The Dragon's Champion (2 page)

“Look at his
funny walk, he’s like a fat stork,” another added.

“More like a pig
walking on its back legs,” someone shouted.

Each outburst
gave rise to more laughter. Erik forced his eyes to focus on his shadow foes,
instead of the fingers pointing at him. Erik wished he could turn and run, but
somehow his feet kept dragging him closer to the center of the courtyard, and
every third step his arm swung his waster. Soon the crowd was shouting a
cadence, counting off each step until he swung his sword and then they all
roared with laughter.

Erik numbed
himself to the crowd and continued on. He felt anger rise in him for a moment,
but he tucked it away for later. He would need his strength for his duels. He
imagined that he was Master Lepkin during the battle at Gelleirt monastery. The
fantasy helped him focus on his practice swings until he reached the center of
the courtyard, where he stopped and waited.

The crowd died
down immediately, as though they were overcome by a magic spell. Erik stood
silent, watching Master Orres, Headmaster of Kuldiga Academy. The man was older
than Master Lepkin by some twenty years. Amid the scars on his face were the
wrinkles of age. Time had also turned Master Orres’ hair white as the snow, but
he was no delicate has-been. Even at the age of sixty-seven his muscles were
taut and powerful. His shoulders were square, his arms were large, and his
chest was barrel like and solid as stone. Every time Erik saw Master Orres, the
apprentice remembered watching Master Orres demonstrate his strength by
participating in, and winning, the summer Strongman Games. Erik had been amazed
when Master Orres dominated much younger men in cable throwing, wrestling, and
stone lifting.

Yet today,
despite Master Orres’ authority, and sheer physical presence, he did not speak
to Erik or the gathered crowd without Master Lepkin’s nod of approval.

“You have the
floor,” Lepkin told Orres after a polite bow.

“Thank you,
Master Lepkin,” Orres replied. His voice was so deep that Erik swore he felt
vibrations in his chest when Orres spoke. “At the request of Master Lepkin, we
have gathered all students here to witness his apprentice, Erik Lokton, adopted
son of Lord Lokton, honor an open challenge that he issued to the other
Apprentices of the Sword.”

A murmur ran
through the crowd. Master Orres raised his hand to silence them, but pockets of
students in the crowd continued to gossip. That is, until Master Lepkin crossed
his arms and cleared his throat loudly. Then they were all silent.

“Now,” Master
Orres continued. “We have invited all students of Kuldiga Academy to attend. I
wish to acknowledge the presence of each and every department, and welcome
them. First, let me welcome the Apprentices of the Hand, we are glad to have
our healers-in-training here at this event. Let me welcome the Apprentices of
the Way, we will be happy to have our priests-in-training pray for Erik’s
safety as he battles each of the other ninety-seven Apprentices of the Sword!”

The crowd
laughed and snickered. Erik looked up to Master Lepkin, but his master remained
stone-faced and silent.

“I would also
like to welcome our students of alchemy, the Apprentices of the Snake; our
rangers-in-training, the Apprentices of the Arrow; our soon-to-be wizards, the
Apprentices of the Staff; and our budding scholars-to-be, the Apprentices of
the Eye. I hope all of you enjoy today’s spectacle.” Master Orres bowed a few
times in response to the cheers of the crowd.

After a few
moments Master Orres brought Erik’s first opponent, a boy about fourteen years
old, to the center of the courtyard. Orres checked the boy’s training armor,
yanking on it and smacking it, before raising his arm to silence the crowd
again.

“The rules are
simple,” Orres shouted for all to hear. “If an apprentice falls on his back, or
his stomach, he has lost. If an apprentice drops his sword and it touches the
ground, he has lost. If an apprentice yields, then he has lost. Also, you must
stay inside the box, outlined in white chalk in the grass. Are these rules
clear?”

Both of the boys
nodded.

“There are two
more rules,” Orres added. “A swing at the head is acceptable, but do not thrust
your sword at your opponent’s face. The last rule is that, by order of Master
Lepkin, if Erik loses or yields a duel, he will continue the challenge until he
has
dueled
all ninety-seven Apprentices of the Sword,
except in the case of severe injury. If Erik is hurt, then Master Lepkin will
decide whether Erik can continue the challenge.”

