Rohvim #1: Metal and Flesh (6 page)

“What if … what if it wasn’t quite like that? I mean, what if, instead of speaking his word, as the Chronicles teach us, and we appeared out of the dust, what if he instead … assembled us out of raw metal and flesh?” Aeden asked.

The priest nodded, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, and said, “There are many who believe—myself included—that the Chronicles are more symbolic in some places than others, particularly with regard to the creation of the world. How exactly did he do it? I don’t know. Maybe he spoke and we appeared out of nowhere. Maybe he fashioned us out of material and then breathed life into us. Maybe he used another beast as a model and manipulated it until he arrived at us? It is an eternal mystery, Aeden, one which will never be answered until we stand face to face with him and ask.”

“Why would he make us different than the animals? They have feet, we have feet. They have heads, we have heads. They bleed, we bleed. They have white brittle bones, we have … metal?”

“We feel. We think. We sing. We write. We do all sorts of things they cannot. We are created in the image of the Creator—those things I just mentioned, they are holy things. Eternal things. Beasts are things of this world and can never know the divine, the eternal. And even among the beasts, do you expect a worm to accomplish all that a dog can do?”

Aeden nodded. “You speak truth, Priest Anthony.”

“And you, Aeden, think deeply. Have you considered again what we discussed before? You could be a wonderful priest—in a few years of course, after the frivolities of youth.”

“A little. The master healer has invited me to join the society. I’m pretty sure, though, that I will join the royal guard.”

A sharp look passed over the priest’s face. “The society? Hmm … I would hope you have more sense than
that
. The king may tolerate them, but half of them disavow the Creator, and who even knows if they have any power at all? I could lay my hand on a head and declare the sick healed, and if they believed hard enough, it might even become true in their minds. Does that make me a healer?”

Aeden hesitated, “Well, no, I guess not. Yeah, it’s probably not for me. The royal guard then.”

Satisfied, the priest pressed on, “And after that? You know the royal guard is not a lifetime profession.”

“After that I will be the sixth duke of Elbeth, of course.”

“Unless your father has anything to say about it. Don’t kill him off too quickly.” The priest said with a faint smile.

“Is your father still alive?” Aeden asked.

“Yes. He is only a little over one hundred and so has many decades left to him.”

“Do you plan on assuming his lordship when he dies?”

The man shook his head, “I am the fourth son of the fifteenth duke of Elbeth. There is little hope of me becoming a lord as he is. No, my calling is with the priests. And we are well taken care of here.”

“Have you thought of marriage?”

“I haven’t ever thought seriously of courtship. The duties of a priest often do not allow time for families. And I am not good with children. Or women, for that matter.” The priest laughed loudly. “And you? Do you have your sights set on any lucky young women?”

Aeden shrugged, “There’s always a girl or two. I have yet to meet one though that I like with anything more than my eyes.” He fell silent, looking around the vaulted hall. “I had another question, Priest Anthony. The sacred communal prayer. We place our hands on our neighbor’s heads, forming a connection to you, the priest. Where does that come from?”

The priest looked up, surprised. “Well, I honestly don’t know. It was taught to me when I became a priest, and it has been passed down in like form for generations. We have texts here in the communal hall that describe its use nearly a thousand years ago, and I’m sure it was performed for centuries or millennia before that. It symbolizes our sacred and intimate connection to each other, that we are all images of our Creator, and equal before him. When I place my hands on my neighbors’ heads, I show that I am connected to them, intimately, as we all are in his sight.”

“But we are not all equal, right? I mean, if we were, everyone would be nobility, correct?” Aeden asked.

“Well, I suppose you could look at it that way. I meant that before the Creator’s sight, we are all equal—we have equal chances of returning to His presence and so forth.” The priest waved his hand, dismissing the subject.

Aeden stood up. “Thank you, Priest Anthony, for talking with me. Will you be coming to the tournament?”

The priest stood and clasped Aeden’s hand. “I plan on it. Will you be entering?”

“I plan on winning it.” Aeden answered. “And my father arranged for me to compete within the next higher age category.” The boy couldn’t help but brag.

“How wonderful for you. And you will no doubt win, of course. Remember, Aeden, a man’s strength comes from honor and mercy. Be graceful in your victory, and the victory will truly be yours. No one likes a braggart hero.” The man led Aeden to the door, opening it for him.

“I will try to remember, Priest Anthony. Thank you again.” The boy left, trotting down the steps and turned towards home. He nearly made it halfway when a breathless Priam ran up behind him.

“Well? How did it go?” the panting boy asked Aeden, falling into step with his friend.

“Ok, I guess. He said he told you the same thing.” Aeden said, a little ambivalently. “What do you think about it?”

Priam exploded in words, “I think it’s amazing! And it makes total sense too. I wish I could tell my father—he’d be very excited. We’ve seen things in the ruins scattered about in the mountains that have always made us wonder, but now, knowing this, so much of it starts to make sense. I mean, the ancient rusted metal structures, the curious artifacts, the door we couldn’t open, tons of stuff! And his demonstration in my head! Amazing!”

“It kind of freaked me out a little bit.”

“You’re kidding. Well I’m pretty excited.” Priam paused, “And a little torn. I still want to join the royal guard too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I wonder if I can do both?”

“I doubt it. Being a healer sounds like a full time thing. And so is protecting the king, you know.” They turned the corner, now heading down Aeden’s street, full of large, stately mansions, manicured gardens and intricate gates. “So, do you want to be touching dirty, greasy, scabby heads all day long, or do you want some adventure? I think I know what I will tell the master healer when I see him.”

