Steel And Flame (Book 1) (20 page)

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, amazed. 
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.