Nature Mage (28 page)
The combatants themselves were sitting separately near another entrance to the large practice area, where they could enter and leave the arena without having to press through the crowd. There were about fifty guards sitting there at that moment, but Gaspi assumed others would come and go as the afternoon went on and different events were staged. They all looked alike, dressed in light mail over tan leather leggings and padded undershirts, and Gaspi struggled to identify Taurnil among them. It was Emmy who spotted him, her hand shooting out, pointing at the group.
“There he is!” she said excitedly.
“Where?” Lydia asked.
“Two rows from the back, sitting next to that massive guy with the red hair,” Emea answered. Lydia raised a hand to shield her eyes and Gaspi squinted. It was Taurnil all right, though he looked very different in chain mail. To Gaspi’s eyes he looked larger and older. The mail hung well off his strong shoulders and broad chest, making him look very…guard-like.
“Doesn’t he look handsome?” Emea said, talking to Lydia.
Lydia looked like she was trying to smile and frown at the same time. “I’m sure he does,” she answered rather haughtily, a fine red stain flushing her cheeks.
“Oh, come on, Lydia,” Emea said impatiently. “I know he’ll say sorry to you when he gets a chance.”
Lydia flushed even more, elbowing Emea and indicating Gaspi with a flick of her head. “Not now!” she hissed. Emea sighed and leaned back against the bench. Gaspi thought it was simpler to pretend he hadn’t seen or heard any of it. He thought he saw Taurnil looking over at them, and raised a hand in greeting. Taurnil nodded in response, and Gaspi could see even from a distance that he looked a little green around the gills. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, his friend looked like he was about to lose the contents of his stomach.
The makeshift arena slowly filled up until all the benches were taken, and folk were standing against the walls. The hubbub and excitement built upon itself, until the whole arena thrummed with the murmur of anticipation. Finally, a stocky man in chain mail walked out into the middle of the open space and stood still, waiting for the crowd to quieten down. It took a minute or so for the loud buzz of conversation to drop off; slowly at first, and then descending rapidly into breathless silence as people looked around, aware of the sudden hush.
“Citizens of Helioport,” the stocky man began, his strong voice carrying to the back of the arena, “I am Tobias Trask, Sergeant-at-Arms and Helioport’s Drillmaster; and today I have the honour of presenting to you our annual tournament.”
The crowd broke into loud cheering. Trask held up his hands until the noise subsided. “The bouts will be split into individual weapon skills: one-handed swords, two-handed swords, staff, and mace. At the end of the afternoon, the best two from each event will compete in a general melee, where one fighter will emerge as this year’s champion.” The crowd broke into an even loader cheer, which Trask let go on for longer this time.
“For the safety of the fighters,” Trask continued, “the blades have been blunted, and cannot pierce the armour each man is wearing. So do not fear for your favourites. They will not be harmed.” Again, the crowd cheered. Trask extended one hand towards the seated combatants, and one towards the dirt floor in front of him.
“Swords!” he shouted. “Brill, Sabu!”
Two men arose from the benches; a thickset ginger-haired man with a trimmed beard, and a tall, dark-skinned man with short-cropped, wiry hair. They walked to the weapons rack, took out two short swords each and walked to the centre of the arena. An expectant hush filled the room, deepening as they squared off. Trask stood between the two men, arms stretched out towards the fighters. “On my command, you will fight until a winner is declared.” He looked steadily at each man, then stepped back and dropped his arms. “Begin!” he barked.
Brill shifted into a fighting stance; one leg out in front of the other, bending at both knees, and holding his swords out in front of him. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to pounce. Sabu looked more relaxed as he began a graceful pacing, circling his opponent steadily, one foot sliding behind and past the other as he moved with an unbroken rhythm. His blades wove sinuously in front of him as he circled, every movement of his long, dark frame fluid and graceful. Brill was forced to circle too, or let his opponent get behind him, and although he moved with a certain grace too, it was a grace filled with tightly wound energy - each foot landing firmly on the ground, his arms and shoulders tense and ready to strike.
