The Swordmaster, page 11
Forand looked at the faces of his cadets. On the one hand, they seemed relieved at having escaped the short straw of facing Dragan in battle, but on the other, they seemed shamefaced at not having summoned up the necessary courage to put themselves forward. And last, but not least, he saw their genuine pride in Brawl. They were proud of their comrade for having kept his word as he stepped towards Dragan, bravely and with steely determination.
Dragan performed an unambiguous gesture – he ran the side of his hand along his throat. Brawl refused to be provoked. Now they stood facing each other. On the benches, the last bets were being laid.
Then there was silence. The soldiers knew immediately that a very special fight was about to unfold. The only thing to be heard was the whistling of the sea wind over the roofs and between the crenelations on the battlements.
Brawl said loudly: ‘The first hit is for Linnek.’
Forand turned to look at the aforementioned. The boy seemed hardly able to believe that before such a fight Brawl possessed the inner calm and confidence necessary in vowing to avenge the wound that had been inflicted on his chubby comrade.
The fight began. They circled each other warily. While Dragan stamped heavily on the sand, leaving deep footprints, Brawl floated on the balls of his feet, his prints hardly visible. Forand saw to his satisfaction that his cadets were watching the combatants’ legwork and had noticed the phenomenon, too. Neither of the fighters was willing to launch the first attack. Suddenly, the delaying got too much for Dragan. He quickly put one foot forward and thrust his sword straight out in front of him. The span of his enormous arms gave him considerable range, which surely had to surprise any opponent. Brawl, however, danced nimbly backwards, took one sideways step and hit his sword on Dragan’s onrushing arm. Not hard. Very softly, in fact. Gently, one might say.
Gryphon raised high a little black shield – the signal for a veritable hit on the blacks’ part.
Brawl’s companions cheered and clapped.
Forand heard Linnek shout anxiously: ‘Super! Remember, though, I got this far the last time. I won my first point against Dragan. That was it then. Be careful, Brawl!’
Dragan’s face was radiating barely suppressed fury. Bostun was undoubtedly a good teacher, having repeatedly hammered home the point with his fighters that they should never allow their emotions to lure them into acting with undue haste.
The spectators calmed down again – now, the only thing to be heard was the shuffling of Dragan’s feet in the sand.
Brawl said in a tone of voice that suggested he was merely ordering a beer in a tavern: ‘The second shield is for Mussand.’
Dragan’s face lengthened and reddened. But this time he seemed determined to wait for Brawl to make the first move. Hence, the combatants circled each other in the ring like a compass needle reacting to a magnet.
A soldier called out: ‘Are they fighting at all? Or just throwing shapes?’
Laughter.
‘You’re supposed to hit with those wooden thingummy-bobs,’ called out another.
Guffaws.
Brawl’s face suggested that he was spreading lard on a slice of bread whilst lounging at a table, whereas Dragan snorted furiously, pawing the sand with his right foot like a bull in an arena. This was exactly the moment that Brawl went into action. He swung his sword upwards into that of his opponent, attacking Dragan’s left side and catching him as his weight was on the wrong leg, and before the surprised cadet had a chance to shift his weight, Brawl tapped him lovingly on his chest with the tip of his weapon. A mere tickle, but more than enough for Gryphon to raise his black shield again.
A murmur rippled through the spectators. Then it grew louder. The soldiers who had staked their gold on Dragan – of whom there were many – became angry. ‘Ah, come on now! Don’t let him make a fool of you. Hit him hard!’
Brawl said in an easy-going voice: ‘The last point is for my unit. For the blacks.’
Dragan couldn’t believe his ears. His arrogance had vanished and his body language suggested uncertainty.
Captain Bostun stood by the arena, as if paralysed. Then, he suddenly started to wave his arms. ‘Finish him off, Dragan!’ he snarled.
Again, they were circling, this time in crouched positions. Forand knew the feeling. Brawl only needed one more hit, but he couldn’t allow himself to become too sure of himself.
