by Troy Clem
Though the remote threat of Onqul didn’t seem as real to Theo as the immediate danger of jumping off a cliff, he trusted Nagima.
“Alright.” Theo got on his belly and slid his legs over the edge until he was bent at the waist. His legs dangled and, using divots in the ground as handholds, he lowered more of himself over until there were no more divots and he was hanging on the edge of the cliff by just his fingertips.
“Good,” said Nagima. “Just below you I am. Feel can you?”
Theo felt a light tapping on the sole of his shoe. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Me that is,” said Nagima. “Let go you must.”
Theo hesitated. He couldn’t see the narrow ledge while dangling.
“Climb back up you might, but strength I do not think you have. Your only option dropping is.”
Theo took his right hand off the edge and felt around for any kind of handhold on the vertical surface facing him. The cliff was practically smooth. “Alright,” he said as his fingers started to cramp.
“Go,” urged Nagima.
“Alright,” Theo said again, letting go with his left fingertips. He could feel Nagima’s hand slide up his backside as he came down. Very quickly his feet touched the ledge, but as his weight came down his legs buckled; he was weak from the bird scratches and long journey. He went backward, but Nagima pulled him in and squeezed him tight. Theo was still unstable in the legs, but the cliff wall around the ledge was rough and full of handholds to grab. He found his balance.
Dak walked confidently ahead of everyone as if their path were no different than any other on the mountain. Nagima stayed close to Theo as she led him along the ledge a few hundred feet. There were handholds along the wall the entire length; Theo took his time carefully moving from one to the next until they reached a crack in the rock face—not much larger than Theo’s slender build. Nagima wiggled through and Theo followed. The crack opened up into a small, dark, and damp cave.
Nagima produced two stones from some dark corner and walked around the cave, sparking them to light several torches. In the center of the cave was a flat stone table, large enough for a person to lie on. Around the sides of the cave were wood shelves with jars, bottles, idols, and a number of items that Theo could hardly start to describe. “What is this place’s purpose?” Theo asked.
“To work in solitude or with her best apprentices, the Sha needs secret places,” said Nagima. “Danaje’s this was… mine it is now.”
“Claimed by Onqul this altar will surely be,” reminded Dak, already sitting on a stone bench carved into the cave wall.
“Her own altar Onqul has had for many years,” said Nagima. “This everyone knows.”
“What does it matter which altar she uses?” asked Theo.
Nagima put her hands on the stone table. “Many times moved has this altar. Belonged to every Sha our clan has ever known. Source of great power it has become.”
“Want it Onqul will,” said Dak.
“Get it she will not,” said Nagima.
“Others beyond ourselves did Danaje bring to this place,” said Dak.
“Honor those apprentices possess, I believe,” replied Nagima. “Loyal they will remain.”
“Certain you cannot be.”
“Faith we must have.” Nagima turned and busied herself looking through a large chest. She pulled out some cloaks and blankets, and prepared a few makeshift beds on the floor.
“Kill us in our sleep they will, if wrong you are,” replied Dak.
Theo’s eyes widened. “Kill us?”
“Honor I am certain the apprentices have,” Nagima assured.
Once Nagima had readied their beds, Theo and Dak both laid down. It was only slightly softer than the hard ground, but the cloaks and blankets did keep them warm. “I know you didn’t ask for any of this,” Theo said to Dak as they lay a few feet from each other.
“Just get some sleep,” Dak replied.
“I understand how afraid you are, but I just saw you jump off a cliff. I’ve seen you fight with no hands. There is nothing you should fear.”
“You say you understand my fear better than anyone, but if you really understood, you would know exactly what we should truly fear.” Dak turned away and stared off in the distance. “Nothing terrifies me as much as the Wall terrified me,” said Dak. He lifted his small right arm. “I lost this arm in my escape from that hell-hole, and I would have given more if I had to. I’m angry at the bastard that took my other hand, but this arm…" he smiled slightly, lost in the distance. “When I see it I’m happy because it reminds me where I’m not anymore.”
