Steel And Flame (Book 1) (18 page)

Maddock’s long-term solution appealed most to him. 
Also, if Janus had told him his father had died in a battle, he realized he’d
had no plans for what to do from then on.  Pate’s woodshop held no interest and
he did not desire to become a tavern master like Puarri.  His dislike of
Spirratta’s sheep had cleared his eyes to his own personal nature, particularly
regarding his views on dependency and self-sufficiency.  It seemed the only
course left was to follow in his father’s footsteps.  To become a mercenary
himself.

The thought calmed him, damping most of the rage
boiling inside.

One day he would find Rail.  Sooner or later.  By
then, he hoped he would be a skilled mercenary in his own right.

Marik opened his mouth to say so when Harlan and
Chatham returned to the campsite under the trees, the latter announcing cheerfully,
“An’ well-a-day to you, my good masters.”  Chatham performed a mocking bow that
swept the woodland floor with his thatch of hair.  “We come bearing the
glorious news that the ever inefficient clerks o’ our impending masters have
finally used both o’ their hands
an’
a candle to find their misplaced
thinking organs.  The news thus released is that the tryouts will commence in
but six days time as the sun releases its hoarded rays on the deprived world.”

Six days!  That’s not much time!
  It seemed only moments ago when he’d felt he
possessed as much time as he would ever need.  But now…

If he truly intended to make a shot at entering the
band, he needed to be in as top shape and form as he could, and he only had six
days to prepare.  No, not six days!  The tryouts were on the morning of the
sixth, so he only had five!

If he was panicking this much, he must have truly
decided his best course of action lay with the Crimson Kings. 
Well then, so
be it.
  Turning to Chatham, he placed his hand on his sword hilt and
noticed the older man nod solemnly at the gesture.

“This is disgusting!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take the matter up with the
Kings’ clerical staff.  I wouldn’t hold my breath for any apologies, though.”

“It’s barely light yet!”

A camp crier made rounds in the lightening predawn
gray, spreading the message that all encampments outside the walls must be
broken and gone within the mark.  Participants were to gather on the entrance
road’s east side, near the registration tables.  Competitions would begin at
noon.  Anybody not complying would be told to leave.

“Are we supposed to stand around for five candlemarks
after we break our camp?  What’s the point of that?”

Marik noticed no one else complaining.  Strangely,
even Chatham kept his peace, instead directing his efforts at kicking apart the
stone circle that had bound their fire for the last eightday.  With bitter
thoughts that Chatham at least should have been on his side, Marik rolled his
bedroll and gathered the odd implement left out after last night’s meal.

*        *        *        *        *

Marik had only seen a crowd like this in Spirratta. 
Men were packed together shoulder to shoulder, except none were pushing to go
anywhere.  After hastily breaking the camp, Maddock had blazed the way to the
registration tables.  They were among the earliest to finish decamping. 
Although this placed them close to the fore so they could see what would
happen, Marik had mixed feelings about being there.  As likely as not, the
closest people would be the first called upon to perform in whatever manner the
band’s officers decreed.

Being packed together also made his clothing rub
against the myriad of bruises that had been Chatham’s gift to his sparring
student during the last five days.  The irritations they caused served only to
distract him at a time when his fledgling skills would be tested. 
Sink or
swim.
  When he peered about, Marik amended the heavy thought to,
bend or
break.

Though the camps were gone from the hillside, there
was no hiding the evidence that a large force of men had occupied it for the
last several eightdays.  His eyes wandered the denuded hillside, trying to
match the remains to the type of camp it had probably held.  Marik missed
seeing the postern door beside the gate open and the large group exit, half
carrying gear wrapped in cloths.  Only the conversations dampening throughout
the crowd alerted Marik to their arrival.  He noticed the men when they reached
the registration tables.

Old Janus walked at the fore.  Quick words from him
set the other clerks in motion.  Several began breaking down field desks and
the command tent or carrying metal document boxes up the hill.  Of the other
men who had come with Janus, the largest ones moved two tables several dozen
yards east, setting them parallel to the road.  Once satisfied that the tables
were correctly placed, they dropped the wrapped bundles nearby.

Five clerks seated themselves at the tables,
withdrawing scrolls from document boxes along with thick paper reams.  Beside
each clerk sat a second man, each of whom was decidedly not a clerk.

