“With everything he throws at me? You cannot ask this of me!” Selot yelled, disbelieving.
“Yes, I can. That’s what I’m doing!” Janavel retorted, his face twisted in rage.
Selot looked at him, dismayed. “It’s the first time I have retaliated,” he said, trying to swallow the frustration that he was experiencing.
“And it will be the last time, or you’re out! The Council will find something else to occupy your futile existence! Your complaints are untenable! When I asked you to not confront Marrhit any more, I meant verbally too, as obvious as it sounds!”
“Why does it have to be this way?” Selot asked him through gritted teeth.
“Do not allow yourself to ask such stupid questions! Have you already forgotten everything?” Janavel snarled. “How can I count on you if you lose control over some stupid insult? Did I waste my time when I spoke to you at the great oak tree?”
Selot lowered his head at last, contrite. He understood.
“Now return to the middle of the arena and take what you deserve.” Janavel signaled to Marrhit to approach once more. He let him choose the style of combat he wanted. Marrhit liberated himself from weapons. He wanted hand to hand combat.
“Selot is prohibited from striking, he may only contain those he receives.” Marrhit smiled, pleased by it. Selot rounded up his courage and walked into the arena.
The rest of the day was a thrashing, rather than a training session. Marrhit got his revenge and made the most of the penalty imposed on his adversary, without mercy. Selot tried to contain this brutality in the most effective way possible. The speed and force with which Marrhit made his onslaught were frightening. Janavel gave the order to cease only when He saw that Selot was unable to avoid or take on the blows in a controlled manner. Marrhit’s was impatient with the interruption. He made one more assault after Janavel’s order to stop. He landed a violent kick into Selot, penetrating his guard which had just been lowered. He drove his knee into his chest and yanked his head up by the hair. He demanded his apologies, which Selot gave through red, swollen eyes. He conveyed authentic sorrow for having offended his mother and for not carrying out the task as asked. Marrhit made him repeat it three times, before establishing that that was enough. He threw the boy’s head to the ground and went away.
Janavel helped him up. He did what was necessary to straighten two broken fingers. “I will fetch Asheeba so you heal quickly. We cannot remain still.” His darkened face was evidently contrary.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Selot said firmly.
“Do not waste your breath in saying something I already know.” He watched the master busy himself with splints. He didn’t manage to fix the splints correctly on the left ring finger which was bent unnaturally. It was dislocated. Without any forewarning, he straightened Selot’s finger and then wrapped it up as best he could. Selot didn’t breathe a word.
They fought over the days that followed, first hand to hand combat, then with swords, balanced on a long board placed five cubits high. Selot fell badly in one of the first attacks when he stepped backwards.
“This pathetic crossbreed is to guarantee my safety?” Marrhit asked contemptuously, spitting on Selot as he tried to get up.
Janavel then instructed that each one watch how the other carried out the exercises against a wooden cut-out. Selot remained impressed by the power, speed and precision with which Marrhit delivered the blows, accompanied by a resistance that he didn’t know was even possible. At the end of his demonstration, there was nothing left of the cut-out except a few exploded pieces.
This was followed by a lengthy exercise where they took turns at thrusting their weapons while the opponent defended the attack. They used sharpened arms and wore heavy coats of mail. Marrhit’s strikes all hit their mark. Selot was not spared a thing. Having already been victorious in his defense, the older one then amused himself by twisting his upper body and plunging his full strength into the boy’s stomach. Selot’s strikes rarely hit their mark instead, and the few that did only served to irritate Marrhit’s anger. One day, after four hours of this exercise, Janavel allowed a little rest. Selot was panting and bent in two, beaten and dirty. Marrhit looked like he had just come back from a jaunt in the woods. His superiority was oppressive. He was unsettled, and he was chomping at the bit like a horse locked in too long. He wasn’t happy when he couldn’t hurt Selot. As soon as the master was out of sight, he landed a violent punch into his side. “Sooner or later you will regret staying. You make me sick. You’re a disgusting abomination. You’re birth is a repugnant error.” Selot accepted the blow and the insults without a murmur of complaint.