Erik turned back
to Lepkin. He was both surprised and frightened by the prospect that he would
finish all ninety-seven duels even if he was beaten every time. He questioned
whether a broken bone would even persuade Lepkin to stop the duels. Just then,
as Erik contemplated how he would live through the day, Master Lepkin knelt
beside him and whispered three things.

“Keep your eyes
open, listen to understand your surroundings, and fight honorably.” Then Lepkin
stood up and backed away.

Master Orres
stood between the two boys.

Erik quickly
studied the boundaries drawn on the grass. As Master Lepkin had taught him, he calculated
the space of the box. He knew exactly how many steps he could take in each
direction before crossing the boundaries. Next he concentrated on his opponent.
He saw the boy’s brown eyes. They were wide and frightened. Then he heard the
boy’s breathing. It was fast and shallow. Erik knew that his opponent was as
afraid as he was, perhaps even more so.

Erik knew that
this first fight would be pivotal. This duel would set the pace for the rest of
the challenge. Erik prepared himself. He was going to lay into this opponent
like a bull. He watched as Master Orres lifted his arm, signaling the boys to
get ready. Erik narrowed his eyes on his opponent and gripped his sword.

Then he heard
something. At first Erik wasn’t sure if it was a wheeze or cough. All he knew
was that his opponent made a weird sound. Then it dawned on him. His opponent
was Hal Sarmt. Erik knew that Hal suffered from asthma, and that his asthma was
much worse when exercising or excited. He had often heard the others tease Hal
because of his weakness. Master Orres dropped his hand to start the duel. Erik
wasn’t sure what to do. He knew he’d be teased if he yielded, but he couldn’t
bring himself to take advantage of Hal. Before Erik could decide how to act he
was whacked across the chest by Hal’s sword.

Erik blocked a
second blow and then took a knee on the field. “I yield,” Erik shouted. The
crowd jeered and laughed at him, but all he heard was Hal trying to catch his
breath. Erik ignored the teasing and watched Hal. Hal took off his helmet and
nodded to Erik. The asthmatic apprentice was still wheezing, but Erik was sure
that he would recover in a minute or two.

“If that is the
best you can do, this is going to be a long day for you, apprentice,” Master
Orres chided.

Erik shrugged
off Master Orres’ comment and got back into his ready position. The next
apprentice, Gergu Smuld, charged furiously as soon as Orres started the duel.
Gergu attacked with wild, uncontrolled swings, but Erik deflected them.

Suddenly Erik’s
helmet spun over his face and his ears rang like church bells. Gergu had landed
a hard blow straight to his right temple. Another stinging blow smacked him
across his belly.

Erik listened
closely and heard panting to his left. With all his might he lashed out with a
cross strike. He felt solid resistance against his sword and heard the two
wasters clack together. Erik leaned into his sword, not allowing his foe to
launch a counter-strike. Erik kicked his left foot out and planted it solidly
on the ground on a spot that he hoped would be behind Gergu’s leg. A moment
afterward Erik felt movement at the back of his left ankle. Using all of his
strength, Erik pushed forward with his right leg, driving his shoulders right
into his foe’s chest. A second later Erik heard a loud thud on the ground,
followed by some cheering from the crowd. Erik removed his helmet and
discovered that Gergu was flat on his back.

“Well fought,”
Erik said as he helped the other apprentice up.

“You’ll have to
show me how you did that,” Gergu said.

“Perhaps next
week,” Erik replied.

“Alright,”
Master Orres cut in. “Off with you lad, there are still plenty of others
waiting their turns.”

Gergu scurried
off the field and another one took his place. Erik took a moment to readjust
his helmet before getting back into position.

The next
challenger, Jared Highborn, swung his sword fiercely at the air in front of him
and got into place. Master Orres gave the signal and Jared rushed forward. Erik
deftly blocked Jared’s over handed strike. The wasters smacked together again
and again as the two danced in a circle.

Erik swept his
sword low, catching his opponent just above the left ankle. Jared’s feet flew
out from under him, but Erik wasn’t done. He didn’t want to risk his opponent
correcting himself so Erik came in hard and fast with an overhead chop to
Jared’s chest. The blow sent him straight down to land on his back.

The crowd fell
silent in shock and Master Orres rushed over to the duelers. He knelt down
beside Jared, who was still lying flat on his back, and removed the boy’s
helmet.

