by J. T. Wright
Then the Beast came rushing out with a high-pitched squeal, and Trent was leaping over the fence to splash into the mud. The battle had begun.
He’d been looking forward to this ever since he’d overheard it being planned. A fierce, unarmed exhibition of Agility and cunning was how he pictured it. The planners had been worried it would last too long or end in victory for the sly Beast. Apparently, that had happened in the past when the animal wore out the pre-Awakened warriors with its slippery maneuvering. Though he was told he mustn’t interfere with the hunt itself, Trent had found the prospect of a front row seat exciting enough to offset his disappointment.
The reality didn’t quite live up to the image he had built in his head. The men went over the fence and the children slipped through it as “The Beast” made its appearance. “The Beast" was a pig! More precisely, it was a piglet, not much taller than Dreq, and greased to a shine. Its battle cry pierced Trent’s ears, a shrill annoying sound and nothing like the howl he had envisioned.
Trent was at a loss as he watched the pig dash through the spread legs of one boy without offering a bite or a kick as it went. The boy’s arms closed on air, and though the pig didn’t so much as nudge him, the redheaded boy still fell face first in the mud. When one of the mediators set the boy back on his feet, wiped the mud from his eyes, and then pushed him back into action, Trent realized why everyone had tried to talk him out of participating.
It seemed his job was to keep the pig and the children running, not to gloriously hold off a raging Beast while the kids… Trent wasn’t sure what he had expected the kids to do. From his interactions with them, he’d learned that the un-Awakened were hopeless when it came to combat. Their zeal for training was admirable, but their reflexes just weren’t developed, a fact that these tiny warriors demonstrated again and again.
Trent stomped his foot, sending the pig racing back towards them, and called for the boys to spread out and encircle the creature. They ignored him, bouncing off one another as the piglet ran by unhindered. He shouted encouragement, joining the other men in picking up boys that lost their footing. It was amazing how they managed to do that. The mud was not that deep. Trent didn’t even need Steady Footing to stay upright in the mess.
The planners had worried the event might last too long, and Trent was starting to share their concerns. Trent lifted a crying boy over the fence and placed him in the hands of his waiting mother. He was the third such warrior Trent had carried from the battlefield and all in about ten minutes. At this rate, it wasn’t time, but the piglet’s victory that Trent worried over. He had to find a way to turn the tide.
There was one warrior that Trent thought might carry the day. Evelyn, Mick’s straw-haired daughter, had the courage to accomplish the impossible. That could be seen by the fact that she was the only girl that had chosen to participate. Trent just had to push the pig in her direction.
Finding Evelyn was simple enough. Turning away from the fence, she was the first thing Trent spotted. Perhaps it was because she was lighter than the other children, or maybe she had Awakened and learned a Skill that let her traverse the mud with ease. Whatever steadied her feet, Evelyn practically flew over the muck, not gracefully but certainly fast.
It would have been more impressive if she hadn’t been running towards Trent and away from the pig that squealed as it chased her. With only seconds to act, Trent leapt into action. Grabbing Evelyn by the waist, he lifted her up, turned her around, and set her back on the ground. Then stepping past the screaming girl, Trent hooked his foot under the piglet’s belly and propelled it into the air, shouting, “Catch!”
Mothers gasped, pressing their hands to their mouths. Fathers shrieked, pulling at hair and beards. Evelyn continued screaming, but when the piglet neared her, she closed her eyes and swung her arms out. When they closed, those arms wrapped around the mud and grease-covered pig.
It couldn’t last. The wide eyes of all present expected to see Evelyn’s hold broken instantly by the valiant hog. All eyes except Trent’s. He was confident that any hands that could hold Dreq against his will for an entire day could wrestle a simple pig into submission.
It was a toss-up which was louder and shriller, the pig’s squeals or Evelyn’s screams. With eyes squeezed shut and arms clasped tightly, the girl’s face was as pink as the piglet had been at the start of the game. Amazingly, somehow, she persevered. The pig squirmed and wiggled but could not escape.
