Marked (6 page)

He smiled. Finally, the great final. The contest that would bring him the glory, would crown him as champion of his favorite specialty. The coveted title and the prize that went with it were within his reach and he wanted it desperately. The previous eliminations had turned out to be simpler than he had expected. His opponents had not performed at a very high level and he had quite easily defeated them. But he was sure the final would be another story.

Gudin’s powerful voice announced Hartz’s opponent, and he entered the fighting ring. Hartz gave him the once-over and nervously noted he was as tall and as strong as he—even more so. He came in like a giant, with energetic, confident steps. Scratching his head, he frowned severely as he stared at Hartz, his dark eyes full of enmity. He swiftly pulled back his long black hair with a leather tie. Hartz, mirroring his adversary’s gesture, tied back his long mahogany mane so it would not be in the way during the fight.

Hartz had heard people speak of his gigantic rival: Brotan the Ox. He was from the town of Dango, somewhat smaller than Orrio and located a little less than two days away to the northeast. His fame preceded him; he was well known in the neighboring villages for his exceptional strength and physical stamina. On one occasion he rescued a neighbor trapped under a tree that had been struck by lightning. With his bare hands, he had been able to lift the trunk by himself so they could get the poor man out from under it. A veritable wonder of nature—since three men would not have been able to move that tree.

People were shouting the names of the two combatants, cheering them on as the excitement grew by the minute. As was customary in this type of tribal event—and in almost any Norriel event—wagers were swiftly made among the spectators.

Master Gudin’s voice thundered out and the square fell silent.

“You know the rules of the fight,” he said, and the two young men nodded in consent. “Get on your marks,” he ordered, and the two contestants did so.

The tension in the atmosphere was palpable. The spectators could barely contain themselves. Gudin raised his arm, looked at both opponents and, after a brief moment, dropped his arm. The audience’s thunderous roars reverberated throughout the village, everyone cheering for their favorite fighter. The contenders hurtled toward one another like two bulls charging at top speed.

Brotan surged forward and threw a quick right. Surprised by the aggressive attack, Hartz pulled back in the nick of time, saving himself from a good, solid cross. They exchanged several swift punches, measuring each other up.

The crowd was screaming, celebrating every blow as if they were the ones participating. Everyone had something at stake. The commotion was deafening.

Brotan threw a left hook, but Hartz had his guard up and blocked it. Brotan struck again with a powerful right, connecting with Hartz’s ribs.

All right, tough guy! You’re about to find out what fighting really is!
thought Hartz, annoyed by the pain from the impact.

Another sharp blow in the opposite rib forced him to instinctively lower his guard to protect himself, but it did not shield him from another stiff jolt.

I cannot let this stinking ogre beat the great Hartz!
he told himself.

An explosion of sharp pain erupted inside his head and for a moment he was completely disoriented. Stunned and confused, he took a couple of steps back, trying to recuperate. A horrible left blow had hit him square in the nose. He ducked just in time to avoid another right upper cut then managed to get enough momentum to throw a punch that hit his opponent in the gut, causing him to stumble backwards. Hartz shook his head, trying to clear it. As he began to feel a little less disoriented he inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. The blow had been brutal; Brotan struck with the force of an ox. He did not remember ever having been hit like that. It worried him. This guy was good; very good. For a moment, he doubted his own chances for victory. But he quickly pulled himself together and pushed the doubt from his mind. He was going to put this brute to the test; put him in a tight spot and see how he would react.

Hartz tried to do just that. But after having taken several well-landed blows from his rival, Brotan threw a devastating counterpunch that detonated on Hartz’s face. On impact, Hartz tottered back a few steps, dazed—then his legs went limp. Paralyzed by a horrible dizziness, his vision blurred. He felt like he was losing consciousness, like he was going down. He tried to stay on his feet, but his limp legs failed him and he finally fell. His face hit the dirt hard. 

The spectators that had been cheering tirelessly now began screeching wildly—some for the likely victor and others trying to lift their beaten warrior off the ground with their cheers. Bets were quickly reversed as both young men desperately tried to stay in the fight.

Gudin approached to check if the match could continue. Hartz looked at him, got up on one knee and indicated he could go on. He stood up and breathed deeply.
I won’t win this way. He is stronger than I am and his technique is as good as mine or better. I won’t beat him by attacking. Think, think! By the three Goddesses I am not giving up. No way! He’ll have to split my skull to beat me!

And that was when an idea popped into his mind.

He raised his guard and the fight resumed, much to the delight of the spectators. Hartz, on the defensive, withstood a monumental beating. Blow after blow. Everything hurt. But he was... smiling. A barrage of crosses, hooks, and jabs rained down on his head. Through his bloody guard he could see Brogan frenziedly punching, consuming every drop of energy he had left. The furious attack ended and Brotan took a step back to rest and catch his breath.

The time has come! He’s worn out...

Hartz leaped forward and planted a powerful right on his opponent’s jaw. Brotan stumbled backwards from the tremendous impact. Hartz noticed Brotan’s legs wobbling for a second, and then they buckled.

You’re mine! I’ve got you!

Hartz threw a sharp left hook but, much to his surprise, Brotan did not fall. Somehow he remained upright, motionless, his arms down, resisting the knockout.

The square went dead silent. Expectant.

With a war cry at the top of his lungs, as if he were in the midst of battle, Hartz threw a punch powerful enough to take down a bull.

Brotan the Ox dropped to the ground like a downed oak tree.

The spectators, who had been so swept up in the anticipation and tension that they had kept completely silent, broke into thunderous cheers and applause. The whole square was filled with frenzied screams heard throughout the surrounding area.