With what Janus had told him, Marik assumed the five
non-clerks must be band officers who would judge the strengths and weaknesses
of the men who wished to join.  The clerks would compare what the judges
witnessed to the information gathered during registration, or take notes on
their counterpart’s observations.

Once they were settled, it was time to begin.  Janus
stepped forward after an aide handed him a giant metal cone, the purpose for
which Marik could not fathom until the head clerk raised it to his lips.  The
act required both his aged hands.

“All right, you all listen!  I’m not in the mood to
repeat myself,” he snarled, his voice amplified so the rearmost men could
hear.  It sounded strangely hollow.  “You’re going to pair off with who we tell
you to, using the practice weapons we give you.  If this bothers you, that’s
too bad!  These men here will decide if you’re any good, and if you’re not, you
can take a hike.  If you’ve got a problem with
that
, then you can take
it up with
them.
”

Marik’s gaze followed the old man’s gesturing thumb. 
Several men emerged from the postern door.  They were large, like the men who
had moved the tables, and looked mean, each carrying weapons.  If going against
that group was the reward for challenging the judges’ authority, he would
accept their decrees.

Janus stopped gesturing to reaffirm his grip on the
cone.  “These judges happen to be officers in the band, so you’d better show
them respect!  If they think you might be worth the trouble, you’ll be told to
cross over to the western side of the road.  If we still have more men than
openings, we’ll proceed to the next challenge tomorrow.  One hundred and
seventy-four men got themselves killed this year, and roughly fifty others chose
not to renew their places.  That means there’s about two-hundred-twenty-five
slots, and there’s four-hundred-and-seven of you.  So let’s get this moving.”

Janus handed the horn back to the aide and pointed at
two men in the front.  He choose men standing apart from each other Marik saw
with relief, separated by nine or ten others.  Had he chosen them at random or
had he matched them via a standard unknown to those gathered?  Watching the
subsequent matches would be the only way to tell.

The chosen men approached the tables as directed by
Janus and supplied their names to a sixth clerk who had taken a place while
Janus addressed the crowd.  This extra man flipped through several paper
sheets, finally directing a comment at the other five clerks, all of whom then
flipped through their own pages.  They all stopped at once to pass a paper to
their particular officer.

After scanning the pages, an officer asked one man a
question, receiving a brief answer.  Further questions followed from the other
officers before they addressed the second applicant.  It required only a few
moments but Marik felt they would be lucky to process everyone by dark if they
repeated the same procedure with every pair.  Why hadn’t they started sooner?

The two applicants turned to the side where one
Homeguard unwrapped the bundles.  Several of the practice weapons mentioned by
Janus tumbled into an untidy pile.  From where he stood, it seemed to Marik
there must be other shapes than swords alone, given the odd lumps and
protrusions.

“Can you really judge someone by their performance
with those things?  They must be much lighter than a real blade.”

“Nah,
lad-o.
  Look closer an’ you’ll see that
dark coloring there, ever so much darker than that wooden table they be resting
next to.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ironwood, young one.  I thought you spent your
youthful days in a  woodworker’s shop.  Mayhap not as heavy as true iron an’
steel, but not far off, an’ they can still crack your head open.”

The two applicants dumped their packs, chose swords as
their weapons and squared off before the judging table, albeit twenty feet
away.  Janus shouted, “You waiting for a cheer?  Get on with it!”

*        *        *        *        *

Since no rules had been laid to regulate conduct or
define victory conditions, the men fighting needed to regard their opponent as
a serious threat, which most likely was the entire point.  A candlemark later
Marik revised his estimate from ‘being lucky to finish by dark’ to ‘being lucky
to finish today’
.
  Twenty pairs had so far been called to battle.  Seven
men had been carried off the field to the walls, where they were treated by new
men who emerged from within.  The judges had declared all seven to be failures,
along with four others.

The other twenty-nine occupied the western hillside in
various states.  Men, including Chatham who had been called with the ninth
pairing, sat or stood along the road’s edge, watching those called after them. 
Others took no further interest in the proceedings, including, notably, those
sporting fresh bandages.

Marik focused on the two currently sparring for the
panel.  One was a tall man with skin a deeper tan than any Marik had ever
seen.  His long tunic reached his ankles, slit up both sides to the waist to
give his legs freedom of motion.  Loose, flowing pants billowed around his legs
while his movements made the tunic flaps dance.  A sash wrapped tightly around
his waist.  From Maddock’s description, Marik believed the brown man to be a
Tullainian.