“To the exit gate!” Trent’s voice went up an octave as he shouted, “Quickly! Move! With a purpose! Now!”
Evelyn had never been taught to move with a purpose. The phrase was merely gibberish to her. It was probably her father’s presence and not Trent’s command, that caused her eyes to pop open and her feet to fling mud as she ran. She ran bawling and screaming, mouth open and snot flowing, but she ran, and she kept hold of her pig. She almost made it too.
She was only a few feet away from the open gate and her father when the pig scrambled loose. Girl and piglet exited side by side, one to be captured by quicker, sturdier hands than those of a child and the other to be swept up by her father, who held her high and announced, “The winner!”
Evelyn’s tears stopped immediately as the crowd roared in approval. Wiping her nose on the sleeves of her father’s robe, Evelyn lifted her tiny fists and shook them in victory. Her eyes shone, terror forgotten, as she remembered why she entered the arena in the first place. The pie and wooden sword that had been offered as prizes were hers!
Climbing back out of the pit, Trent cast Self-Clean. He had to cast it a few more times as the mediators climbed out beside him and slapped his back with mud-covered hands thanking him for his intervention.
“Could-a lasted forever if not fer you, lad,” one man said, slumping to the ground and leaning against the fence. “Hafta remember that fer next year.”
“It’s alright fer him to do it,” another said twirling his mustache between his fingers. “The violet-eyed... Well, proper fer him to help, but tisn’t right fer us. Is it?”
“Damned iffen I know, but I fer one will be tryin’ it.” The first man made a kick with his foot and frowned at the results. “If I can. ‘Spect it’s harder than it looks.”
Kerry, who had been holding Trent’s pack, trotted up just then and recognized the man who spoke. A widower with no children, Jeb was a frequent poster of Quests. Kerry had cleaned the man’s barn often enough to be comfortable asking, “If everyone hates it, why do it?”
“Tradition, Kerry boy! Tradition!” Jeb thumped the ground with his fist for emphasis. “And it’s not usually as bad as it has been the last few years. The youngins these years is smaller and younger than they should be. The last crop of chasers Awakened sooner than we expected.”
“Maybe it’s time for a new tradition, Jeb. That was brutal.” Kerry shuddered as he handed the pack to Trent. “This Storage Device of yours is weird, Trent. I saw you put your shirt in it, but all I can find inside is a pickax and a rolled-up hide.”
“Ya can't change tradition, Kerry!” Jeb snorted. “That’s why they call it tradition and not… not…”
“Foolhardy? Stupid? Asinine?” The light feminine voice that cut through Jeb’s floundering caused everyone but Trent to wince. Kerry quickly stepped back as a slender girl in a green dress replaced him in front of Trent. “If not for Trent, you would have had to catch the pig yourself, Jeb Miller.”
“Wasn’t as bad as all that. The boys were startin’ to find their rhythm!” Jeb matched the girl’s disapproving tone, and Kerry found himself admiring the man for his courage as he covered his swollen cheek with his hand. “And you mind how you talk to your elders, Cally Damcott. You keep that tongue for your siblings and remember your manners.”
Cally dismissed the old man with a sniff and turned back to the original reason she’d come over. “Trent, you’re not going to wear that ratty old shirt, are you? And those pants are a disgrace. We can surely do better than that!”
“This is m
y best shirt. And my armor will cover it,” Trent answered. He tried to move back, but Cally matched him step for step, sticking close as she brushed at his shoulders.
“That won’t do. You can’t wear armor all the time!” She took the pack from Trent’s hands and thrust it back at Kerry. “You come with me. My brother’s feast day clothes will fit you well enough. I may have to take the pants in, and you’re a little taller, but I’m a fine hand with a needle. A good cook too, you won’t find better in Bellrise! Have you tried my…”
Kerry settled down beside Jeb as Cally hooked her arm through Trent’s and led him off forcefully. Kerry wanted to rescue Trent, he really did, but he had already felt the girl’s fist once. Once was plenty. “Temper on her, huh?”