The weeks went on and on. Selot began to learn Marrhit’s movements and became more adept at defending himself from attack. Marrhit’s insults intensified, along with Selot’s ability to ignore them. They were days that resembled a recurring nightmare. He made it through to the evenings half-dead, pain pulsing through every part of his body. He was finding it increasingly difficult to cure his wounds himself. His trembling hands could not even hold a pitcher of water or prepare herbs with a pestle. Janavel yielded and allowed Asheeba to take care of him. One evening he arrived so swollen in the face that the healer began to cry for him.
“I love you like a son, my boy. To see you like this, makes me feel bad.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered through swollen lips. Asheeba’s medical cures were miraculous and the following morning, Selot presented himself punctually for the day’s training. Each day that went by gave him the ability to anticipate Marrhit’s moves, and to contain those same attacks. The speed with which he learnt surprised himself and his brother, but not Janavel, who knew by now the precise origins of his inner strength and abilities.
One day, Selot rendered inoffensive three assaults in a row; his brother looked at him wickedly. He got even when Selot was drinking at the fountain a little later on during a break. Before Janavel could intervene, Marrhit had already thrown him to the ground and held him down with his knee buried deep into his chest. He grabbed his ears with his hands and said, “I’ll send you back to that whore of a mother in pieces!” Selot put his legs in that space between his chest and his brother’s arms with lightning speed; pushing his feet against his adversary’s shoulders, he freed himself with a backward roll on the ground. Marrhit prepared himself for a brawl. Janavel did not intercede. Selot did not put up his guard. He touched the cross carved over his heart. Selot limited himself to dodge the attack. “What is it that bothers you about me, Marrhit? You are a legitimate son, and I am only a bastard son who has nothing. What do you hate about me so much?” Marrhit spat in his face. “You make my stomach churn, you’re a freak of nature.” Selot did not retaliate. He held his arms open wide. “I do not hate you.” Marrhit jumped forward, holding his forehead against Selot’s, almost touching. They looked at each other. Their reciprocal stares did not cross the stone of which they were made. Selot however, opened up his soul, the bare minimum necessary to allow his emotions to shine through in that moment. There was no hate. There really wasn’t. Marrhit retreated ever so slightly, like a snake which suddenly no longer sees its prey, and does not know what to do. “I will beat you to a pulp every day, until you regret you didn’t die at birth,” he said, before going off to the fountain to drink. Selot held his breath. He was used to the derision, ferocious insults and the continual threats. He summoned the strength he had experienced near the great oak tree, and he let the words imbibed with poison, run down his back. The power of the Uicic language made them seem real, like a blade that cuts. It happened again, more than once, where he was unable to dominate it straight away. Mostly when Marrhit was referring to his mother. In those moments, Janavel’s severe looks of warning helped him go ahead without making his heart beat wild.
The next day, Janavel pitted the two Vetems against a small army. They faced forty Uicic guards who were responsible for protecting the Valley in case of enemy attack.
“We haven�
��t got much time left for your training. Today, you must learn to become ‘Baìah’, or rather, a sole warrior. Baìah is the union of one or more warriors in spirit only. It’s futile that I explain it to you. You must feel it for yourselves. You must find it on your own. That is the only way you will be able to face the test which is to come.” Marrhit pursed his lips. He knew what this was about and it was evident he was displeased with having to follow his master’s request. Selot on the other hand had no idea of what to expect. Janavel signaled to the Uicic guards to ready themselves. The forty Uicics would not pose any threat to the two Vetems, but the exercise called for Marrhit and Selot to each fight with both legs chained to the ground, and only a few inches of give. Janavel ordered their strongest fighting arm to be tied behind their backs. Marrhit and Selot were placed back to back.
