by J. C. Hendee
Karras had failed to score even one hit on the old man since training began.
Fiáh’our rested his wooden sparring axe on one shoulder, its two blades likewise edged with leather over padding. Not that this helped much for being bashed with it over and over.
“Are you getting up… or not?” the thänæ asked flatly.
Karras exhaled sharply. Here he was, enslaved to a bumbling prankster of a clan-kin, who had some notion to make him worthy of the one woman he did want in marriage. It was so twisted that he would have laughed at anyone else in his place.
The woman he wanted did not want him, and yet now he could not escape Fiáh’our.
“Not,” Karras mumbled, shutting his eyes, and he heard the old bluster suck a breath through clenched teeth.
“Get up!” Fiáh’our shouted.
Someone else let out a heavy sigh. “Enough… please! This is obviously not working.”
“How else will he learn from his mistakes, if ever?” the thänæ countered. “He will not get a second, third… or hundredth chance in battle.”
Karras’ eyes popped wide, and he struggled to sit up.
“Battle?” he whispered in panic and then louder, “What battle?”
No one answered him, and Fiáh’our faced the only other person in the training hall.
“He is not learning anything by being flattened over and over,” Gän’gehtin argued.
The young rughìr “shirvêsh,” or what humans mistakenly called a priest or monk, stood with arms folded as he leaned against one of four high archways around the training hall. He was much younger than the thänæ, though not nearly as young as Karras. How, let alone why, he was a comrade to the likes of Fiáh’our was beyond guessing.
“It worked well enough for others,” Fiáh’our replied, “including you.”
“I learned in spite of it,” Gän’gehtin grumbled.
In place of a traditional white quilted vestment for a shirvêsh to Skâpagi, Gän’gehtin wore training armor like the old man. It was not fair that the two had traded off during sparring, and Karras had no one to stand in for himself.
“At least here he faces only this,” and Fiáh’our hefted his sparring axe. “And he gets a soft wood floor for his backside, like you did. Mere bruises and bumps are good lessons before he faces true steel.”
Karras frowned and rubbed the small of his back. Oak beams did not feel soft after one fell on them day after day.
“He is unsuited to a skìanìvlod,” Gän’gehtin replied, rubbing a narrow line of bristling whiskers along his jaw below his bare upper lip.
Since being trapped here, Karras had learned a few traditional terms among rughìr warriors. “Skìanìvlod” meant “wing-bladed” or “wing blades” or some such, meaning two opposing blades. It was used for any weapon of like make, such as a two-sided pick for battle… or just an axe.
Those old words were just more of Fiáh’our’s obsession with tradition!
“He is too small… too inexperienced for a top-heavy, bilateral weapon,” the shirvêsh continued. “It requires strength combined with balance to turn and direct, and then recover quickly from a strike.”
For an instant, Karras forgot the frightening notion of battle. He was not that small. A yard and a half was big enough, barely short for his people, and two-thirds of a yard at the shoulders was suitably stout in proportion.
He wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand and felt the prickle of stumble on his cheeks. Much as he preferred being clean-shaven, no matter that it drew scoffs and puzzlement from his own kind, he had been too ragged and tired of late to tend to it.
“Then what would you suggest?” Fiáh’our challenged. “We have put half the standard weapon types in his hand… from skanslíay to ourdkreig, studìhallû to tranahallû… and he weaved about worse with each one!”
Karras wrinkled his nose with a mean little pout and glanced about the walls lined with padded sparring weapons made of hardwoods. He knew some of those old rughìr terms for what humans might call a spear with extra side blades, a pick-like hammer used in fighting, and a head-high, iron-staff or iron-ribbed cudgel. Those were a few weapons grouped under the terms he actually remembered.
Once he had grumbled about just calling an axe an axe, instead of some word no one sensible used anymore. Fiáh’our had nearly bitten him in half.
“Because we learn weapons by the way they are made, what they have in common… not by what each one is called,” the old man had growled. “Then you can pick similar ones and use them, just the same. Mastering a specific weapon comes after that… if you are still alive!”