“I know what it’s like to want out of somewhere so bad that you would give up anything, but if you let that fear control you, then you might as well be stuck behind those walls still.”
Dak rolled over to go to sleep.
“You may not think of me as your friend,” said Theo. “But I think of you as mine. I don’t have the direct experience to be certain how friends are supposed to act, but I believe one primary function is to help each other.”
Theo closed his eyes and smiled. “I’m going to help you get past your fear.”
Domm’s Shroud
Ironhead’s colossal hundred-foot wooden doors were wide open—a rare occurrence—letting thousands of excited royal residents out all at once as sunlight poured in: a trade that Tess felt suited the fortress. She pushed passed the oblivious spectators—too involved in their personal conversations to notice the jostling—out into the huge field that surrounded the fortress entrance. The field was protected from most sides by mountains that cast their enormous shadows over half the clearing. A small border of trees on one section of the perimeter, patrolled diligently by Royal Guard at all times, provided the only access to Ironhead’s legendary entrance.
Travelers from all over the Empire entered from the tree line—bottlenecked back into the forest by the hundreds—and subjected themselves to inspection by the increased Royal Guard presence before being allowed to move freely through the field. Several wooden structures had been erected on the well-manicured grass, arranged to create a rectangular-shaped battlefield in between. The travelers flowing in from the forest joined the residents flowing out of the fortress doors, and together they formed lines to enter the makeshift arena where the contest would be held.
Tess got glares as she weaved through the line, but no one said a word to stop her. At first glance they must have thought her a child looking for her parents, and she was gone before they could look at her a second time. Sand had been poured to create the battlefield, which raised the contestants—now preparing for battle with the aid of their squires—about six inches above the grass. As Tess slipped past the spectators finding their seats in the stadium, she was stopped by a guard before her feet could touch the sand. “Where do you think yer goin’, miss?”
“My cousin’s in the contest, I was jus’ gonna wish ‘im luck.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Tess darted to her right, then quickly changed direction to the left in an attempt to run past—but the guard grabbed her arm and threw her to the ground. “Ow, that really ‘urt.”
“Go see a medic.”
Tess laid it on thick like her arm was broken, moaning and wincing. Then, she suddenly rolled, got to her hands and knees, and tried to launch past the guard by pushing off the balls of her feet with all her energy. The guard just stomped on her back like she was a roach.
“Do I need to squash you?”
“Most certainly not,” asserted Olister, approaching with two shirtless devotees. “Let her up,” the priest continued, walking assisted by the same gnarled wooden staff used to take down Pasqual. “She can come with me.”
“Of course, Father,” replied the guard with a bow, releasing Tess. He gave another awkward bow then backed away, diverting his attention to a group of juveniles weaving in and out of passers-by in a chasing game.
“Why’re ya ‘elpin’ me?” Tess asked skeptically as she got to her
feet.
“I like you,” replied Olister with a slight smile. “You’ve got spunk, girl.”
“I tried ta kill ya.”
Olister laughed. “You wouldn’t have killed me. You would’ve wasted more time than I had to spare at the moment, but killed me… no. If I wasn’t so pressed for time, I might have let things play out.” The priest started to walk into the battlefield, but, after a step, the wooden staff stuck deep in the sand—all the way to the grass below. “How was your waste of time?” Olister asked, stopping and turning to Tess. “I’ve always found the dungeon to be spectacular personally.”
“What’s so spectacular ‘bout it?”
One shirtless devotee lifted Olister off the ground in his burly arms—sensing the priest’s needs instinctively—and cradled Olister toward Pasqual, Servantis, and the other contestants. Tess followed along. “Those tunnels under the fortress were created when Drasque was building Ironhead. Miners used simple picks and carried out every stone by hand. Our fortress may seem like one giant mountain, but really, it’s hundreds of thousands of rocks piled on top of each other with only mud and straw holding them together. Unbelievable by today's standard, but down there you can see nature’s strength holding up Drasque’s monument to humankind.”
