder Blade told us to stay away from them,’ whispered Gen.
‘They are brigands, criminals, cut-throats,’ said Lyulf grimly. ‘Blade counselled you well.’
‘But what happened to them? If they’re as tough as you say …’
Lyulf shrugged. ‘We cannot always choose who — or what — we fight. Those who remain were the most skilled — and the most fortunate, believe me.’
‘Well, Lyulf,’ I said evenly, ‘maybe you’d better tell us a bit more about your kind of circus. We might as well know what sort of outfit we’ve joined.’
Lyulf gave a small snort that could have been amusement, but still he didn’t smile. ‘The circus is an ancient tradition of the Borderlands,’ he said, ‘and other lands further afield. Borg is the the ringmaster. He owns the circus. He employs trained fighters — gladiators — to take part in contests between other troupes, or champions who volunteer for combat. Sometimes there is a tournament in one of the bigger towns —’
‘And that’s where the real money is to be made,’ chipped in Blade cheerfully. ‘Don’t look so down in the mouth. Whatever you thought a circus was, it couldn’t be better than this. Excitement, danger, success — even fame, for some.’ She nodded towards Lyulf. ‘Pitting your skill against all comers — whether man or beast, warrior or phantom — and never knowing what the next day will bring. Nothing adds as much spice to life as not knowing when it is to end!’
First steps
A few minutes later we were standing in a ragged line, each with one of the wooden swords. Jamie held his as if it was red-hot, eyeing it distrustfully. ‘I don’t know if this is really my kind of thing …’ he began, casting Blade a doubtful glance.
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ she said. ‘Any problems should be addressed to the sword-master.’
‘But aren’t you the sword-master?’
She gave a snort of laughter. ‘Me? I’m only a humble gladiator. Lyulf’s the sword-master.’
‘But he’s just a kid!’ Rich objected. ‘I’d rather be trained by someone with a bit more experience — no offence, Lyulf.’
Blade had been walking away, but now she turned, her eyes flashing. ‘And no offence to you, Richard, when I tell you to speak only of what you know. Of lesser years Lyulf may be, but he has the skills of a swordsman five times his age and more, coupled with the speed and stamina of youth. He is expert at assessing fighters — and at training them. If ignorance leaps from your mouth when you open it, I’d counsel you to keep it shut.’ She turned on her heel and stalked off. Rich, who’d turned bright red, stared at the ground.
Without comment, Lyulf tossed the last wooden sword to the Masked Man, who caught it easily by the hilt. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let us see what lies beneath that mask, my friend.’
The two of them circled warily, looking for an opening. The Masked Man was twice the size of Lyulf, and I was glad the swords weren’t real. I had a hunch the mysterious stranger might turn out to be better at swordsmanship than any of us expected — and I was right.
He took a slow half-shuffle forward with one foot and suddenly the air was cracking with the clash of wood on wood. In and out the two figures wove, left and right, one fluid movement blending in with the next as if they were partners in some kind of intricate dance, their swords no more than a blur. Then there was a snap and a grunt and something was cartwheeling through the air towards me; I ducked instinctively as one of the swords spun over our heads and clattered to the ground behind us.
Jamie gave a snuffle of dismay, and beside me Richard whistled softly between his teeth. The two combatants faced each other, neither of them even breathing hard. Lyulf still held his sword, but the Masked Man’s hand was empty.
‘Good enough.’ Lyulf’s face was expressionless, but it was clear he was pleased. ‘We have one competent fighter at least. Who’s next?’ We shuffled our feet and tried to avoid his eye. ‘No volunteers? Come then — you. Up here with me.’ To no one’s surprise he pointed at Richard, who shambled sheepishly into the makeshift arena. The hang-dog look on his face showed he knew what he was in for — it was the perfect chance for Lyulf get his own back and teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
But Rich wasn’t going down without a fight. He gripped his sword in both hands like a baseball bat, raised it to chest height and narrowed his eyes. I closed mine, hoping that at least Lyulf would make it quick and painless.
Nothing happened.
I opened them a crack … and there was Lyulf, his sword beside him on the ground, painstakingly re-arranging Richard’s hand on his sword-hilt.
