Hero Grown. Andy Livingstone
group were won by a short, stocky man with a curiously effective style. He had selected two swords and held both vertically in front of him. From the first instant he would march forward relentlessly, always presenting his front that snapped out thrusts and, with a flick of his powerful wrists, parried any attack.
Salus’s rod tapped Brann from behind. ‘You next.’
He picked up a sword and shield. After all, they had served him well in the Arena, and he had worked out his opponent’s weakness. The man was effective in a straight line only. All he had to do was attack from the side and it would be over.
The man’s advance was faster than it had looked when Brann was spectating. He caught the first two blows on his shield and scampered back to compose himself. As the man advanced after him, he was ready. He would feint an attack from his right and slip left, leaving it simple to cut back handed at the man’s unprotected left side.
He lifted his sword to his right and swooped left. From the first moment, it felt awkward. The man’s right sword knocked his weapon downwards, useless, and his other smacked Brann on the back of the head. It could only have been more humiliating had he slapped him on the rump.
‘Too quick,’ Salus snapped. ‘Go again.’
Brann was annoyed at his clumsy execution of his plan, but was still convinced of its worth. He would learn from his mistake. Quicker, and more clever. He would distract the man better before he made his move. His opponent was already advancing and he raised his shield into the first thrust and hacked three times quickly at the man’s left sword. He spun to his right, all the way round to take himself to left of where he was and emerging with a swing of his sword at the man’s right side. The right sword flicked his harmlessly into the air and, as his face completed the turn, it met the flat of the left sword.
Expressionlessly, the man returned to his starting position as Brann wiped his hand across his face to clear the blood emerging from his nose. Salus handed him a rag and turned to the trainer assigned to their group, a slender giant whose skin was the colour of his hair and as white as that of a two-day-dead body and whose pink eyes blinked as much as those of a dead man. ‘He will learn nothing from such short bouts, will he, Corpse. Give him one bout out to regain his few senses and put him back in.’ He wandered off to the next group.
Mongoose took his place and showed him what he was trying to do. She bore a light sword and a curious shield, as round as his had been but smaller and held by a hand alone rather than a forearm. She used her light weapons to her advantage, though, darting and swaying back and forth with a speed and agility that drew out the swords of the burly man in vain attempts to catch her as she moved. She waited for her moment, then dipped and slid, appearing at the man’s side and flicking the point of her sword to touch his ribs. The man lifted both hands in submission and wordlessly walked out of the circle.
Brann walked back in, more confident this time. He wasn’t as predictable as the burly man, and he was sure he had the advantage in strength. If he rushed her he could overpower her.
It was over quicker than the first two. As Mongoose darted forward, he slammed his heavy shield into her attack. She bounced back and, as he raised his sword to shoulder height and thrust forward hard, all his bruised pride powering the blow that would knock aside her small shield and finish the fight, she twisted and brought her sword up to meet his. With a flick of her wrist at the moment of impact, his sword flew from his hand. Before it had stopped spiralling high in the air, her sword was at his throat.
‘Next,’ the impossibly deep voice of Corpse intoned.
Miserable, he trudged from the circle. He couldn’t resist looking up at Cassian and Tyrala. As expected, both were looking at him as they conferred. Cassian beckoned Salus to them, and the three of them spoke briefly before Tyrala pointed at Brann then waved at another group. She handed Salus a strip of fabric and, whatever instruction accompanied it, it was enough to cause surprise in Salus that was quickly replaced by a respectful nod.
He loped down the steep incline and brought a fighter from another group to Brann’s. Taking the boy by the arm, he led him to replace the man at the other circle. The next combatant there was not yet chosen and, before he was, Brann was blindfolded. Feeling as vulnerable as if he had been disarmed and bound, he listened to the clashing, thumping and grunting of the next bout, trying to learn from the noises but finding it impossible. The sounds stopped and a hand between his shoulder-blades propelled him forwards. Vulnerability turned to panic and he brought up his shield and swung wildly with his sword. Laughter rippled round the circle as strong hands from behind steadied his arms and Salus’s voice steadied his nerves. Slightly. ‘We would not be so cruel as to make you fight without eyes, young warrior. Especially given your lack of success with the use of them this morning.’
Panic turned to embarrassment and the tension dropped from his muscles. In the instant that he relaxed, Salus whipped the fabric from his eyes and stepped away just in time for him to see a lean fighter, not tall but taller than him, heading straight for him, a blunted wooden spear whirling high and low two-handed as he came. He barely had time to raise his shield to meet a swing of the haft at his ribs, and swiped desperately with his sword. It bought him the moment he needed to back off slightly but the deflection off his shield had taken the spear high and the shield wide. Deftly, the man shifted his hands and the spear point streaked towards Brann’s open chest. Brann dragged his front leg back and to the side, turning him just in time to let the spear pass. Overbalanced by the lack of resistance to his weapon, the man was unable to stop it hammering into the ground. In the instant that its point bit, Brann’s foot smashed down on the shaft, snapping it in two. The man was defenceless and, eyes wide, Brann swung the rounded edge of his sword at his opponent’s torso. His wrist jarred as the half-spear knocked the weapon flying and, before he could react, the jagged end was at his throat. The man leant in, teeth bared, to hiss in his face. Tossing the shard of the spear aside, he swaggered away to collect another weapon for the next bout.
Brann’s head sank along with his heart. He trudged to the side of the circle and stood, despondent, close to despair. After the Arena, after battling Loku in Halveka and Boar on the ship, after everything he had been through, he had thought maybe he had something. Maybe he could be a warrior, maybe there was some sort of a talent he could be proud of. That could help him find a way home. Three experienced fighters had shown him the truth. His arms sagged by his side, weapons still clutched but forgotten.
He jumped as Salus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Well done, young lad.’ Brann looked up and was astounded to see a grin.
‘Well done? I would be dead if that were a real fight.’
‘Silly boy. Death bouts are rare. Fighters are far too expensive to throw away to their death. Most fights are contests of ability, where skill or strength prevail. Or both. We do not need a killing blow to see the victor, only the demonstration of one. But,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you are right, were you facing an opponent with no restraint, you would be dead.’
‘So I am useless. Three times over.’
‘So you look to improve. Many times over. That is why we have the practice circles.’
‘But even so, you say well done.’
‘Of course. I will say it again if you like.’
‘But I lost.’
‘Ah, you did.’ He clapped him again on what was threatening to become a bruised shoulder. ‘But this time you took longer to lose.’ He pointed to the pair sitting above them. ‘That was what they wanted to see.’ Cassian raised a finger to Salus. ‘And now they wish to talk. Come.’
Brann had been born in a valley and became used to climbing hills almost as soon as he could walk. Even so, he found his legs shaking on the steep, but short, incline. He suspected it was not from the effort. He stopped in front of them. A slight wave of Cassian’s hand allowed Salus to return to overseeing the training.
Two pairs of eyes stared at him for long moments. Drained of all emotion other than disappointment, and all energy other than the ability to stand – and even so, barely – he found he didn’t care about the