“Victory!” yelled Hartz as he raised his arms to the sky. He then fell to the ground, exhausted.

An hour after Hartz’s incredible show of courage and honor it was Komir’s turn. There, in the middle of the village square, surrounded by a multitude of onlookers, Komir began to feel his nerves taking over. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that was growing by the second, like a volcano about to erupt. Just a few moments before he had been completely calm and confident about his chances. But now, in the middle of these spectacular surroundings, his nerves were starting to get the best of him.

Hartz approached, his face completely swollen and bruised from the brutal beating he’d taken. He looked Komir straight in the eye and said: “Norriel are we, Norriel shall we die.”

“Norriel are we, Norriel shall we die,” affirmed Komir, appreciative of his friend’s support. Hartz winked one purple eye at him and took a seat with the other spectators.

Gudin went to the middle of the crowded square. Looking at the public he announced:

“Komir, son of Ulis of the Bikia tribe, come forth into the ring.” He looked at him and motioned with this right arm where Komir should go.

Komir hesitantly approached and stood where Gudin had indicated.

“Akog, son of Lopar of the Bikia tribe, come forth into the ring,” summoned the Master as he pointed with his left hand at the second combatant’s position. 

When he heard that name pronounced, Komir shuddered.

Akog? It could be no-one else!

His rival walked to his position with a firm step and an attitude of defiance. He stared at Komir, his eyes glaring with stifled rage. The hatred in his gaze was unmistakable. His right fist was so forcefully clenched it was almost white.

Komir breathed deeply, filling his lungs and then exhaling slowly as he tried to calm his nerves. He looked into the eyes of his opponent. There he saw clearly visceral hatred projected back at him like a poisoned dart.
So, we meet again. My worst enemy, the one who deeply despises me... the one who caused the incident by the river I’ve tried so hard to forget yet never could. It could be no other way
...
So much rancor
...
You would desperately like to defeat me, wouldn’t you? But more than that, you would love to humiliate me in front of everyone, to ridicule me so I am the laughing stock of the village. But that is not going to happen; I will not let that happen! Your hatred is my strongest ally, and it will ultimately help me defeat you.

Master Gudin’s voice once again resonated through the square.

“You know the rules of combat.”

Both boys nodded in agreement.

“Instructors, present the weapons to the fighters.”

They took the flat, edgeless competition swords and, ready for combat, saluted one another in the Norriel style. The Master Warrior gave a signal with his arm and the two contenders moved into guard position. The spectators, crowding the square to see the grand finale, began shouting and cheering.

This was the culminating moment of the day. The one everyone had been waiting to see.

The Master’s arm fell to his side, signaling the start of the bout, and both fighters initiated the circular movements of their advance.

Without delay, Akog launched a furious attack. Komir vacillated a moment and retreated to evade him. Akog pressed furiously. The crowd cheered, surprised by the speed and fierceness of the young man’s attacks. After his initial brief moment of hesitation, Komir defended himself against the irascible assault as best he could while his confidence waned in the face of his rival’s spurs. All his concentration was focused on blocking the attacks. Arm and wrist acted on the orders from his brain, instantaneously connecting thought and action, but his poise and confidence were dwindling with each of his adversary’s thrusts.

The fight gained in intensity. The increasing speed of the attacks brought looks of surprise to the spectators’ faces as they cheered in astonishment. Akog was beginning to show signs of frustration over not finding a way to break Komir’s defensive guard. He tried a combination of chest thrusts followed by a straight thrust at his support foot, but Komir deflected the first move with a quick turn of the wrist and shifted backwards with a sudden spring.

Akog’s eyes shone with pure hatred.

He loathed Komir. To death.

And it was that gleam of profound malice that got Komir thinking.

He had to put all feeling out of his mind—empty it completely.
That
was the way to go. It would be the only way to defeat him. He vividly recalled Master Warrior Gudin’s teachings. In the art of sword fighting one must empty the mind of emotions and enter into a neutral, balanced state. That state allows one to evaluate each action equally and initiate a reaction in consequence. Feelings cloud judgment and a clouded judgment cannot make rational decisions—which inevitably leads to errors. It was a dogma that the Master Warrior had repeated on innumerable occasions.

Technique without reason brings death; the fighter believes his ability will conquer all, until he encounters a technique equal or superior to his own.

He relaxed and, feeling more confident, began in turn to press his frustrated opponent. He put him to the test with rapid-fire movements, attacking his sides to gauge his reaction time. Akog was aggressive; his skill with the sword, polished. But his footwork was not sufficiently agile and coordinated. His feet did not follow the same rhythm as his arm movements and, now that he was beginning to tire, it was becoming more evident.

The crowd was getting more excited, shouting feverishly at each thrust. Bets continued to mount; there would be quite a few people finishing the day a bit richer than they had started it. Fidgety children, who occupied the first rows so they could see the clash better, were cheering for Akog and insulting Komir.

Komir had sized up his enemy well. Nearly rabid with fury, Akog scornfully spit at Komir’s feet and tried to provoke him with other disdainful gestures. He seemed totally beside himself. But Komir was now fully confident and his mind was in balance. He decided to go on the offense. He waited for an off-balance attack and parried and counterattacked with a swift riposte to his head. His opponent reacted late, leaving his body exposed. Komir lunged agilely and hit him with the sword on his support leg. Akog, trying not to lose his balance, moved the weight of his body to the other leg but Komir swept it with a hard kick. Akog fell backwards and hit the ground hard. Komir darted swiftly forward and pressed his sword on the neck of his defeated opponent.

“Victor of the contest: Komir, son of Ulis of the Bikia tribe!” proclaimed Gudin authoritatively.