It seemed one look had told Lyulf all he needed to know — or confirmed what I realised he’d suspected all along: we all knew less than nothing. The Masked Man settled himself on a log and watched with undisguised interest as Lyulf coached us through the basics — grip, stance and footwork — using Rich to demonstrate. I soon forgot we were being taught by someone our own age — there was no hint of showing off or arrogance, just patient matter-of-factness tinged with dry touches of humour that soon put us all at ease. ‘The footwork is as simple and direct as walking,’ he explained. ‘Step forward and back, left and right, pivot on one leg to circle your opponent — and remember, balance and timing are everything. Your footwork keeps you at a safe distance, then brings you into the attack. Now, get into pairs and try it …’
It seemed we’d only been practising a few minutes when Lyulf glanced at the sun and said it was time to stop. Even Jamie objected. ‘Already? But we’ve only just begun!’
‘You have done enough for the first day. As it is, your sword arm will be stiff tomorrow. You have all made a good beginning. The way of the body is the foundation of our craft; the way of the sword will follow. As for the third part of the art of the circus … the way of the mind will come to you in time, without you realising it. And now it is time for the midday meal.’
The morning couldn’t have passed so quickly — yet it had. Reluctantly we replaced the swords in the box and joined Blade at our campfire, where a cauldron of stew was simmering.
‘This is well-earned,’ she said, ladling out hearty helpings. ‘The first lesson’s something to celebrate — and you’re all doing well.’ We grinned at one another. The phrase we’d read on the placard flashed into my mind — the brotherhood of the arena. Suddenly it made sense.
‘You’ll need to be thinking of stage names,’ Blade told us between mouthfuls. ‘A name that says something about you is best — that is true to your inner core. A name is far more than just a word in our business.’
‘Is that what Blade is?’ asked Kenta. ‘Your stage name?’
Blade shrugged. ‘I can’t remember being called anything else. I was born to this.’
‘What about you, Lyulf?’ asked Jamie. ‘Is Lyulf your stage name?’
Blade snorted. ‘I should think not! You have the honour of being taught by none other than the great Wolf Flame — the finest gladiator the Borderlands have even known.’
Lyulf frowned and carried on eating.
‘Wolf Flame!’ echoed Rich enviously. ‘How cool is that! How did you choose it?’
For a moment I thought Lyulf wasn’t going to answer. But then he finished chewing, swallowed,
and said briefly, ‘It is the meaning of the name Lyulf in the old tongue — or Lyulf is its meaning, whichever you prefer.’
‘What old tongue?’ asked Gen. ‘Have you always been a gladiator, like Blade?’
Again, he chewed unhurriedly and swallowed; but this time he took another mouthful without answering. Blade laughed. ‘Persuading Lyulf to talk about himself is like getting rainwater from desert sand,’ she said. ‘In all the time I’ve known him, he’s told me no more than that.’
‘How long have you known each other?’ asked Kenta curiously.
‘Too long,’ grunted Lyulf.
‘Long enough,’ she amended with a smile. ‘Lyulf was sword-master of the troupe I joined before this one. I’d been in the arena all my life and thought I knew it all.’ She pulled a wry face, glancing over at Lyulf with a look I couldn’t interpret. He didn’t return it. ‘I soon learned differently. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I realised who he was. I’d heard, of course, of the legendary Wolf Flame who springs up wherever he is least expected, never staying in one place longer than —’
She broke off. Lyulf had pushed his bowl aside and risen to his feet, and was walking away.
‘Oh, by the twin moons …’ Blade muttered. ‘Lyulf, come back and finish your meal!’ But he was gone. She shrugged, her expression a mixture of impatience and remorse. ‘My tongue runs away with my words — I know he hates to be spoken of.
‘Now: we were discussing stage names.’
‘I’ve already chosen mine,’ said Gen. Everyone stared at her. ‘I thought … Crystal.’
Blade nodded. ‘That is like you,’ she said. ‘Outwardly fragile, with an inner strength; beautiful, and clear and transparent as water.’
By the end of lunch all the names had been decided except mine. Rich was calling himself Tornado, and Kenta decided on Shadow — ‘Not the scary sort,’ she’d explained shyly; ‘the dappled, shifting shadows leaves make in sunshine.’
