Rohvim #1: Metal and Flesh (8 page)

“Good fight, Aeden, good fight.” Priam declared, slapping his shoulder armor.

The noon hour approached, and Lady Rossam left, returning with roasted turkey legs for the family. The afternoon dragged on, Aeden and Priam each winning two more matches. According to the boards standing next to the judges’ table, each of them had made it into the top four of their respective divisions. The section around the Rossams had taken the two boys as their mascots and gave them a hero’s welcome whenever one of them returned from a successful duel, rapping them on the shoulders, cheering as they bounded past, reaching out to mess up their hair. The two boys ate it up and grinned broadly, basking in their newfound fame and glory.

Priam’s next match, however, ended in disappointment. In his first round, he tripped, falling backward, and though his opponent stood by respectfully to allow him to stand, the stumble rattled him and he lost the round. During the second round he eked out a narrow victory, five to four, but the final round ended when he sustained two wounds on his arms. The crowd near the Rossams moaned before politely cheering the victor, and, after the healer had attended to his wounds, Priam returned to his seat. The crowd applauded as he made his way up the stairs. But soon the applause turned to escstatic roars of approval. Confused, Priam glanced around to see Aeden sprinting up the stairs after his own victory before he remembered that they had fought their matches simultaneously this time.

“Wonderful job, Priam. There’s always next year.” Lord Rossam told the boy, who hung his head in utter defeat.

“Hey. Cheer up. You made it to the top four. That means you’re the fourth best duelist in the city. In our age group, of course.” Aeden tried to console his friend, but Priam remained quiet.

The tournament now nearing its end, each duel spurred the crowd to its feet, roaring its excitement and approval, and soon the championship matches were announced. The youngest division went first: the crowd shouted and yelled and clapped thunderously as the two youth, a boy and a girl, circled each other, trading ferocious, yet clinically precise blows. The boy knocked the girl down, allowed her to stand, and delivered two more quick strikes to her chest. She emerged the victor from the second round, and the third round kept the audience in suspense as the two dueled to a near draw, neither scoring on the other nor drawing any blood for nearly seven minutes. Finally, the girl managed to disarm her stunned opponent, and ended the round quickly after three swift blows and a deft touch to the head to the obvious delight of the crowd.

 Aeden waited down near the judges’ table for the match to end, eyeing the man standing nearby. His opponent, a young man of twenty-four and a commoner, politely made conversation with Aeden as the two waited. The two youth bowed to the lord and walked away, leaving the lawn clear for the waiting dualists. They approached the center of the ring, and, bowing and shaking each other’s hand, wished the other luck. They drew their swords and immediately began circling each other. A hush fell over the crowd as all watched intently. Neither one made a move until well after a minute had passed: Aeden lunged, but feinted, drawing the other man to swat at his sword as he ducked and swiped at the man’s legs. Reading Aeden’s mind, the man jumped and brought his sword crashing down on his opponent, who lifted his to block the blow just barely in time. The crowd erupted.

This continued for several minutes, until finally Aeden made a mistake. The man started a swing at him and Aeden readied to block and follow up with a quick flurry of strikes, when the man unexpectedly spun and struck from the opposite direction. Aeden’s sword twisted around nearly out of his grip, and the other man rained down a storm of quick swipes on his chest, shoulders, and helmet, landing four before Aeden could recover. The younger man now dazed and enraged, the elder quickly finished the round with a well-placed swipe after an unsuccessful lunge by Aeden. He skulked away from his opponent, the judges declaring that round for the commoner.

The next round went to Aeden, though only through a great deal of luck. A strap on the man’s shabby armor came loose, and in the split second it took him to wrest it free, Aeden managed to score three points. The man regained control of his sword, and the next several moments were a blur of swipes and parries. The man scored once, then twice, but Aeden received another bit of luck as the man stumbled backward on a piece of debris, allowing him to end the round with two quick swipes to the man’s legs.

