by Damien Lake
“I see. You say want to join the band to find somebody?”
After hearing his brief explanation, the officer asked the same questions about his standing with the law. Marik noticed the large man to his left scowling at him. Was he upset because Marik had listed a greater number of abilities and thus made Beld seem less capable? Probably. These giant men who thought with their muscles tended to find blameless people to take out their moods on.
Finishing the questions, the officer instructed them to leave their packs, choose a weapon and take their places. Marik found the sword used by the previous man. It matched his own blade most closely. His opponent selected a large claymore type. Little surprise there.
While he took his place, Marik sifted through his sessions with Chatham to find any advice for dealing with larger and stronger opponents. His instructor’s voice rose in his mind, the only times the man ever injected a serious quality into his speech.
You remember those big monster blades you saw while you were doing your tour o’ the shops in city? If you stay true to your purpose, then you’ll likely find yourself trying to keep one o’ those from cutting your hair one day. Just you remember that the only fool dumb enough to use one o’ those things in a face-to-face fight is also the only fool dumb enough to lose against one. They’re only practical against horse mounted foes since their weight an’ length means they have a wide arc. A fool who uses one in a face-to-face fight deserves to have his belly cut open when his foe steps inside the arc an’ lets his guts out with a dagger.
Marik studied his foe swinging the wooden claymore in practice. So, with the large blade he’s chosen, this monster of a man needs room to swing it. The blade is heavy too, so recovering from the first swing will take a few moments. That’s my opportunity right there.
Janus shouted at them to start. Predictably, the big man lunged forward, swinging his larger blade. Marik had stepped back to avoid such an onslaught and dodged the ironwood sword when it slashed by. The large blade continued along its arc, carried by its momentum, until it had swung a quarter circle away.
Beld exerted his strength against the blade to bring it back into position. Marik dashed forward, sword at the ready. He planned to swing from the side and catch his foe across the chest…but he miscalculated. The big man had stopped his blade far quicker than he anticipated.
When Beld saw his opponent move too close for him to swing accurately, he chose to strike with his fist instead. He released one hand from the grip and punched at his smaller foe. The massive fist struck Marik’s arm below the wrist while his sword swung forward.
Marik, remembering the fate of this sword’s previous bearer, refused to let it fall from his grip despite the shock running up his arm. He crouched low and shuffled backward. Beld began a new sweep from the side. Beyond the blade’s reach, Marik quickly rethought his strategy.
His shoulders, stupid! Remember, the shoulders will tell you more than anything else!
How many times had Chatham snarled that after pounding him into the ground? It seemed he was a slow learner after all.
He decided his original strategy remained his best chance, so he crept closer to lure his foe into another swing. Beld had grown cautious. The huge man switched his own strategy to thrusts and short slashes that kept his blade before him. This left him with enough maneuverability to block to his sides.
Marik tested his defenses with a few quick strikes. Every blow rebounded. Defending against Beld’s attacks proved possible since the blade’s size restricted its usefulness for fast attacks. Beld’s rolling shoulders told Marik which direction the strike would come from.
Little progress developed, though. While he tried to circle his foe, Beld stood his ground, pivoting to face him. This was going nowhere fast. Marik needed the man to swing his blade in an arc that would leave him open for a crucial moment.
He could try a succession of quick strikes designed to force the blade one direction, except he lacked experience against this blade type. Could Beld counter that and return the attack? His best option remained to go with what he knew.
To that end Marik began a pattern of short blows he hoped would misdirect Beld. He dashed forward, struck, then dashed back to circle around before repeating the routine. Marik wanted Beld to anticipate his next move and perform the wide slash he had opened with.
Dash forward, watch the shoulders, strike, and back. Run a few steps toward the road. Dash forward.
Marik started to wonder about Beld. Why had he begun playing it so safe? His impression of the man was so much like the large bully kids around Tattersfield who found the most unfunny, cruel prank hilarious, then would grow angry when confronted with intelligence. He would have bet coin on Beld being a muscle-headed fool who allowed his anger to rule his actions.
Dash forward, watch the shoulders, strike, and back. Ah, here we go!
Beld apparently had reached his limit. With a raising of his arms and a twisting of his wrists not unlike that of the staff wielder, the hilt rose above his head in an instant, the blade behind his back. He slashed forward at a downward angle this time, thinking to catch Marik if he crouched low.
Marik was prepared for it. He shifted his weight in the same instant the hilt flicked up and jumped backward. Feet landing when the blade whistled by, he sprang forward, quickly swinging his own sword.
Beld again released his grip to deal Marik a blow. This time his arm met Marik’s sword edge rather than his intended target. Had it been a true steel blade rather than a wooden replica, Beld would have lost a hand.
Instead, the rage Marik had looked for burst forth with a vengeance. Beld dropped his sword. He swung around, grabbing Marik by the tunic, catching him completely off guard. With a lived stripe across his forearm, he laid a blow across Marik’s face that tore his tunic and lifted him from the ground.
Marik lost track of events for several moments. All he could see in his field of vision was a kaleidoscope of unnamed colors, mixing and blending into each other.