It was Brill who struck first, feinting with his left hand and, when Sabu moved to block, striking swiftly with the right. Faster than a snake, Sabu’s other sword caught the second strike and turned the blade away with a ringing clang. Brill came in again swiftly, throwing a series of blows at Sabu’s head and chest, which the slender fighter caught on his blades, deflecting all attacks with an economy of movement. The fight carried on in this vein for some minutes, Brill lancing out again and again with heavy strikes and Sabu turning each away without breaking stride. Some of Brill’s attacks seemed to come very close to hitting his opponent, but somehow Gaspi knew it wasn’t going to happen. Both looked like very good swordsmen, but there was something about Sabu that impressed him more. His fighting style was almost like a dance, and whereas Brill was starting to slow down, his breath coming fast and deep, Sabu looked like he was just warming up.
Gaspi sensed a sudden shift in the fight when one of Brill’s strikes left him over-extended, and Sabu responded with a stinging riposte. Brill defended against the stroke, but had to leap backwards to avoid leaving himself open. Sabu didn’t give him the chance to recover, but followed the stroke with another, and then another, forcing Brill to move backwards step by step, never regaining his balance. Brill retreated halfway across the arena, furiously defending against the whirlwind of Sabu’s attacks, until the tall, dark fighter leapt forward, attacking with both blades at once. Both Brill’s arms came up to fend off the double attack. Sabu’s blades swept viciously across Brills, ripping the right hand one out of his hand and sending it spinning through the air to land point down in the dirt. The other blade was pushed up and away from the body, leaving Brill completely open. Sabu brought in his right hand sword, and poked Brill hard in the chest. Brill grunted and fell down to the floor, flopping heavily to his backside as a gong sounded and Drillmaster Trask’s loud voice bellowed “Winner: Sabu!”
Gaspi roared and sprang to his feet, cheering wildly along with the rest of the crowd. He’d been so caught up in the fight he wondered if he’d even breathed for the last few minutes. He grinned wildly at Emea and Lydia, both of who seemed as impressed as he was. Lydia’s eyes were wide with amazement, and Emmy held a hand over her open mouth.
The next fight wasn’t nearly as impressive. The huge fighter sitting next to Taurnil took on a wiry, middle-aged guard, who couldn’t compete with the strength of the larger man’s strokes, and was beaten in under a minute when a heavy attack disarmed him. Five more pairs of swordsmen squared off and fought, bringing the total up to seven winners. Trask sent each of the winners to a separate bench, before calling out the next fight. Once the seventh winner was seated, he turned back to the face the crowd.
“And our last bout for this round of the swords: Erik and Jonn.” Gaspi looked up in surprise as the two fighters stepped out from the other guards. In all the excitement of Taurnil’s first tournament, it had never occurred to him that Jonn might fight too. He exchanged a look with Emmy, who was clearly as surprised as he was. But there Jonn was, weighing up two blades from the weapons rack along with his opponent. Gaspi had met Erik a couple of times while visiting Jonn. Gaspi liked Erik, and doubly so considering that without Erik’s help he may never have reached Helioport alive after the attack at the gypsy camp. Not that it made any difference right now, of course. If Erik was fighting Jonn, then all that would have to be put aside until the fighting was over.
“Did you know he was fighting?” Gaspi asked Emea.
Emea shook her head. “I spoke to him yesterday, and he didn’t say a word.”
Jonn and Erik had reached Drillmaster Trask now, who stood between them with his hands raised. “Begin!” he shouted.
Gaspi was pleased to see Jonn immediately drop back into a comfortable fighting stance. He didn’t think of Jonn as a fighter, but then he remembered the way he’d dealt with the thieves they’d met on the road. And Jonn had once told him that he’d spent a few years as a guard in another city, whose name Gaspi couldn’t remember.
Jonn looked at ease with swords in his hands, circling Erik on the balls of his feet. He feinted in, probing Erik’s guard before stepping back, letting Erik bring the next attack. The two swordsmen had a similar style, and seemed evenly matched. They circled each other carefully, stepping in for a ringing exchange of blows, before parting again. The pace of their circling gradually increased, as did the length of the exchanges, until they were standing blade to blade, circling and striking in a mesmerising display. The fight was going on longer than any of the other bouts, and Gaspi thought both men’s arms must be ablaze with agony as they struck and defended, blocked and parried without a break. Gaspi grabbed Emea’s hand as they watched, gripping her tightly as he willed Jonn on to win. It was hard to see exactly what happened, but in the middle of a particularly vicious exchange of blows Erik stumbled backwards as if struck, a sword clattering to the floor as he collapsed, and Trask was shouting “Winner: Jonn!”