“Still don’t think it’s very spectacular,” said Tess. “Pile’a mud.”
Straight ahead of them, Pasqual was in traditional iron armor that looked old enough to have been the first ever smithed; his ancient iron hood was on the ground at his feet. Servantis was holding the blindfold and trying to tie it around Pasqual’s eyes, but Pasqual was squirming.
“You’ve come this far,” Servantis was saying as Tess came into earshot. “Have the courage to keep going.”
“Ya scared, Squally?” asked Tess, gently elbowing Pasqual.
“I’m not scared, Tessie,” Pasqual said.
“Knock it off,” replied Servantis, glaring at Tess.
“Do you know the history of the contest,” asked Olister, in a soft and soothing voice, diffusing the tension as the muscular porter set the priest down on the sand.
“Obviously,” said Tess. “Ya know our lineage.”
“Do you, Pasqual?” Olister asked, ignoring Tess. Pasqual shook his head no. “Your ancestor, Domm, fought in the very first contest.”
“Domm was a chump,” Tess interrupted. “Weak and pathetic.”
“Domm was the bravest of anyone to participate in the first contest,” insisted Olister, turning to Tess. “You’re buying into the stories spread by the families of the other sons. History hasn't remembered Domm for who he really was.”
“Drasque didn’t think Domm was good enough for the throne,” said Tess. “What makes ya better than Drasque?”
“Domm was the first to put on the blindfold,” said Olister. “His father had just told him that he would not be getting the throne. A throne that, from the day of his birth, he had been told he would be handed. He put on that blindfold without hesitation and without anger, despite what had just been taken away from him.”
“And ‘e was the firsta be killed,” said Tess. “Prob’ly shoulda hesitated.”
“Also not true,” insisted Olister with the patient tone of a teacher. “He fought until he couldn’t lift his arms, but he didn’t even die on the field. He died a few days later in the infirmary.”
Tess rolled her eyes. “Every ‘istory book I’ve read and every paintin’ I’ve ever seen says Domm died first.”
“It’s all poetry,” said Olister. “‘The first son was the first to die’ made for a great line in Sover’s History of Drasque, but it’s not the truth.”
“Let’s all remind Squally of ‘is impendin’ death,” laughed Tess. “This ‘as been a great pep talk.”
“Death is inevitable for every person that has ever or will ever live,” replied Olister. “Avoiding talking about it would be foolish.”
“Seems pretty foolish ta talk ‘bout death ta someone scared out of ‘is pants,” Tess mumbled to herself.
Pasqual stared daggers at Tess.
Olister put a hand on Pasqual’s shoulder, pulling his attention. “Be brave like Domm, Pasqual. It will make your house proud.” The same brawny devotee bent down and lifted the priest back up, but before they left Olister leaned in and whispered in Tess’s ear. “I'll be keeping the gun. Call it penance. Not sure where you got it, but it has a beautiful crest of House Kale on the handle, so I know it's not yours. Perhaps it’s related to your black eye.” The shirtless men swiftly whisked the priest over to a small group of contestants, their clean-shaven heads reflecting sunlight. Tess watched Olister—for a moment—chatting up the fit young boys, giving the fighter’s armor a close inspection; before turning back to Pasqual.
Pasqual lifted the blindfold to his face, and Servantis helped to tie it. “You need to leave, Tess,” said Servantis. “I can see Emmen at the edge of the sand. Go with him now and we will talk after this is over.”
Tess hit Pasqual in the armor and gave him a nod for good luck. She gave Servantis a sour stare, but did as she was told.
Emmen was waiting for Tess by the guard that hadn’t let her pass. “‘E wouldn’t let ya pass either?” she remarked.
“Cainan has been good company, regaling me with old war stories,” Emmen replied.
“Not as good as yers, old mage,” Cainan the guard replied with a hand to the heart and a slight nod.