When the pounding in his head lessened, the first sound he could make out clearly was Janus shouting.
“Fine, you great clod! Ignore me and I’ll declare you unfit right now! Homeguard!”
“All right, damn it! Back the hells off, you! I’m going!”
“And you! Look at me, boy!”
It took a moment for Marik to realize Janus had addressed him. “Ughhh…”
“Puke on your own time. You’re on my time right now, and if you don’t pick yourself up I’ll have the Homeguard carry you off the field!”
Unsure he could, Marik stood. He wobbled dangerously for seven or eight heartbeats. Being on his feet helped clear his head. To judge from Janus’ glare and the fact Beld stood before the tables, their bout was over.
He bent to retrieve his blade, overcoming a rush of dizziness at the act, then made his way back to the officers, though he stood several feet from Beld. They must have asked him their questions already because he dropped his claymore onto the pile and walked past Marik to the road.
Great, that’s three accepted in a row. Am I the fourth one out?
“Are you feeling all right after that?” asked the senior officer in the middle.
“Yeah, I’m just fine, thanks!” Marik winced inwardly at his inadvertently caustic tone.
The officer chose to ignore it. “You started by dashing into Beld’s blade. Why?”
“A giant sword like that isn’t much good if your opponent’s so close your wrists hit him instead of the blade.”
That officer nodded, then a different one asked a new question. Marik needed to explain his reasoning behind every action taken during the fight up to the point when Beld had nearly knocked him out. Finally, they glanced at one another, communicating with their eyes.
The senior officer said, “Very well then. Return your weapon to the pile and join the men on the western side of the road. Secondary trials will begin tomorrow.”
Marik wasted a whole moment staring at them, amaz
ed. True, several other men who lost had been sent to the western hill, but Marik felt his performance had lacked any true skill. His carelessness in relaxing merely because he scored a strike on Beld ended with him nearly having his neck broken. In any real fight, his life would have ended today.
“Well,” Janus ejaculated at him suddenly. “What are you waiting for? Get moving! I’ve got hundreds of men left to process!”
He rubbed his aching head, that blow must have shaken me more than I thought, dropped his weapon, retrieved his pack and shuffled across the patch of ground he’d so recently encountered closer than he had wished to. Chatham waited by the road with arms folded, his fool’s grin plastered to his face.
“An’ well now laddie, here you went an’ brought me such a lovely bouquet o’ colorful flowers, an’ me with nothing to give you in return but this.” He withdrew from his armpit a small pot containing the salve Marik usually applied to his bruises after they finished sparring for the day.
“It must look bad if you were ready with it.”
“I wouldn’t go proposing to my heart’s delight just at this particular moment if I were you.”
“I thought so.”
“But look here now! My gloomy buddy has caught the aged eye o’ the master o’ the ceremonies! Let’s watch an’ be ready with a hearty laugh for him at his miserable performance.”
Marik glanced back to see Harlan matched against an opponent far more human looking than Beld. He turned his attentions to the salve. Touching his burning face felt like probing an open wound, which maybe he was come to think of it. Later he would need to fill the cooking pan with water to get a good reflection of his abused flesh.
And speaking of abused flesh, I can’t wait to get a hold of that old bastard Janus!
* * * * *
The remaining candlemarks passed uneventfully for Marik. Harlan and Maddock both performed well, joining their friends on the western side while their opponents were sent away. Most remaining men showed potential with only a handful standing out. Whenever the few women in the crowd were called forth, they made mincemeat out of their opponents. He might have laughed at that were if not for the glowers from the men surrounding him.
Marik’s attention was caught by an unusual fighter who looked around his own age, yet whose hair was strangely gray. Not the same shade of gray as Janus’ wispy remaining strands, but different in a way Marik could find no words for. He had never seen quite that color before.
He watched the young man enduring the officers’ questions. After studying the fighter at length, he realized the stranger had to have been talking with them three times longer than anyone else. What about him could have given them so many questions to ask?
Marik anticipated seeing this match, given the time needed for them to finish talking. Especially since the gray-haired youth’s opponent, a nondescript man who had listened the entire time, looked closer to being unnerved than any other fighter so far.
Both selected swords. When Janus shouted for them to begin, the youth remained still, letting his opponent charge him. In a flash so quick that Marik missed it, the second man was disarmed and on the ground. The gray-haired fighter stepped away, allowing the second to regain his weapon for a fresh attempt. Marik watched closer the next time. He saw the youth shift his opponent’s blade slightly with his own, angling it away while stepping inside his reach and tripping the man with his own momentum. Then he spun and kicked the blade from his foe’s grip as he fell.
This happened three times. Despite the different approaches taken by the older, battle-hardened fighter, he always ended by eating the dirt. In a gesture of either pure arrogance or a calculated move designed to infuriate his opponent, the youth tossed his blade away toward the judging tables.
He challenging the man to strike him with an imperious gesture…and took down his foe in moments. The youth must have tired of the unbalanced bout because he returned to the judging tables, not waiting for Janus to start his baying.