He’d chosen a long staff with a small wooden cylinder
on the end, the practice version of a spear or pole arm.  Instead of thrusting
at his opponent as Marik, and apparently also his opponent, expected, he took a
grip further along the shaft nearer the head.  Using both hands in movements
too quick for Marik to follow, he whirled it in a seamless manner.  Like a
quarterstaff, the practice spear swung high then low, left then right, spinning
so fast at times it nearly disappeared.

The opponent had chosen a sword, as most the men did,
resulting in his having trouble staying beyond the staff’s reach.  He wore a
simple tunic and breeches under a mail shirt that hung to his knees.  Both
hands gripped the sword, which he held low, angled toward the ground.  His legs
were bent in a slight crouch.  From his lessons with Chatham, Marik recognized
the advantages this posture afforded.  With his weight evenly divided between
his legs, he could dodge in any direction, as his quick leaps to avoid the
whirling staff proved.  Also, with his sword at the ready to flick upward and
counter most of the motions being displayed by the first man’s weapon, he could
manage a semblance of defense.

If rules had been set to distinguish boundaries, the
swordsman would never have stood a chance.  No such rules were in place though,
and he was backed all the way to the road.  The roadbed sank several inches
into the hillside, lower than the ground to either side.  A near stumble while
his feet reached for the lower ground left him open to attack.  When a strike
whistled toward him, he saved himself by throwing his weight backward, contrary
to what his instincts must have been shouting.

The staffsman missed his clean hit.  He jumped to land
close to his opponent, who had been hoping for precisely such a move.  With his
feet unbalanced, the staff could not be wielded with full ability, and the
swordsman pressed his attack.

This strategy became clear to the staffsman after he
landed.  He twisted his arms in a motion that brought one wrist atop the other
and sent the staff’s end spinning toward his foe’s head.  Sword and staff met. 
The staff repelled backward, while the sword spent most of its force.

The swordsman tried to turn the stalled strike into a
thrust but he was anticipated.  With a quick step backward, the staffsman
twisted his wrists in the opposite direction, taking advantage of the new
momentum gained from the blade.  He avoided the sword easily.  It thrust into
empty space.

While the swordsman comprehended his error, the
staff’s bottom crashed into his hands as it spun in a half-circle from below.  At
full speed it would have crushed bone, yet the staff only had the one half-spin
before it connected.  It still possessed enough strength to make the
swordsman’s hands spasm.  They released their grip on the hilt.

Brought to a halt due to the collision with its
target, the staff’s wielder adjusted his grip so two feet worth of shaft
separated his hands.  When the swordsman recoiled automatically, raising his
hands to judge the damage, his opponent shoved the staff forward.  It crashed
lengthwise across his chest.  The swordsman fell to the roadbed.

Quickly the staffsman fell atop his opponent, pinning
him in place.  He raised his weapon in both hands with the weighted end pointed
at the man below.  The staffsman plunged it down in a motion that would have
impaled the swordsman’s head had it been a real spear, and had it not impacted
into the dirt several inches to his skull’s left.

His victory obvious to all, the staff wielder returned
to stand near the tables while he brushed dirt from his tunic’s flaps.

At times the judges asked the men to spar a second
round.  This time they told the staff fighter to lay his weapon back among the
others.  The swordsman picked himself up and followed whereupon he too returned
his wooden blade.  Both stood before the tables to listen to the five officers
speaking quietly, occasionally asking the clerks to find them a document.

Finally, the officers spoke with them, as they had
with every other pair hitherto.  The pair eventually nodded, then both joined
Chatham’s group on the west side of the road.

This was not unduly surprising to Marik anymore.  The
judges only rejected one man in four since the purpose of this challenge
appeared simply to be weeding out those obviously without any combat skill.

Now the next pair would be called.  Janus left the
tables to approach their slowly dwindling mob, his gaze faltering when it
passed over Marik.  He’d grown used to that as well, as it had happened every
time Janus studied the gathering.  Most likely it meant nothing, except perhaps
that it surprised the old man to see him trying to enter after his stated
objective of finding his father and continuing the pursuit, wherever it led.