Karras huffed—as if he cared either way!
He did not know the Numan—local human—words for those weapons, as a warrior’s ways and tools had never interested him. But he doubted they were so obsessed with such traditional nonsense. Still, he could not remember which weapon on the wall fit a tranahallû. Perhaps it was that stupid, big ball of wood on the end of a stick that had thrown him off balance more than the axe.
“What about a sword, one suitable to our kind?” Gän’gehtin suggested.
Fiáh’our scoffed. “The last thing he needs is more human nonsense!”
Gän’gehtin wrinkled his high brow, visibly at a loss. “What does that mean?”
Karras turned a malicious and fearful glare on Fiáh’our.
There was nothing wrong with human ways, especially those of the nearby Numan nations. They did not wallow in old traditions for every little thing, like some of his people—like the old man.
If Karras had been born a Numan—or any kind of human—and Skirra as well, there would have been less about tradition to foul up his life. She might have accepted him in marriage, at that. Even so, his family had its honor, and more than most, so why was he not good enough for her?
Gän’gehtin’s puzzlement over human “nonsense” was not puzzling to Karras. The shirvêsh knew nothing about Karras being spurned by Skirra, about his scheme concerning her to avoid an arranged marriage, or the old blusterer’s ridiculous—and futile—notion of what Karras needed to win Skirra over.
As if that would ever happen now.
Fiáh’our glowered at his young friend. “Next you will suggest putting one of your sticks in his hand.”
Karras swallowed hard and cringed, as Gän’gehtin stiffened upright with a clenched jaw.
The shirvêsh snatched an iron-ribbed cudgel—studìhallû—leaning at hand against the wall. Not the arm’s length kind all shirvêsh of Skâpagi carried, but a big one, as tall as the shirvêsh or maybe a bit more. He gripped around its four riveted iron ridges, raised it, and slammed its bottom end against the floor.
A slightly less loud boom echoed through the training hall as Gän’gehtin shouted back at Fiáh’our.
“The studìhallû is not a stick, you clown! I will prove it on your hide—again—if you wish.”
Karras let out an exhausted groan. Clearly he was not the only one here losing patience over the last moon’s misery.
“No need for a fit,” Fiáh’our sniped. “But how is that any less challenging than the axe?”
Gän’gehtin grumbled under his breath and studied the weapon he held. When his eyes narrowed, Fiáh’our’s expression turned suspicious, even through his thick beard.
“What now?” the blusterer asked.
Gän’gehtin peered about the hall. When the shirvêsh’s roaming gaze stalled for an instant, Karras tried to follow it too late, and then Gän’gehtin uttered one strange word.
“Bunsa’hoyksí!”
Karras cocked his head in bafflement, but he looked back in time to see Fiáh’our’s eyes pop.
The best Karras could make of that old word was “eight” something… or something “eight.” He quickly took in all the practice weapons, but not one hinted at that name by their look. He did not like it compared to skìanìvlod for “two” bladed weapons.
Fiáh’our appeared to have lost his voice, and then…
“Are you full of nonsense today?” the thänæ half-whispered. His voice then rose to another shout. “How is the old ‘eight-ways’ going to be easier for him than two?”
“The blades are smaller, narrower… and you know this!” Gän’gehtin shot back. “They are distributed for balance by the traditional eight directions of the world.” Fiáh’our scoffed but the shirvêsh rushed on. “The blades can remain dull, thick for impact instead of chopping, as he could not make them cut deeply enough at first.”
“It is still top-heavy, as you would say.”
Gän’gehtin leaned out the long iron-ribbed cudgel. “Then make it hand-and-a-half by the length and counter-balanced with a cuffed butt-spike.”
Karras was utterly lost—and worried—for Fiáh’our fell silent, apparently caught in deep thought.
“Hmm, perhaps a traditional weapon might also serve another purpose,” the old man muttered. “Still, too much weight in the head.”