“Can you speak
boy?” Master Orres asked, slapping Jared’s cheeks. Jared groaned, and then he
rolled over and pushed up to his knees. Erik offered a hand to him and helped
him to his feet.

“Well fought,”
Erik offered. Jared nodded, but said nothing.

“Let’s get on
with it,” Master Orres shouted. He yanked the loser’s free arm and shoved him
toward the waiting Apprentices of the Hand. “Send out the next duelist.”

Erik quietly got
back into place and watched as Haddus Makh, a short, portly boy, waddled out
onto the grass. Erik readied his sword, but before Master Orres could give the
signal Haddus tossed his sword to the ground.

“I yield,”
Haddus shouted.

“You can’t
yield
,
the duel hasn’t even started yet,” Master Orres growled.

Erik could see
the anger clearly written on Orres’ face, but it did nothing to stop the pudgy
boy from waddling back to the crowd. Three more apprentices came out to the
designated dueling area and promptly threw down their swords as well.
With each surrender
Master Orres’ face grew redder and
redder.

“Is there any
apprentice that is
not
afraid to fight?” Orres shouted as he kicked the
abandoned swords away.

“I’ll fight
‘im,” someone yelled.

A very tall
apprentice strode forward with his waster resting over his shoulder. The new
opponent stood head and shoulders above Erik. Erik knew the apprentice by
sight. It was Timon Cedreau. He was a tall third-year apprentice, and though he
was not yet as broad-shouldered as most of the fourth-years, he was a strong
young man with a reputation for being mean.

“Ready
yourselves,” Orres instructed. Erik gripped his sword tightly and waited for
the signal. Timon kept his sword resting on his shoulder and let out a
belly-laugh.

Orres gave the
signal.

Timon rushed
forward and swung his sword at Erik’s side. Erik dropped his sword to deflect
the attack, but Timon was too strong. Timon drove into Erik’s side, despite the
block, pushing him a few feet to the right.

“That’s it
Timon, squish him like a bug!” someone shouted from the crowd. This time, only
a few in the crowd laughed. Most of the spectators remained silent as they
watched.

Erik defended
against an onslaught of heavy attacks. He made sure that he not only parried
with his sword, but also stepped out of the way. He couldn’t afford to take any
more heavy shots to the body this early on.

Timon bore down
on Erik, pressing the attack. Erik dodged each swing and thrust of Timon’s
sword, ever watching for an opening to exploit. He struck out twice, but Timon
knocked his sword away both times.

“You are not
good enough to challenge me,” Timon yelled. “You aren’t a true-blood like me.
You’re just the cast-away son of a poor beggar woman, adopted by an impotent
lord.”

Something in Erik
snapped at the insult of his birth mother and adoptive father. His eyes
narrowed, his cheeks grew hot, and a well of rage sprang from within him too
strong to control. Erik ducked under Timon’s sword and unleashed a savage swing
to Timon’s left knee. The blow was enough to knock Timon off balance, but not
enough to topple the tall third-year apprentice. Erik jumped up and landed a
strike on Timon’s head. Timon back-pedaled and tried to straighten his helmet,
but Erik was all over him. Erik scored three heavy hits on Timon’s ribs, then
he struck Timon’s knee again. His next strike slammed right into Timon’s
sword-hand.

Timon winced and
turned away. Erik came down hard on the back of his opponent’s head. The entire
crowd gasped in unison as Timon fell flat on his face.

Erik didn’t
bother moving to help Timon back to his feet. He was too blinded by his
rage.  Before Erik could say anything, Master Orres was there.

“Healers,” Orres
shouted in his thunderous voice. Orres removed Timon’s helmet, but made sure
not to disturb him too much. Erik watched Master Orres remove Timon’s leather
glove. Erik was stunned when he saw the hand was purple and red. It was already
swollen to twice its normal size.

Master Lepkin
approached Erik and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “You are not an
animal,
you must be able to control your emotions at all
times.” Lepkin pointed to the trio of healers kneeling around Timon. “Imagine
what would have happened if you had attacked Hal the same way.”

“I’m sorry,”
Erik offered. In his rage he had wanted to make Timon pay for his words, but
now he felt guilty. He did not revel or delight in Timon’s injury, in fact he
was ashamed. “I’m sorry,” Erik repeated. “I’ll do better.”