“When you are attacked on more than one front, combat in this formation. Selot, you know Marrhit’s techniques and movements by now. You must defend him; your own defense will be inferior. He has the priority. You must keep him unharmed.” Marrhit broke out in a mocking smile. “Well, why doesn’t the Council simply give me an extra coat of mail. It would be more useful than this worm.”
The forty guards were divided into four batteries of ten, which were then divided into two groups; one group of six in front of Marrhit and one group of four positioned in front of Selot. They began their attack. Swords were blunted so they wouldn’t cause deep wounds. The two handicaps given by Janavel’s orders did not seem to cause any great difficulty for the two Vetems. The speed with which the two warriors wielded their swords, using their less-favored arm, was incredible. Janavel watched on in satisfaction. After a few minutes, what was supposed to happen did. Marrhit could feel that Selot was trying to support his movements. It left him free to move, using space and intervals of time that remained nestled between one motion and the next, as he saw fit. More than once, the young Vetem bore the brunt of blows and wounds, to permit Marrhit to be completely free to move. After a short while, the rhythm with which they fought joined together. They had come into contact with each other, increasing the strength of one to the other. The two Vetems became aware of it and it was a surprise for both. Marrhit was confused. He would never have imagined that his brother could transmit so much energy to him. He’d never experienced Baìah so intensely with someone else before now. It wasn’t a wholly unpleasant sensation. He had been reluctant to accept it at first, but soon enough he found it exhilarating and it gave him strength, communicating pauses and motions to his brother so he could defend better. Selot realized it and smiled. Even if they had to defend and attack in the same very narrow space, they did not overlap in their movements, nor did they hinder one another even once. At the end of their first battle they had become a single entity. A single warrior. Janavel would never have bet on success at their first attempt. The Uicic guards admired them, and gave it their all during combat, because they knew they were participating in the creation of excellence.
With the first battery defeated, it was now the turn of the second sequence, then the third, without any rest for the two Xàmvetems. Selot gasped and wheezed and was visibly tired. Marrhit was refreshed and calm. It was now time for the fourth battery, the fiercest of all, made up of the best. Janavel had conveniently left them for last. Seeing the Vetems were so much better, he ordered that Marrhit’s left eye be covered and that of Selot’s right.
Once more, six guards attacked Marrhit and four guards attacked Selot. After a few minutes of even fighting, two Uicics attacked Marrhit from the left, where his eye was covered up. Marrhit was aware of only one, but he hadn’t guessed the moves of the one further behind. It was a well-devised maneuver. Selot had seen it coming and after dodging a strike from one of his attackers, raised his sword to Marrhit’s side and blocked the hit, but in doing so left his guard completely open. A kick would have sufficed to ward off the adversary who was about to attack his undefended side, but his legs were chained to the ground and he could do nothing more than take the hit fully in his side. His heavy mail coat was the only thing that softened the blow. He doubled over in pain. He regained his position almost immediately, covered in those few seconds by several formidable strikes by Marrhit who in the meantime had disarmed almost all of his adversaries. In these few exchanges, the two Vetems had finally gotten the better of the situation. They remained on their feet, back to back, with their swords in hand. Both of them were savoring the sensation of unity that still enveloped them. The forty Uicic guards pointed their weapons up to the sky and sent up a shout of ‘Uch’ to the heavens, their slogan of victory which honored them. The cry echoed throughout the Valley. Marrhit and Selot turned to one another and exchanged stares. Marrhit however, did not return the smile of communion that Selot offered him. “This doesn’t change a thing, you disgusting crossbreed,” he said contrarily with a hardened expression. Selot pursed his lips. Janavel did not have a single word of praise for either of them. He conceded a brief pause, while the Uicic guards went away. He then bid them to stand in front of him.
“You’re still not ready. The most important part is still missing.” Marrhit displayed no sign of tiredness. Selot was exhausted. The physical resistance of his brother continued to impress him. The announcement of another encounter right off the back of the preceding one, made his wrists give way.
“Marrhit, you must let Selot provoke within you your ‘absence’ to understand how to pick up on the warning signs a moment before, so he can protect you in battle.”