“Then modified… six blades instead,” Gän’gehtin suggested.
Fiáh’our slowly shook his head. “No… five.”
Gän’gehtin scrunched one eyebrow more than the other.
“He will habitually lead with one blade, like all novices,” Fiáh’our explained. “With five blades, that puts two at the trailing side. Better for when—if—he learns to hook and deflect on recovery. And it will be that much less top-heavy.”
With all of Karras’ aches and pains, he was growing tired of people talking like he was not right here.
“What is a bun… bunsah… an ‘eight-ways?’” he demanded.
“Never mind!” the thänæ snapped, and he remained fixed on the shirvêsh. “Until it is ready, the closest thing here is a tranahallû. Start him on that again.”
“About our changes,” Gän’gehtin added, “it will take time for temple weaponers to—”
“I have something else in mind,” Fiáh’our cut in—and a mischievous, dark grin spread his beard.
Karras clenched all over. Things always ended badly for him when some sly notion pleased the old boar.
“And I have one more little variation,” Fiáh’our continued, “but that I keep to myself. I will meet you here the day after tomorrow to begin re-training him in earnest… in hope.”
“As you wish, for now,” Gän’gehtin said tiredly.
“What?” Karras shouted, struggling to his feet. “Start over… again?”
Fiáh’our tromped off, his heavy boots raising low thunder from the floor beams. By the time Karras remembered that his first question had never been answered, the thänæ was out the southern archway and halfway down a narrow tunnel through the temple.
“What battle?” Karras shouted. “I am not going into any battle, you madman! That was not part of the barter with my father. You never said anything about—”
“Meow, meow, meow,” echoed Fiáh’our’s bellow up the dim passage. “Oh, blessed Bäynæ, how the kitten does yowl.”
“Stop calling me that, you… you…”
“He is too far off to hear your insults,” Gän’gehtin interrupted. “So let us turn to something productive.”
Karras was still fuming when he turned back.
The shirvêsh had leaned the oversized cudgel against the wall. Among all the practice weapons, he took hold of that awful thing with the huge wooden ball.
Karras finally remembered which weapon fit the term tranahallû, and he buried his face in his hands.
It was the very one that had repeatedly toppled him. If whatever old forgotten weapon the shirvêsh and thänæ had in mind was anything like that, the last moon would not be the worst of his suffering.
“Oh, please… not that one,” he moaned, dropping his hands.
Gän’gehtin’s brows rose over a blank stare.
With cropped hair mussed from sparring, and sticking out around his wide ears, the shirvêsh looked like a flat-faced opossum caught in a lantern’s light after dark. It made him appear witless, which he was not. Gän’gehtin let the head of the tranahallû clunk on the floor and rested his hands on its haft’s upright end.
“Very well. How long since you have been home to your family?”
Hesitant, Karras barely shook his head. “I do not… perhaps… maybe half a moon.”
Gän’gehtin smiled softly, exhaling through his broad flat nose.
“When the will is wearier than the flesh,” he said, “the flesh is all the more unwilling to learn. Go—see your family, as Fiáh’our will not return for at least a day, and I will say nothing of this. But steel yourself to return to training the following dawn.”
Karras did not know how “flesh” could learn anything, but his wits were still fuzzy with the ringing in his head. He would take any excuse to escape even one day of the latter.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much. I will not be late.” And he turned away, heading for the same passage that Fiáh’our had taken.
“Karras?”
He stopped instantly and glanced back.
Gän’gehtin still stood with his hands cupped over the haft’s end of that awful practice weapon. His gaze slowly dropped and then rose, as if looking Karras over from head to toe and back. An almost sad or perplexed disappointment passed through the shirvêsh’s broad features.
Karras did not like that, for none of this was his choice. “Yes?” he answered sharply.
“I was only wondering,” Gän’gehtin began, “as it has been many years since Fiáh’our took anyone for training, but… why now and why you? And what does all of this have to do with a barter?”
A knot cinched tight in Karras’ belly.
