King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (42 page)

“Never do it, unless you have to,” Porthan’s voice trembled as he recalled the lesson from memory. “But I don’t want to! That’s different!”

“We both have to,” Ibhaen snapped. “So stop whining.”

“Ibhaen,” Kells said, stern. “Apologize.”

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“She is right, though,” Kells said, as he turned back to Porthan. “But you’re fighting for all three of us. I can’t help you any more. It’s up to you and your sister. You can fight.” Kells looked up at the chief, and spoke in Erimeni. “Do they have to each win?”

“They will fight at the same time,” the Chief said. “If they win, the decision will be easy. If they do not… it will be more difficult.”

“You fight together,” Kells said, to his children. “Find the weakest one. Attack them first. Then, it will be two against one, and your odds will be better.”

“How do we tell which one will be weaker?” Ibhaen asked.

“The smaller one, usually,” Kells said. “If you’re lucky, he’ll be Porthan’s size. But don’t discount the older one. She’ll know how to fight.”

“Okay,” Ibhaen nodded. “We won’t disappoint you.”

Kells hugged the both of them, as if he thought he’d lose them. “You could never disappoint me,” he said. “Never.”

Ibhaen and Porthan were directed to the kalwa, where a crowd was already waiting. Little had changed for them in the passing weeks; Kells imagined they were pleased for the distraction of a good fight. Thankfully, he saw no grim reminders of his own fight; the kalwa’s dirt had been raked over, and none of Valric’s blood remained. Kells watched as his children stepped over the taut ropes that surrounded the kalwa, and into the arena itself.

Erimeni of all ages, old and young, gathered around them. They grew silent as the chief stood to address his people. “This man, known to us as Rawa, son of Joral, Prince-killer, defender of our Children,” he said, gesturing to Kells, “Has asked to join our tribe. He has forsaken the Men of the Mountains for us. But we cannot accept him without knowing if his children have the same strength. They will fight two of our own, and we will see if they are worthy,” he said. The chief waved his hand. “Bring out the fighters!”

Two children stepped towards the ring. A girl, about Ibhaen’s age, and two inches taller - and a boy, slightly shorter than Porthan. But by the way the boy walked, and cast vicious eyes at Porthan, Kells knew he would be trouble. The children stepped into the square, both clad in simple Erimeni robes - brown and red, hanging loose about their bodies. Ibhaen drew her right leg back, and kept her hands open as she assumed a wrestling stance. Porthan hesitantly raised his fists.

The people around the ring cheered as anticipation built. Kells noticed Ibhaen lean in towards Porthan, and whisper something into his ear. He said a silent prayer to Yom, and to his father’s gods, for a good fight; they could not survive much longer on what little food they had. He watched with anticipation as the pairs of children circled each other, waiting for one to make the first move. The taller girl went first; her leg shot out towards Porthan’s head. Ibhaen was on her in a flash, and though Porthan stumbled backwards, barely avoiding it, his sister pulled the Erimeni girl’s leg out from under her. Ibhaen had the girl’s heel in her hands, and twisted, bringing pain to the tall girl. Kells felt a small thrill; she had remembered well. But the smaller boy took advantage of Porthan’s misstep; he advanced on Ibhaen, punching her in the lower back and kicking the backs of her legs. It forced her downward in pain.

Kells winced, and took an anxious breath; it was the first time he’d felt utterly helpless. But Porthan quickly regained his footing, and pulled the smaller boy away from Ibhaen. Within seconds, Porthan found a better grip, and had thrown the boy to the ground. He jumped on the child, and began to pound away with undisciplined fists, bloodying the child’s nose and lip. The Erimeni boy shifted and twisted his body, and bucked Porthan off, scrambling backwards to avoid his fists. But try as Porthan did to occupy the boy, Ibhaen had lost her advantage over the other girl, who kicked her from the ground, forcing Ibhaen backwards. It gave the Erimeni girl enough time to stand up, and pressed her attack.