After a quick breather, they approached one another again, bowed, and Aeden wasted no time in charging the man, concentrating hard as he spun and jumped and slashed into his opponent, who staggered back in surprise at the ferocity of the onslaught. Aeden scored a hit, then another, before the man re-asserted himself, using his quickness and agility to his advantage, moving faster than the younger boy and outmaneuvering him. Before long, the round stood at four points for the man, versus just two points for Aeden. Fearing defeat, Aeden cried out and charged the man, knocking the other’s sword high and slamming into him. Being somewhat larger and more muscular Aeden managed to topple him over, and, dropping his own sword and grabbing the wrists of the man, he wrested the other’s blade free and quickly spun around, grabbing his hair, yanking his head back and held the sharp edge pressed firmly to the man’s neck. The commoner froze, and the crowd fell silent, held in suspense by the scene unfolding before them.

“Yield!” Aeden yelled in the man’s ear, his spittle dripping down on the man’s sweaty face, his fist clenching the hair and pulling the head back even farther. The man said nothing, but grabbed Aeden’s hands and struggled. Aeden pushed the sword in harder and a thin line of blood appeared on the man’s neck. He stopped struggling and lay there, his chest heaving up and down.

“Yield, you common trash, yield!” Aeden yelled again, flecks flying from his mouth, spraying the man’s face and bleeding neck. The man, still silent, closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his face screwing up in a look of fury. Aeden looked down at his trembling hand holding the sword, and his white-knuckled hand pressed up against the scalp, enclosed around a fistful of hair, and in the intensity of the moment his mind drifted back to the master healer. He considered for a split second, then focused on the man’s head and screamed in his own mind,
YIELD!
In that moment, he felt a rush of anger and shame assault his own mind from within, and the man opened his eyes wildly, blinking rapidly in surprise.

“I yield!” the man cried, and Aeden released his grip. The crowd roared once more and a stunned, euphoric Aeden dropped the man’s sword and walked away in a daze towards the stands, only to come rushing back a moment later to shake the weeping man’s hand, bow to him, and bow low to the lord of the city who stood and clapped. Retrieving his own sword, he ascended the staircase, still overcome by shock, as the mass of people in his section mobbed him and hauled him onto their shoulders, carrying him up to his proud family.

The following three duels did not even register in Aeden’s attention as he wrapped himself in the adulations of the crowd around him, still riding high on their hands and shoulders and cheers. They did not set him down until the next match had started, and still they thronged around him, slapping his shoulder guards, his helmet, touching the sword sheathed on his back. Priam yelled something at him, a smile on his face, but he couldn’t even hear the words amid the deafening tumult of the celebrants. He took off his helmet, leaped to his feet, and turned to the crowd again, pumping his fist in the air, and the people responded like thunder. He sat, laughing, resting his arm around Priam’s shoulders, who wore a wide, but thin, smile.

The remaining duels came to a close with the winners celebrating and the losers weeping openly. The judges stood and requested the presence of the five victorious swordsmen. Aeden sprinted down the stairs, stumbling on the last step to the delight of the crowd, but of course he recovered quickly and approached the table. The lord of the city stood and descended the steps slowly, gracefully, and stood before the victors. The crowd fell silent as he turned and faced the crowd.

“People of Elbeth!” he shouted, “Behold, your champions!” The crowd roared, and quieted itself as the lord held up his closed fist. He turned and motioned to a servant who brought a wide wooden tray, draped with a flowing cloth, which held five steel crowns laced with laurel leaves. The lord lay each crown one by one upon the heads of the kneeling champions and then presented the glowing victors once more to the people, who applauded and cheered even more wildly than before. He motioned to another servant, who brought another, larger wooden tray, this one bearing five elaborate, elegant, and deadly looking swords. The lord presented them to the victors one by one, approaching Aeden with one hand offering the sword and the other extended for greeting. Aeden took the sword, and the lord pulled him in close with his other hand, saying loudly in his ear as the crowd cheered, “You were my favorite … so cunning and ruthless. Well done.” He kissed Aeden on the cheek and pulled away, leaving Aeden with the prize. He lifted it high into the air, looking up at it in awe. The craftsmanship was remarkable: the edge extremely sharp, the hilt a work of art, the grip a solid piece of light, nearly white, metal that seemed to shape itself perfectly to his grip.