This time, all the spectators could feel the tension. There was no commentary, only a concentrated silence.
Dragan quickly raised his sword arm over his head and prepared to strike diagonally down. If such an attack met its target, and if the sword were real, then it would slash his opponent from the collar bone down to the opposite hip. Brawl parried the blow by raising his own weapon, taking half a step back at the same time. Brawl had calculated the strength of his defensive strike well, for Dragan’s sword came to a halt just above his skull, before sliding harmlessly away.
The crowd sensed that the decisive blow was imminent. Some of the soldiers’ arms were jerking – as though they themselves were fighting in the sand.
Brawl stormed forward himself now, underestimating Dragan’s reaction speed, however. Both parried the other’s sword away so that their chests touched. With his left hand, Brawl grabbed Dragan’s crossguard with an iron grip, while Dragan simultaneously held his opponent’s wooden blade in a vice-like grasp.
These techniques would also work with genuine blades if one grasped well and hard enough. Umpire Gryphon intervened, however, for such tactics were derided when it came to fighting with wooden weapons.
‘Separate!’
But the two boys were slow to do so – after all, they had never been so close before. They were well and truly wedged into each other. They eyed each other at close quarters.
‘STOP!’ shouted Gryphon in a voice so loud that the two opponents came to themselves and reluctantly parted.
They went back to their opening positions, and the fight continued.
Dragan raised his sword again, attempting the downward diagonal stroke once more. Brawl jerked his arm up high to parry the blow a second time.
Forand knew instantly that Dragan was performing a feint and merely faking a move.
“Maks, look closely – his grip is only half-hearted, and his backswing is short a few degrees. Never fall into a trap like that, do you hear me?’
As if hearing the captain’s thoughts, Brawl lowered his sword and parried the swinging blade that would have sliced open his stomach. This opened up a gap in Dragan’s cover for the briefest of moments.
‘Dead,’ said Brawl succinctly as the tip of his sword touched Dragan’s heart.
Gryphon raised the black shield for the third time.
Cheers of jubilation split the sky. The spectators had witnessed a passionate skirmish with a surprising result.
‘For such a green cadet, a more than passable display,’ said a veteran on one of the front benches.
‘Big winnings for my few bob,’ exclaimed a soldier belonging to the small minority who had backed Brawl.
Dragan slunk out of the oval. Captain Bostun refused to look at him.
‘Two to one for black,’ announced Gryphon in a flat, neutral voice.
The subsequent fights were less spectacular. The dull clacking of the wooden swords hitting off each other, accompanied by the excited cheering of the soldiers, their roars driven solely by the bets they had placed, must have sounded odd to any uninvolved bystanders, for the noise was akin to a gang of rowdy, drunken woodcutters stuck on a four-masted ship.
Forand knew that the last arena fighting day had been cancelled with the score standing at eleven to three for the whites. His cadets were performing considerably better this time. Although for the most part physically inferior, they moved with greater speed, thereby balancing out their muscular deficit. Furthermore, the early victory of Brawl over Dragan had improved the morale of the blacks, while the opposite applied to the whites. The old warrior was particularly delighted by Impy’s three to two victory, even though his opponent had towered over him, being a good two heads taller.
‘He was the very fellow I lost to by three to one the last time,’ said the small lad, beaming.
Forand was beginning to feel that there was a point to his life – for the first time in many years. Even if only because he was giving these boys more confidence in fighting with a sword, as well as providing them with a better chance of surviving if things ever got serious. Survival wasn’t the worst thing these days.
The old warrior sighed, felt his neck and touched the medallion with the letters of his deceased son engraved on it.
‘Maks, you would have had fun with this gang, too. I’m sure of that.’
the duel
Karek was still waiting for his turn, not that he wanted it to wait for it – for him, this whole event was a total nightmare. From the very beginning, he’d wanted to get it over with quickly but instead, he was in the middle of the group who still hadn’t fought.