“Not the word to describe it, lad. Bad as her mother,” Jeb muttered, “and twice as stubborn. Best you get your friend back to Bellrise sharp like after the burning, you hear? And keep him away from the Damcott barn. What Cally sets her sights on, she usually gets. You don’t fight the Damcott women, you run and hide.”
“That’ll do, Jeb.” Where Cally's voice had the men wincing, the new voice sent them jumping to their feet. Kerry kept his seat, watching in disbelief as Jeb blushed and quickly retrieved his shirt, which he hadn’t felt he needed before.
Kerry looked to the owner of the cool voice, with its unfamiliar accent. He expected to find a woman older than Cally, mature and beautiful to match the smooth, rich tones she spoke in. The face he looked up at held more lines than Jeb’s, and her hair was whiter. Wearing a grey dress and white apron, the woman was thin and stern-looking though an understanding smile lit her eyes.
“You men best be off. There’s still work to be done before dinner and the remembrance.” It was startling to hear such a young voice coming from lips thin with age, and Kerry had to wonder if there was another speaker hiding behind the old woman.
“That there is, Gran, that there is. Come on, lads, it’s not all games for us.” Jeb bobbed his head and touched his brow before hurrying off with the others in tow. Kerry would have followed them, but they were gone before he could find his feet, and he was left with the thought, just how old did you have to be for a man like Jeb to call you Gran?
“Older than you think,” the woman said, reaching out and pinching Kerry’s cheek. “Not that you should be thinking it at all.”
At first Kerry thought the woman had read his mind, then, “Did I say that out loud?”
“You did,” The woman confirmed with a brisk nod.
“I'm sorry, Gran,” Kerry said horrified. “I didn’t mean to! I would never–"
“Only Jeb Miller calls me Gran, and that’s because he’s as rotten an old man as he was a boy! Most call me Elder Geisel.” Geisel's face softened. Kerry’s broad face was so twisted with remorse, it was difficult to chastise him. “But you can call me Gran if you like. Gran but not Granny, I won’t stand for that piece of ridiculousness!”
After Kerry relaxed some and said yes ma'am, Geisel reached out and poked at his cheek. “You'll have a nasty bruise by morning if you don’t take care of that. Here, try this.”
She pulled a flat round container from the pocket of her apron and handed it to Kerry. Opening it, Kerry’s eyes filled with tears at the pungent herbal aroma that suddenly assaulted him. “Do I have to, Gran? It smells stronger than what I need.”
“What you need is to do as your told. Just rub a bit under your eye. And be careful not to touch the eye itself!” she admonished. After Kerry applied the salve as directed and returned the container to her, she said, “Good, you can listen. That will help. Walk with me… Kerry, yes?”
“I've heard talk from those you've worked for, and they all say you’re an upright lad. In fact, I haven’t heard a bad word about you all day, except for some light complaining from Cally, most of which you earned.” Kerry fell in beside Geisel as she began walking. She walked slowly but not with the careful steps of the aged. She maintained a comfortable pace for conversation, and if anything, Kerry felt clumsier than usual matching her graceful, measured stride.
“People are saying good things?” Kerry coughed into his hand. “That’s surprising. From the looks I've been getting, I thought the Guild had put out a bounty on me.”
“Those looks have less to do with you and more to do with the festival.” Geisel cast an amused look at him. “Outsiders generally aren’t welcome to the Festival of the Fall.”
“Trent seems welcome enough,” Kerry grumbled. He brightened as a thought occurred to him. “Is he from one of the local families?”
“Trent Embra is the other reason you’re getting looks you don’t deserve.” Geisel stopped to let a few children run by before resuming her walk and speaking again. “He is one of us, though not in the way you mean.”
“Prick the finger of any settled resident in Duke Al’dross’s territory, and Al’rashian blood will flow. The city may not remember, but the land, and those of us that work the land, we remember. We keep the traditions, even the foolish ones.” She flashed him a smile, white teeth, bright and healthy seeming out of place in her wrinkled face. “And one of those traditions is that violet eyes are always welcome.”
“And another is pig chasing?” Kerry quipped, feeling lost in the conversation.