“I refuse,” was the immediate response. “I will not deliberately put myself into the hands of this... excrement,” he concluded, in disgust.
The master was not upset. Selot thought a similar action from him would have cost him dearly.
“Fine,” Janavel instead gave in. “Well then, Selot, it’s up to you. He’s all yours.” He gave the signal to fight, but for the first time there was no indication of how they were to combat. Marrhit raised an eyebrow. No orders, no rules. No limits. A malicious smile played on his lips.
Selot paled.
“What? How?” he asked, disoriented. He had no idea how to interpret that command. He didn’t even understand what it meant. Janavel placed himself directly in front of him, unnerved by his hesitation. “I’ll try to be clearer. Confront him. Fight freely. Weapons sharpened. The only rule: do not aim for the head or vital organs. You must find away to make Marrhit’s conscience fall by the wayside, even if he has no intention of collaborating, as you can see. You must do this so you can comprehend exactly what happens, what you feel within him. You must recognize the phenomenon to be able to intervene swiftly, even if he doesn’t want to be helped. What you need to take into consideration is that this does not diminish your responsibility towards him.”
“I’m going to enjoy myself,” Marrhit said, but at the same time surprised that Janavel seemed to be so sure of the real possibility Selot might actually get the upper hand in an undertaking of this sort.
Selot was left speechless. There was hardly any chance to win in a direct clash with his brother, let alone now. He didn’t have any intention of contesting the received order, but he couldn’t possibly face a trial like this. It would simply be a miracle to remain on two feet at the end of an open fight. He could never have imagined Janavel would force him to fight openly under such circumstances. He was weary, whereas Marrhit looked like he’d just returned from a warm up run. Apart from resisting a likely massacre, he also had to find a way of intentionally causing the absence of Marrhit’s conscience, a mysterious mechanism of which he knew nothing; of which no one knew anything; of which he’d only been witness to by chance. And yet, Janavel’s uncompromising expression excluded the fact that this might all be some kind of joke. He saw Marrhit savoring the chance to defeat him with ease, in a confrontation practically without rules. This was his golden moment to make him finally pay even more than he had in the previous weeks, ever so kindly offered up by the master. Selot glanced at Janavel again. The master’s
request was clearly absurd. So he started laughing. He laughed heartily. He planted the sword in the ground and laughed for a good few minutes. He laughed, doubling over as he did so. The laugh transformed itself into a cry. A cry within a sigh. He looked longingly at the peak of Mount Kisov. He thought of everything that had occurred in the last months. He thought of all the decisions he had made and which, one after the other, had brought him here on the edge of the impossible.
“Fine,” he finally told his teacher. “Bet your coin and enjoy the show.” Janavel lifted an eyebrow. He took out a silver coin from a little bag, and placed it on a nearby rock. Marrhit chose his weapon of choice: twin swords. Selot held the sword he favored and set off, in attack. The first encounter took on the semblance of earlier training sessions. His face ended up in the dusty earth of the arena. He took a moment to think and in the meantime, kept on with his useless attacks.
I must force his Vetem faculties, he said to himself, remembering the information he’d picked up from the master. Marrhit’s expression was one of stone; he didn’t move a muscle. Selot grabbed a second sword and made a lightning-speed attack. He searched the eyes of his adversary in that moment of surprise to put him on his guard, but he only encountered a metallic surface; impenetrable like a treasure chest. The two Xàmvetems studied one another at length, changing their positions of defense several times. In the meantime, Selot thought frantically. He tried to remember every detail of that morning when he and Marrhit had fought. He suddenly had a hunch. Something between a memory and a discovery. He tried a couple of lunges, and avoided two or three blows. He concentrated on the spasm in Marrhit’s unassailable eyes, patiently observing the sensations they emitted. He noticed something imperceptible, so subtle that it could have been nothing more than a suggestion. He returned to attacking. Marrhit started to mock him, avoiding his attempts cleverly. He observed that he was tired and had little concrete possibility of challenging him.
The Creed Page 9