He neither liked nor disliked the shirvêsh but did not wish to give offense to anyone who showed him a little pity, even in ignorance. How could he possibly answer without answering?
“Not one arrangement… or barter,” he started. “Several, more likely. Of those I know, there are… well, private matters… confidences…”
Gän’gehtin settled sternly. “I have heard as much from Fiáh’our. Very well, I would not push either of you to dishonor yourselves or your word to others.” And he added a sharp nod.
Karras was uncertain if that was all, but as the shirvêsh remained silent, he finally nodded back and turned to leave. He was still quivering as he shuffled tiredly out of the temple’s training hall.
That exchange had come too close to the secret—to the failure—that he kept to himself, of which the old blusterer knew too much. The problem was, that in his failure with Skirra and as the eldest of his siblings, it would be even harder to evade pressure from his parents to find a suitable mate. And Skirra—or “Sliver” as humans might say—of a family living in the lowest underground level of one of Dhredze Seatt’s four mountain settlements, would not be suitable to them.
No one he knew could clearly say why Skirra’s family, the Yêarclág or “Iron-Braids”, had generations ago come to such a lowly state. At least she was hardworking, devoted to her family’s craft as a smith, intelligent and proud unto herself… and beautiful to him. But what did any of that matter?
She would not have him. So the only benefit in suffering Fiáh’our’s tutelage was holding off any arrangements by his parents.
Karras grew wearier under hopelessness as he shuffled along the way out to the mountainside.
· · · · ·
Fiáh’our fumed in his rushed tromp. He was in it up to his eyeballs like never before. It had been long years—decades—since he had taken on any students, and Karras was the most inept little bumbler he had ever had to teach.
There were some things that could not or should not be taught. One simply came by them naturally as a sensible rughìr. The kitten was not that either.
Gän’gehtin had been one of Fiáh’our’s students, way back when. With such a good result from a very trying training, Fiáh’our had decided that enough was enough and gone back into the world for more good service. And now, some thirty years later…
Why, by all the ancestors, had the blessed Bäynæ tossed a mewling little kitten into his path? It was worse than he had first thought, though he still believed it had purpose. Why else would he have accidentally stumbled upon this young one too steeped in human ways? And it had happened in Kìnnébuây, “The People’s House,” his very favorite cheag’anâkst—greeting house—in the lowest level of Chemarré, “Seaside” settlement of Dhredze Seatt, his people’s mountain domain.
Kìnnébuây was the last place Fiáh’our had ever expected to meet such a wayward, pretentious little clan-kin. What Karras lacked in respect and understanding for tradition was immense and contrary to his half-hearted assumption that honor was linked to family and clan. The kitten had no en’nag, or ken’nin as Numans of old said—no true knowing, that innate awareness or knowledge that came from within. And indeed, Fiáh’our had a different view of tradition… and honor.
Could the latter truly be based in blood and heritage? Perhaps.
True honor gave rise to tradition, and when tradition pulled honor down for a failing, there was only one way to raise it once more: through heart and spirit, not blood and heritage.
If only Karras were a bit more eager for that.
Perhaps there was one other person who might unknowingly help lead a conniving little kitten back to his people’s ways. What a twisted jest by the Bäynæ that this person was the one that Karras loved… supposedly.
Fiáh’our had seen few who had fallen as far as the family of Yêarclág, though fewer still knew why and none of them would say. Skirra Yêarclág refused to yield to that fall—or deny it. When honor failed in heritage, that bloodline’s honor was only renewed through determination. She had more of that than any one handful of others Fiáh’our had met, though she was obstinate and outright nasty at times.
She had chewed up and spit out Karras more than once by the kitten’s own whining. But Fiáh’our clung to hope for Karras’ salvation, if Skirra favored him even a little.
It was going to be a long journey for the kitten to understand the warrior’s way and the lessons of suffering, service, and sacrifice. Of course, then he would need the wits to apply such lessons to the matter of love and marriage. Even that was not enough.