The tournament completed, Aeden attempted to return to the center of the stands, pushing his way through the waiting fans who pressed on him like an ocean wave. His family descended the steps, meeting him halfway, and they departed the grounds, walking home with a crowd of neighbors and well-wishers following close behind. His sister bobbed up and down next to him as he walked, chattering and singing—he cheerfully bumped into her, knocking her off course, and she shrieked with delight and likewise ran into him repeatedly. Entering the estate, Aeden turned and waved one last time, before closing it and turning to his waiting family.

His father said, “I have news for you later. In the morning come see me. Though I suspect neither of you will hardly sleep tonight.” The family walked towards the house. Aeden turned to Priam.

“Wow.” He exhaled.

“You were amazing. You really were. I thought you had lost it, but then you did what you did, and … yeah. Wow.” Priam said.

“You had a nice fight there too, at the end. If it hadn’t been for that trip … it would have been yours. Next year.” Aeden clapped him on the back and walked towards the house. Priam followed with a sigh.

Chapter Five

“And you will lay your hand on their heads and you shall become one, even as them of old …” —Instructions, 1:5

The next morning, Aeden awoke with a yawn and turned to his side, seeing Priam had already left. He left the plush bed, yelping as he stepped on the armor he dropped on the floor the night before, and quickly dressed. As he glanced towards his desk, he saw his beautiful new sword, grabbed it, and strapped the hilt to his belt so that it dangled comfortably at his side. Descending downstairs, Aeden tentatively popped his head into his father’s study and saw him hunched over his desk reading a parchment.

“Aeden, come in.” The boy entered and sat on the other side of the desk from his father, who looked up from his reading. “Wonderful job yesterday. Truly wonderful. A little … dirty, there at the end, but not unfair—you won soundly.”

“Thank you, father. I trained hard for it.” Aeden murmured.

“You did indeed. You dedicated yourself, and you did it. I’m proud of you. In fact,” he paused, looking down at the paper he had been reading, “I have a contract here from Swordmaster Arino.”

“The Swordmaster? The captain of the city guard?” Aeden perked up.

“The same. I took him aside yesterday after the tournament and asked him if he would personally train you before you apply to the royal guard. You’ve worked so hard and shown so much potential, I just thought I owed it to you to give you the best opportunity for training before …”

“Wow!” Aeden interrupted, jumping to his feet and running around the table to grab his father’s hand. “Thank you, father! Wow! You’re actually paying the Swordmaster
himself
to train me? How much will that cost?” he said, glancing at the parchment on the desk.

The lord brushed it aside under another parchment before Aeden could read it and replied, “Enough. We have quite enough. Your lessons start tomorrow morning.” He looked at the boy, “Only if you’re interested, of course.”

He whacked his father on the shoulder, then cautiously withdrew it, realizing he had never touched the man with such camaraderie. “Interested? Please, father. I’ll be getting up early from now on for this.”

“Truly a miracle. We should tell the priest,” came the dry reply. “Aeden, this is not just to satisfy a whim of yours. I have great plans for you. Our family, long ago, sat at the head of the kingdom. You may fear me, or hate me, or love me, I don’t know, but the way I have brought you up is for your own good—certainly kinder than my father was to me, the old tyrant. What I’m trying to tell you is … someday I may need you at my side, and I will need both a warrior and a counselor. Anyway,” he slapped the desk, “leave me in peace. Go eat your breakfast.” And with that, his father returned to his work.