He was really delighted for Brawl and Impy, both of whom had won their bouts bravely and spectacularly – especially, as he knew how much the victories meant to them. Unfortunately, Eduk had lost after a valiant effort. Now there were only Blinn and himself left from his friends. The chance of overall victory was high, Blinn having made enormous strides in swordplay and being one of the blacks’ three best swordmen.
And they really did go into the lead with the next fight. After three hours or so it was nine to eight for the blacks. The noonday sun was beating down, the sand had heated up accordingly, and the combatants, their faces red and their bodies sweating, bitterly fought on for Gryphon’s shield.
The spectators began to bet on overall victory.
I should suggest to father that he take a fifth of the monies wagered as taxation – all financial problems of the kingdom would be thereby resolved.
The remaining fighters were being eyed critically. Karek could feel sceptical eyes burning into him.
‘The fat lad is useless,’ opined a soldier, giving his expert opinion.
Very encouraging. Best not to listen.
Alas, that was easier said than done. Karek had noted already that the blacks had one extra combatant. At the first event, there had been twenty-one boys on each team. Now Mussand was missing from the whites. He hadn’t been replaced yet, thought the prince, feeling a sudden stabbing in his heart. What did that mean for the final duels?
Gryphon’s loud voice shook him out of his reveries.
‘Break time!’ announced the umpire. ‘The bouts will continue in two hours. The score is ten to nine for the blacks.’
Some of the soldiers complained, others, happy about the intermission, hurried over to the well to refill their water bottles. Spectating and wagering were thirsty work.
Captain Forand led his unit to the shade of the southern wall.
‘You have all, without exception, fought well. Much better than the first time, it seems to me, for we are in the lead before the final rounds.’
‘What happens if it’s a draw?’ asked Karek.
‘How can it be a draw with twenty-one rounds?’
The opposition only has twenty fighters. Mussand isn’t with them anymore.’
Forand scratched the back of his head. ‘Hm, that presents a problem alright which no-one seems to have considered. We should have drawn lots before the fighting to free one of us from participating. Now it’s too late.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’ asked Impy.
‘I’ll clarify matters with Bostun and Gryphon.’ The old warrior got to his feet.
After a good hour he returned. His mood seemed to have worsened.
‘Bostun is accusing us of having manifestly breached the rules. Gryphon pointed out to him that he has one fighter less and should have released that information before the contest began. Blinn and Linnek – you are the two remaining combatants on our side. Yet there can only be one fight. If it is lost, the day will end in a draw.’
‘What? You mean there is no winner?’
‘No, unless…’ Forand’s voice trailed off.
‘Unless what?’ urged Karek.
The old warrior sighed. ‘Unless the two captains participate in the decisive bout. Both have to agree to it, of course, which is traditionally considered a foregone conclusion.’
‘Bostun is one of the best swordmen in the fortress,’ interjected Blinn, frowning.
‘It would be unfair, anyway. Bostun is much younger than you are.’
‘Much younger,’ echoed Eduk. ‘We simply have to win the next fight.’ As simple as that in his eyes.
‘Captain Forand?’ Karek asked solemnly. ‘Could you defeat Bostun in a bout if necessary? Or to put it better – will you defeat Bostun here and now?
Forand’s face grew even more grim. ‘Cadet Linnek. I see you want to hit me with my own weapons, or to be more precise, words.’
The old man calmed down by taking a deep breath. ‘I have already told you once that I will never command you to do anything that I would not do myself. Of course, I can beat Bostun and of course I will do so if it becomes absolutely necessary. Larger, stronger, younger are of only secondary importance.’ He tapped his forehead with his bony forefinger. ‘Never forget! This is where the important things happen.’
Blinn stood up. ‘How are we to proceed? The question is this – which of us two should fight the last fight.’ Blinn looked at the prince.