“Cally would be surprised to learn that that tradition has been toned down considerably from its origins.” Geisel laughed, shaking her head, and then tucked a stray wisp of white hair back behind her ear. “The Boar Hunt was more thrilling. The pig chasing is safer and an important part of our heritage.”
“Boar Hunt? Then shouldn’t the men do the chasing?”
“The age of the participants and the number of minders are two things that have not changed. We coddle the young too much these days, but the blood has thinned, and we live in peaceful lands.” Kerry stopped walking as he tried to determine whether that had been a joke or not. The winner of this year’s chase had been a six-year-old girl! If the age of the participants had not changed, then was there a time when Evelyn would have been required to kill a boar in order to claim her prize?
“But now it is time for you to answer questions, Kerry.” Geisel spun on her heel and stopped. Kerry had to look up to meet her gaze. It was a strange feeling. In his mind, the elderly were like children, small and frail, in need of protection. Geisel had a presence like an oak tree, tall and unwavering. “Why are you traveling with Trent Embra? What are your intentions?”
“My intentions?” Kerry wanted to bluster, to tell the woman it was none of her business, but he found himself answering sincerely, “I want his help in the Dungeon. And, if possible, I'd like to be his friend.”
“That’s good! See that it stays that way,” Geisel tapped a long finger against his chest, “for your own good.”
“You’re worried I might harm him!” Kerry’s eyes narrowed indignantly. “I would never–"
He didn’t expect the laughter. It broke over him and, in other circumstances, the warmth of it would have been comforting. Geisel's laughter was free and young, and her breath smelled of mint and lavender. Knowing the laughter was directed at him spoiled its charm.
“I do not worry for Trent Embra, Kerry lad.” A hint of derision further soured Geisel’s pleasant tones. “The people I talked to today said you were smart and meant well, but that you are too trusting. They didn’t say that you were blind.
“Did you fall asleep watching the games today? The boy you would befriend won nearly every event against men twice his size and age. They were not holding back. While you,” another tap to Kerry’s chest to drive her point home, “were slapped to the ground by a girl who barely stands as high as your chin. It’s not Trent’s safety I worry about.
“It’s for a lad that folks say is too trusting, one who had been burned in the past. The problem with boys who have been burned is that sometimes they like to see others suffer from the same mistake.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out the flat container again. She pressed it in
to his hand and said, “You keep this, Kerry. It’s good for burns as well as bruises, just mind you don’t get it in your eyes. Hopefully, it will remind you not to burn Trent Embra, because if you do, you'll find out why the violet-eyed are welcomed wherever the Al’rashians are honored. As a hint, it’s not because they’re such fun to have at parties.”
Twenty-Five
“Your feet are too far apart,” Trent said absently, picking at the embroidery that decorated his sleeve. “And use both hands; left hand guides, right hand powers the strike.”
Trent and Kerry had claimed a seat on the grass after a dinner of roasted meat. Evelyn soon found them. This time, she was not looking for Dreq. The Dog was left sleeping, innocently curled up on Trent’s lap as Evelyn showed off her new wooden weapon. Somehow her prideful exhibition had turned into a serious lesson on the finer points of delivering a slash.
“You would think you were a Swordsman, the way you’re correcting her stance.” Kerry leaned back on his elbows, shaking his head., “She’s six, Trent. And quit picking at the threads. Cally will have a fit if you ruin that shirt!”
He looked about nervously, hoping his words didn’t summon a demon. Cally would probably forgive Trent for damaging the shirt. She might hit Kerry again just because. Trent didn’t see it, but Kerry knew her type.
“I am a Swordsman.” Trent reluctantly stopped messing with his sleeve. Although the white shirt with the red flowers embroidered from wrist to shoulder fit him, he didn’t think it suited him as well as the black shirt he’d been ordered not to wear. “What does Evelyn’s age have to do with anything?”
“Yeah, you’re a Swordsman. That’s why you wear knives everywhere.” Kerry rolled his eyes in the direction of Trent’s belt. “I'm surprised Cally let you keep those. It spoils the look.”