Priam walked in silence for a moment, and then looked to the other boy. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just … I don’t know. I’m not nobility like you, so I don’t have a guaranteed spot in the guard, and if I don’t make it, I can’t exactly fall back on being a priest, and I can’t expect to inherit my father’s job for many years. It just seems like such a great opportunity. Still, adventure would be fun, I guess…”

“Atta boy, Priam. Now get home before your mummy starts worrying about you.”

Priam looked skeptically at his friend, “The sun hasn’t even set. She won’t be laying my pajamas out for me for at least an hour.”

Aeden burst out laughing. “Well at least she finally weaned you. You’re right, momma’s boy. Let’s go practice.” And once again, the two boys ran through the house to the rear courtyard, strapped on the practice armor, grabbed the dull practice swords and began to fight. They were a flurry of steel and arms, putting their all into it, knowing that anything less at the tournament would earn them a cut, a bruise or a puncture, or worse, second place.

“No, no, Priam. You always do that. When I strike like this,” Aeden demonstrated the move, “you need to parry from the other direction. That has a better chance of throwing me off balance, and that’s when you make your move.” Priam rolled his eyes: “Thanks, mom,” he sighed as he slashed at Aeden.

They continued until after the sun set and the sky darkened. Aeden’s father called out the window, “Boys, you’ll poke each other’s eyes out fighting like that in the dark. Priam! Go home. Aeden! Go to bed! Tomorrow is the preliminary trials!” the lord shouted, reminding them of the first day of the tournament, not open to the public, where the entrants were tested and initially ranked in order for appropriate placement in a bracket.

“Yes father!” Aeden called out in reply. “Beat it, Priam.” The other boy whacked Aeden in the back of the head and ran off. “Hey!” Aeden called, “My armor!”

The other boy turned, “You said I could borrow it for the tournament!”

“Oh yeah. Good night, Priam!” And he re-entered the house.

***

The steep, jagged mountains loomed before him. A stream rushed down a ravine, feeding a pristine lake which reflected the moonlit peaks behind it. The lieutenant held up his fist and gradually the army halted, staring blank-faced ahead, panting, awaiting his word.

“We rest here for tonight,” he said to his attendants, who spread out and ordered the army to make camp and refresh their water stores from the stream. Very soon now, he thought. Justice will be done. Crossing the mountains will be arduous, but shouldn’t take more than two days. Very soon.

Chapter Four

“And Galen spoke unto them, saying, ‘Thunderspeak I am, for at the mountain of thunder I abode and from my lips proceed the words of the Creator, for he filled me with his power and his strength, revealed to me my inner spirit and my true self, and showed me the beginning and the ending of all things …” –The Lay of Galen Thunderspeak

Aeden awoke at dawn, quite uncharacteristically, and leaped out of bed. He hurriedly dressed in some light underclothes and wriggled into his armor, strapping it to his body and belting the sword to his waist. With helmet in hand, he ran down the two flights of stairs, grabbing a hunk of bread and a small wedge of cheese from the kitchen as he dashed out the door. The pre-tournament started at half an hour past sunrise and he had no desire to be late. He sprinted down his street, and within ten minutes arrived at the tournament grounds near the center of the city. He saw a crowd of men and a few women gathered already as he approached, looking for Priam. His friend had not arrived yet, so he mingled with the crowd, greeting those he knew and making small talk until the event began. In a few minutes, the Swordmaster, who also served as captain of the city guard, approached the crowd. The burly, mustached man faced them all and gruffly called out, “Alright ladies! And … you too, ladies,” he added awkwardly, acknowledging the women who had also assembled. Aeden heard a whisper in his ear.

“Did I miss anything yet?” Priam huddled up close to his friend.

“No. He just called you a woman. But you knew that.” He whispered back.

The Swordmaster continued, “Today, you will all be fighting either myself, or another member of the city guard. You will be observed by yet more members of the city guard, who will then rank you and place you into a bracket. They will be announced this afternoon.”

“Now then. Those entering the fifteen- through eighteen-year-old division, stand over there by that wall,” he said, pointing to his right. “Those entering the nineteen to twenty-four division, stand behind me by the stands there, those entering the twenty-five to thirty-five division, stand over there by that wall.” He pointed to his left. “The thirty-six through fifty-fives stay here, and the rest of you grandpas go stand by that tree.” The crowd dispersed, Aeden and Priam separating since Lord Rossam did not make similar arrangements for Priam as he did for his son, and Aeden approached a tall, well armored warrior in his late twenties.

“Hey, you look younger than nineteen!” the man called out to Aeden.

“I’m seventeen. But the Lord Caldamon gave me special permission to compete in this division. Ask him yourself.”

The man muttered something about nobility under his breath, and said, “Alright then, it’s your burial. Now, pay attention all of you, I don’t want to repeat any of this. My name is Jack. Sir Jack if you know your manners. Each of you will fight either me, or my lovely assistant here, Katrin.” He motioned to a short, armored girl at his side, who flashed a bubbly smile and waved at them all. “And those people over there,” he motioned to a table at which were seated two formidable women and a rather large man, “will judge you. We only need to duel for a minute. Do not worry if you lose before then, we will continue until the judges are satisfied. The rules.” He looked at them all carefully. “You lose if you sustain five direct, solid hits on your armor by a sword, or if you sustain two bleeding wounds anywhere, or,” he paused, “if you yield, if you fall and cannot get up, or if you flee the battlefield. You may laugh, but I actually saw it happen once.…” Some of the men chuckled. “And, needless to say, if you die.” He added quickly, “Please don’t kill each other. Remember as well, according to tradition, touching your opponent’s head with your hand grants you two points, but only once per round. And if your opponent falls, you may deliver no blows until he gets on his feet. Let us begin. Form two lines, one for myself, one for my lovely assistant—I assure you, she is much deadlier than she looks, gentlemen!” She smiled and waved at them again, and, seeing Aeden, put her hand to her lips and playfully blew a kiss.