‘That will be sorted by drawing lots. Gryphon has thus decided.’ Forand nodded towards the old, hook-nosed soldier perched on his stool.
A short time later, Karek and Blinn drew a straw each from the umpire’s closed fist.
‘Whoever has drawn the short straw fights.’
The boys compared their straws, and Blinn’s stalk measured half the length of Karek’s.
Did lady luck really smile on me there? And it’s to our advantage, for Blinn is definitely the better fighter.
The benches filled again as did the standing space behind them. The last bout of the tournament was about to begin: Blinn versus Matoruk.
The blacks urged on their comrade excitedly. Losing was no longer possible anyway – in this regard, they considered it already an amazing triumph when compared to the previous competition.
The combatants took up their positions. A thrilling contest ensued, for both fighters were swift and skilful, the blunt edge of their practice swords touching their opponent repeatedly – if only barely. But eagle-eyed Gryphon didn’t miss these hits. Soon, it was two-all, and the next shield would decide things.
Karek held his breath.
Blinn took a backward leap towards the prince, parrying a hit from Matoruk and beginning his riposte. For a brief moment, the white cadet neglected his cover. This could only mean victory for the blacks.
Brawl leaped to his feet.
But what did Blinn do? He glanced at Karek and winked surreptitiously. Then he stopped in his tracks and did nothing. Matoruk’s sword hit his arm.
Gryphon raised the white shield and announced: ‘Ten-all. The contest has finished in a draw.’
Karek couldn’t believe it. Had Blinn deliberately lost? Thrown away victory? No, he shook off his doubts. That was something he simply could not believe. Yes, the draw was a considerable improvement on their total failure the first time around, but what had happened here?
A new thought struck him. Maybe Blinn ha…
A loud voice both interrupted and confirmed his idea.
It was puffed-up Bostun blustering: ‘In order that this day is afforded a victorious team, I challenge Captain Forand to the decisive contest.’
‘Very brave of you wanting to fight granddad,’ commented one of the veterans.
Captain Forand seemed less than enthusiastic as he lowered his gaze, which seemed to some of the soldiers to suggest fear and uncertainty.
‘The lad has reached such a great age, you should leave him in peace. He hasn’t a hope against Bostun.’
Another voice contradicted him: ‘If granddad behaves like a captain, then he can fight like one, too – even against such a powerful opponent as Bostun.’
Forand snapped at Blinn, but so quietly that apart from him, only Karek could hear what he said: ‘You did that on purpose. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Are you intent on making a show of me?’
Blinn seemed shocked. ‘I’m…I’m sorry. It was a moment of madness – I believe in you. Especially after what you said to us – I was sure that you would beat him. That creep really does deserve a beating. I…I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.’
The old warrior looked even older than he normally did – which was an achievement in itself.
‘What is to become of us two?’ mocked Captain Bostun. He leaped up, not bothering to hide his impatience. ‘The whole thing is a mere lark – let us show these saplings what real fighting is.’
The vicious look on Bostun’s face made a mockery of his words. Eaten up by ambition and the will to win at all costs, it was clear that Bostun had no idea of what a lark was, taking every fight deadly seriously and very personally.
Karek understood Forand’s dilemma – he wouldn’t look too good in the eyes of his boys if he backed down now, while at the same time, he didn’t like being instrumentalised, even if it meant wiping the floor with Bostun. Then again, there was always the possibility that things might not turn out as the prince expected – and that the old man would lose the skirmish. Karek had seen Bostun fighting often enough on the veterans’ training ground to know how expert a fighter the younger man was.
‘If you really want to then I will not say no. But it is already late, and in my opinion a draw is a worthy result for today’s contest.’
Spluttering scornfully, Bostun replied: ‘It seems to me that you are ducking out, old man. But with all respect to your age, I cannot allow myself to withdraw my challenge. All the cadets – with the exception of your favourite – have fought manfully. Do you really want to set a different example?’
The prince felt the blood rushing to his head.