Gaspi and Emmy surged to their feet again, along with the roaring crowd. He grabbed Emmy, giving her a massive hug as they cheered at the top of their lungs. Jonn helped Erik to his feet, before making his way to the winners’ benches.
“That was amazing,” Emea said breathily. “I had no idea he was so good.” Gaspi just nodded, rendered speechless by the display of skill.
When the cheering had died down, the winning eight fighters were called forward two by two for a second round. Jonn knocked out a stocky young fighter from Helioport, to the dismay of the partisan crowd, who groaned noisily when their local favourite was dispatched. Sabu make light work of his opponent, and the other two winners were twin brothers Zlekic and Zaric. The twins’ fighting styles were so similar it was easy to think you were watching the same man in both fights, until you looked at the winners’ bench and saw the fighter’s mirror image looking on. Both men were tall, broad and athletic with thick, straight blond hair so light it was almost white. They were handsome men in a hard kind of way, with light blue eyes and strong, straight noses.
The third round paired Jonn with Zlekic, and Sabu with Zaric. Sabu and Zaric were to fight first. The earlier bouts made Gaspi favour Sabu, who moved with such natural grace it looked like his blades were part of his body. His movements were so swift it made his opponents look clumsy and slow. His fight against Zaric lasted longer than his previous two fights. The blond swordsman was fast and very strong, and when Sabu deflected his strikes the clang of metal on metal rang loud and harsh. Sabu adjusted to the strength of Zaric’s strikes by increasing the distance between them and pushing each of Zaric’s attacks far from his body, slowing the tempo and making the blonde swordsman work hard to keep up the pace he had set. He tried to get his opponent to over-reach, but Zaric was disciplined and cautious. Neither did he appear to tire quickly, so Sabu couldn’t outwait him either. Sabu remained on the defensive while testing Zaric’s defences and stamina, but only a minute into the fight must have made up his mind about his opponent, and launched an all-out attack.
It was amazing to watch. The dark skinned swordsman’s blades whirred through the air, spinning and slicing ferociously and with blistering speed. Zaric’s defence was like his attack; disciplined and controlled. He blocked and parried, trying to lock up the blades so he could draw Sabu in close, but after each block Sabu would slide around him, attacking from another, unprotected angle. He never let Zaric rest, forcing him to constantly turn and shift his stance as he attacked. Confused by Sabu’s constant movement, Zaric’s defence began to lose timing. All it took was one clumsy overextension and the flat of Sabu’s blade crunched down on Zaric’s wrist, causing him to drop a sword. Zaric stumbled backwards, holding his remaining blade out in front of him in a desperate attempt to defend himself, but he stumbled over the fallen sword, falling onto his behind. One sweeping blow ripped the blade from Zaric’s hand, and before he could react, the point of Sabu’s other sword was at his throat.
“Winner: Sabu!” shouted Trask as the crowd cheered, calling out the dark warrior’s name. Sabu stepped back and flashed a wide smile, white teeth glinting brightly in contrast to his dusky skin. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, before returning to the winner’s bench.
“Zlekic, Jonn!” shouted Trask. Gaspi’s heart was thumping in his throat. If Zlekic was as good as his brother, it would be a hard fight. The two fighters squared off.
“Begin!” roared Trask.
They began to circle, slowly and carefully, neither of them keen to rush in without testing the other first. Jonn was the first to attack, his blows precise and fast, but Zlekic deflected them easily enough and swung a heavy riposte. Jonn leapt back, and they started to circle again. Zlekic attacked next with a series of hard, heavy blows, and Gaspi could see Jonn almost staggering under the weight of the strikes as he caught them on his blades. After a particularly brutal exchange, Jonn pushed Zlekic away from him, and Gaspi thought he could detect Jonn subtly changing his stance. He seemed to be gripping his swords more lightly and stepping on the balls of his feet. Zlekic attacked again, his strikes as hard and strong as his brother’s had been against Sabu, but somehow Jonn’s altered stance enabled him to deflect the blows without soaking up the majority of the force. Jonn was moving lightly and with speed now, making the heavy attacks of his opponent seem clumsy by comparison.