After only the briefest dialog with the officers, he recovered his pack, then crossed the hillside to claim as his territory a tree set far back from the road. His flustered opponent also returned to the tables. Surprisingly, Janus called a new fighter from the gathering to be his opponent. Marik figured the panel must have been unable to accurately judge his talents against a foe whose level far surpassed his own.
In the end, that applicant failed under the judges’ standards anyway. The light faded to hues a miniscule shade from true night when the panel processed the final pair. Janus shouted into the darkness through his horn.
“Secondary trials begin two candlemarks after dawn tomorrow. Be on the far side of the hill at that time. If you’re late, don’t bother coming at all!”
He left with his clerks who had been given the task of carrying the document boxes. The Homeguard followed with the wooden training weapons and the tables.
The three friends and Marik retreated to the hill’s base to reclaim their little patch beneath the tree line. Chatham grumbled about having to find the rocks in the dark for the fire ring that he had taken the trouble to kick apart that morning. Even Harlan chimed in, stating it was too late to set traps for the daytime wildlife who would be nested down already, and too dark to set overnight traps for the nocturnal prey. Maddock, as always, added little to the discussion.
Marik felt too tired to think about anything while he unrolled his bedroll. It had been a long day. His wounds ached with a throbbing heat. Tomorrow would be much tougher than today, he felt sure, and he wondered how well he would deal with it. He drifted off, unable to stay awake and share in whatever fare Harlan would cobble together over the fire.
Chapter 08
With one-hundred-twenty men washing out the day before, the second trial needed to eliminate a further fifty. Marik gazed at today’s field of combat. That would certainly be no problem. Most likely there would be at least fifty men injured so badly they would need the Homeguard to carry them away.
Kingshome’s northern hillside was barely shy of being a cliff face. To Marik, the differences were merely technical. Scattered patches of scrub grass would provide inadequate traction in the loose soil and gravel covering the slope. Rocky protrusions representing serious obstacles were sprinkled about the steep grade. The town bordered the southern edge of a natural rock field, the rolling stone waves scarring the heavily forested land of Galemar. Incursion into the town from the north would be impossible for any but foot soldiers.
How difficult would this trial be? He had squeaked through yesterday’s culling round because he had impressed the officers in one of their criteria for judging fighters. Could he do so again? After the throbbing in his face had receded during breakfast, a heady elation had thrilled through him. For the first time he had stood alone, relying on no other person, forging his way solely with his own skills. This was his choice, and he would stand or fall depending on his worthiness. Marik intended to fight hard and earn it.
“Groups of three against groups of three! One will start at the west point, the other at the east,” shouted Janus’ grating voice. He pointed at two separate boulders halfway down the hill, both painted red to stand out from their brown brethren. “Time limit is half a candlemark. Failure to demonstrate your ability will result in expulsion. You, you there, and you up there! You’re the first group. Choose weapons and talk to the officers.”
The first three men chose from the wooden practice weapons piled beside the judging tables, which had been placed in a leveled niche at the slope’s edge. Old and weathered, the flat surface had obviously been dug out many years ago, affording the panel a clear view downward. After the men identified themselves, the clerks shuffled papers and the officers re-interviewed them. Janus selected the second group while the first picked their way down the steep slope toward the eastern start point.
“One more thing; the object of the battle is to capture your foe’s boulder! Victory goes to the team who accomplishes this. Also, boundary lines of th
e top and the bottom of the hill are in effect. Crossing these lines disqualifies you!”
The first group scowled from where they had paused several dozen feet downhill to hear the delayed announcement. They spoke quietly as they continued the remaining distance.
Watching this battle from overhead gave the other applicants an opportunity to see the tactics employed by the first two teams. How the men chose to complete their task would be interesting. This test would show the judging officers which men could think when they needed to, among other combat capabilities.
The east group left one man by their boulder. He chose to conceal himself behind a large rock formation near at hand. His teammates went high and low respectively, the first slipping while he clawed his way up the scree-covered slope, the second nearly tumbling down to the bottom. When each reached a comfortable level, they began a careful advance to the west.
The western group chose an all-out attack; one high, one low and one in-between. They advanced faster than their counterparts so the first confrontation occurred on the field’s eastern side. Close to the top, the two high men encountered each other. A fight ensued.
West struck. East caught the blade with his own, but lost his footing and slid downhill. The western fighter took advantage. He pressed his attack by striking his opponent’s shoulder.
East lost his blade. Instead of trying to recover it, he lashed out, grabbing West’s ankle. Surprised and on unsure ground to begin with, West lost his balance. He tumbled downhill to collide with an outcrop several feet below. East began searching for his fallen blade while favoring his bruised shoulder.
During their fight, the eastern low man had caught sight of his own counterpart. The other man advanced slightly higher on the slope. East chose to avoid pressing an attack uphill. Instead he attempted subterfuge. He moved from boulder to boulder when his opponent’s movements blocked his sight line.
It seemed to be working until the western fighter became aware of the man avoiding him. He angled his path down the slope rather than straight across it. East realized this and froze, but West had already closed to within two boulders.