The girl struck first with her fists, instead of her legs; she threw a flurry of jabs and hooks at Ibhaen, and missed all but one. Ibhaen dodged them well, but the last hook clipped her across the chin. Kells winced, as if her pain was his own. Porthan wasn’t doing much better; he and the boy were scrapping farther away in the kalwa, but the other boy had struck him with a series of kicks. Porthan had his hands up, and guarded the high kicks well - but could do nothing against the blows to his midsection. “Block with your legs!” Kells shouted. But Porthan could not hear him.

Then, the other boy lunged forward, with a forward kick; Porthan took the blow once again, to his gut, and Kells winced in pain. It flattened Porthan, and knocked him back, to the ground. “Porthan!” Kells shouted, and regretted it; Ibhaen turned to look, and found herself caught by a spinning back-fist that connected with her cheek. The other girl drew her hand back, and winced from the pain; Ibhaen was momentarily stunned.

“Please,” Kells said, as worry overcame him. “Stop this. For their sake. You’ve seen enough.” But the Chief remained silent. “Please. Stop it!” Kells said, again, more urgent.

“We have not seen what fight they have in them,” the chief said, simply and quietly. Kells was silenced; the Chief wanted to see them struggle. He wanted to see how Kells’ children acted when they were at their most desperate. Kells knew it would not take long for that. Porthan had picked himself up, and angrily charged the other boy, catching him by surprise - Porthan’s fist drilled the child across the jaw, and sent him staggering. Porthan seized the opportunity, and kicked the child in the ribs, and stomach, but the child did not give up. He grabbed at Porthan’s leg, and tried to pull him off balance; Porthan hopped forward, and shoved the child backwards with the same leg. Porthan’s other leg came up, and caught the other child on the ear, knocking him to the ground with a solid hit.

Porthan stood there, breathing heavily; from the way that he stared at the fallen child, Kells wagered that he was stunned by what had happened. He looked to the side, towards Kells and the Chief, with confusion. “Help your sister!” Kells shouted. Porthan obeyed, and ran towards Ibhaen and the other girl, who were grappling in the far corner of the kalwa. The taller girl had the upper hand over Ibhaen, with height and reach, but she was thrown off balance once Porthan jumped on her back. Her grip on Ibhaen loosened - enough for Kells’ daughter to strike the girl in the stomach, right below the ribs. The girl doubled over in pain; Ibhaen kicked her legs out from under her, and sent her to the ground with a thud. Porthan grunted, but did not let go. His grip only tightened.

The other Erimeni girl struggled to get up, but Porthan had braced his arms around her neck, making it difficult for her to breathe. Kells turned to the chief. “Stop this, before she’s hurt,” Kells said. “Porthan doesn’t know what he’s doing. He won’t know when to let go.”

The chief stood up, and raised his voice. “Stop!” he yelled, in Erimeni. But Porthan and Ibhaen didn’t know it. Kells stepped over the ropes, and into the kalwa itself. He was at once concerned and delighted; his children had far exceeded his expectations. But if Porthan didn’t stop the chokehold, the girl would die - and that would be on his conscience for a long time.

“Stop! Porthan, let go of her!” he shouted to them. Porthan stiffened by instinct, loosened his grip, and slid off the girl’s back. Ibhaen, who had backed up, bent down and offered a hand to the other girl; the girl accepted, and let Ibhaen help her stand up. Porthan ran to the boy, who had started to get up, but was woozy. He refused Porthan’s help. All turned to face Kells, and the Chief.

“Translate to your children for me,” the chief said. “You have fought far better than I expected. Your attacks were undisciplined, but you have what is essential to every warrior. You will not run from a fight. You will pick yourself up. Your father’s blood is strong in you.”

“You’ve done well, he says,” Kells told his children. “You have a warrior’s spirit.”

“And so… we welcome you with open arms,” the chief said, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to the Ashta-Erimeni.”

Kells was relieved to see he didn’t need to translate the next words; Ibhaen and Porthan rushed towards the edge of the square, stepped over the ropes that blocked it off, and all but tackled their father. Seeing their wounds - Ibhaen’s cut lip, swelling eye, and the bruise on her cheek, as well as Porthan’s bloody nose, and the red that trailed down his face - gave him a sense of horror. He pulled them tighter together, knowing what his own wounds had been like at their age. It had hardly seemed so bad then… but he had been raised a warrior. They were not.