Emmen patted Cainan on the back. “Anyway,” he said, bringing his attention fully to Tess. “I knew you’d be back this way—although I’d hoped it would be sooner. I don’t move quickly these days and it will take us more than a moment to walk to our seats.” He put out his arm for Tess’s assistance. “We’d better get going—I don’t want to miss the action.” She hooked his arm with hers and helped him walk toward the stands.
“Sorry ‘bout shovin’ ya,” Tess said.
“Don’t worry about it, lass. No worse for the wear. I seem to be faring better than you,” Emmen said with a pointed glance at Tess’s bruised eye.
“Yeah, it’s a popular topic,” Tess replied sarcastically.
“I’ve got an ointment,” Emmen said, handing Tess a small vial. “Should help the swelling. You can apply it when we get to our seats.”
Tess took the vial of yellowish goo, turning it side to side and frowning as it slowly glopped from one end to the other.
Emmen had two seats in the bottom row of the makeshift stadium, but they still had to climb up a few steps. “These wooden structures are a modern addition to the contest,” he said as he struggled up the seven small steps. “Everyone used to stand in the hot sun for hours.” The Governor of Sturn was sitting only a few rows behind them, and Tess liked the superior feeling she had, being with the most important people of the Empire. She liked looking above the heads of the masses. She liked the soft cushions. She liked almost everything about it, even if she had to listen to Emmen spew facts.
The tall wooden structures that created the arena were cushioned and shaded seating for the lucky few—only about a hundred per structure—while most of the thousands of spectators stood in front of and around the structures, clustered in small groups naturally by socioeconomic circumstances. Those that thought they were better than others pushed to the front and those that saw themselves as lesser in some way stayed back. A self-imposed segregation, but of course there was always a little shoving. It provided some amusement for Tess as she waited and applied the shockingly cold yellow ointment to her bruised eye.
The squires left as hundreds of Royal Guard soldiers flooded into the battlefield, pushing the spectators back—closer to the wooden stands—and creating a perfect rectangular border around the sand. “The formation the guards take,” said Emmen, “It was established over a hundred years ago after a contestant from the Kale line ran out before the trumpet could blast.” Tess burst out laughing. “Yes, lass, it is very amusing.” Emmen cracked a grin. “They held up the contest for two hours so the family could bring t
he young lad back. Now there’s no escape.”
The guards created a pathway through the crowd for King Rev and his wife to be paraded in, followed by an escort of four King's Guard—elite soldiers in all-gold armor—before the border was quickly re-closed behind them. The King met with each contestant, one by one, and each fighter presented their shroud to the King. The shrouds the contestants used had been the same for hundreds of years: essentially an iron dome that went over the head. It was a helmet similar to any other made in the time of Drasque, but with only one opening—to put your head inside. There were no eye holes or mouth holes or ear holes, but around the head hole were a few slits for attaching the shroud to the contestant’s armor.
“The helmet is called Domm's Shroud, after your ancestor,” said Emmen. “It is made of iron and is very heavy; some have even fallen over when presenting to the King. I don't think it will be an issue for Pasqual.” Emmen pulled out a scroll, an inkwell, and a wooden pen. Uncapping the inkwell and balancing it on the stand in front of him, he asked, “How tall is he?”
“Not sure,” said Tess.
“We'll have to measure him after. He might be a record!”
The King inspected the iron shroud and the blindfold of each contestant. Once he was satisfied with each, two of his guards attached the shroud to the contestant’s armor with leather straps as the King moved to the next.
Pasqual stood tall and well-postured. He towered over the King and had to kneel to receive his inspection. “Very nice,” remarked Emmen as two King's Guard attached Pasqual’s shroud. “Your house is honored.”
Tess felt warm from her beaming pride, but wished she had told Pasqual how proud she had been. She had been proud for a long time and had never actually told him. Instead she had just given him a nod. That’s not how she truly felt. She would tell him as soon as the contest ended, with words and everything.