“I’m very proud of both of you right now.” he said. “You fought well.”

“Will we be fighting again?” Porthan asked, a little worried, but Kells sensed a little excitement in his voice - an eagerness he himself once had, and still did, much as he kept it buried.

“Yes,” Kells said. “But not like this, not soon. They’ll teach you to fight. But that’s for another day. Because of you, we have a home now,” he said. “
This
is our new home. We never have to go back to Barra.”
Not that we had the choice.

“Good,” Ibhaen said. She squeezed her father tighter. “I don’t want to go back.”

There will be no going back
, Kells thought; it would be hard for them to adjust. But with the Erimeni, he could begin to live the life he wanted - not the one he’d needed to. And as long as he had Porthan and Ibhaen, he needed little else. “Neither do I,” Kells said. “Not when I have the bravest children in the world with me.” He did not want to think of how Ostre felt, and with luck, he never would again.

The chief tapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said, as Kells turned to face him. “We will need to make you all new clothes, Rawa. And give your children new names. You must leave all parts of your old life behind.”

“Do not give them new names yet,” Kells said, nervous. “Let them think, for a week or two. They must have time to be used to the new settings.”

“Of course,” the Chief said, with a nod. “Tonight, we’ll have a feast to welcome you.”

Kells looked about, at the encampment - at their new home. Their new family. They had somewhere they belonged now - they would have new clothes, new purposes, and new friends. But changing his children’s names? That, he did not know if he could do. Porthan was Porthan. Ibhaen was Ibhaen. They could be brought up in the traditions, and yet, if someone were to ask them thirty years hence if they were Porthan or Ibhaen, he knew they would answer to it. It was not so easy to forget who one was, deep down. And to sever that last bond between them and their mother… he wasn’t sure if he could do that. He had already asked them to fight for him, and they did. That was enough, for now.

“What are you thinking about?” Porthan asked, looking up at him.

“Nothing,” Kells said. “I’m happy that we have a home.” He glanced around, to see the tents and small buildings that outlined the town, like robed monks, leaning together to battle the cold of winter. The lightly browned faces that were like his father’s, and distantly mirrored in his children’s. There was fresh air, mixed with the noxious scents of tanning racks. But most of all, there was no Ostre. No Caliandra. Barra was off in the distance, marked by the far end of Nemi’s Fist, and he’d never need to go back.

This was always how it was meant to be
, he thought for himself, smiling as he held his children close.

EPILOGUE

Royth felt the hot sun warm his newly shaved head, and found it strange. He had not yet become used to the lack of weight, and ran his fingers over it, to feel the sensation of a thousand’s thousand little hairs bristle at his touch. It’d been some years since it’d been so short, and his head had a curious lightness to it. He’d left his locks with Mother Swallow, to keep himself disguised - dark-skinned men such as he were not commonplace, but he had no scars to speak of, and his long, inter-woven locks were one of his few distinguishing features. Away they went, and painfully, of course; it was the smartest move he could make, before he entered another great city.

At Mother Swallow’s behest, he and Sage had made a change of clothes. No longer did he appear to be a citizen of Barra, with dull blues and greys; he’d adopted more colorful merchant’s clothing, with shimmering greens that paired well with his dark, even-toned skin. Sage, too, left her Kersikki maid’s clothing behind, but chose Erimeni-inspired women’s garb that had come into fashion for mercenaries; billowing pants, leather boots, a slim-cut shirt, and a vest. Royth would pose as a traveling merchant, and she his bodyguard.

Sage welcomed the arrangement, and they’d left within the day - with a bare supply of goods, which would take them to the Silenian Capital, traveling papers, money, and easily concealed daggers, similar to what Sage had in her possession at the castle. The heat came shortly after, and enveloped them; Royth found it both familiar and unwelcome, like a drunken uncle.

He wiped sweat off his brow, and looked over at Sage. Her red hair hid beneath a stitched wig of dark brown hair, which hung loose and free. She wiped sweat from her brow, but was distracted by something in the distance; billowing clouds of smoke, and dancing flames.

“Flassome,” she said, as she gazed at a far-off forest.