Swordplay at Flex
Flex was listed merely as a town in the census of Thenol, but to me it was staggeringly large. They had a wall that put our little hurried construction project around Forg to shame - crenellated, patrolled, and festooned with banners of the various visiting trade towns. The roadside inns grew thick as we neared the main promenade, and our little cart quickly became lost among the din of traders and caravans entering sunsward.
They dropped us off at a guildhall where the rooms smelled of food. It was not quite an unpleasant smell. Terrek and Allin, one of Himlak's kin, took us to our rooms and we settled in, unwrapping the last of the food we'd brought from home. Outside, down two floors of well-worn stairs, the grown men-at-arms and bladed travelers traded barbs and oaths over beersoaked tableboards. Terrek confirmed Lord Belkrestar's stipend at the guildhall, and we fell to unpacking.
We stayed there for the afternoon, then Terrek clomped up to our room and announced, without preamble, that we would spend the rest of the week in training. We filed down to the halls, where older boys spent much of their time boxing, wrestling, and crossing swords.
He gave us padded poles and we practiced according to the tournament rules for our footmen youth lists. Small groups, each of four skirmishers, would take to the field. Each individual was allowed one shield and one spear - blunted, of course. The sole exception was the bannerman, who would carry a shield and no spear, but instead a flag with the township's colors. Each team was to eliminate all others in a contest of strength - forcing an opponent down on their knees would suffice, as would tearing away their spears. If a bannerman was forced down or allowed his colors to touch the earth, the entire team was eliminated.
Terrek explained a few group tactics to us: the cloverleaf formation, with spears pointing out in a defensive bristle; the wedge, with three pointmen charging forwards, giving cover to the bannerman a half-stride behind; the stonewall. In between patching bruised knuckles and scraped knees, he demonstrated individual fighting techniques - how to strike past the shield and into the opponent's flank, how to whip the spear to bruise the knuckles, or perhaps strike between finger and thumb so the hand automatically opened, and how to deflect incoming blows with the targe with just a quizzical angle, so that the shield arm did not tire so quickly.
By the second day, we had determined that Lindo would be bannerman. It was only fitting, given his status as Himlak's boy. Lotal preferred to heft his spear in his left hand, so we agreed to place him on the left flank so his spear arm could work unblocked, and his shield could work with Prasti's to give Lindo greater cover. For myself, I took right flank - arguably the more important flank, given that Lindo carried his own shield in his left and lacked protection on his right.
On the third day, the tournament began, and Terrek allowed us a break to watch from the lower wings. We trouped in with the rest of the spectators beneath the draped flags, and rose to our feet to cheer the various champions. They came from the various villages under tribute to Flex, and also a few visiting towns had sent their youths and men-at-arms too. Hasid, never a stranger to Flex, had fielded three youth teams and two adult champions.
On the first day of the competition it was mostly horsework, as that was what the journeymen had come to see. Belkrestar sat, a red-robed figure indistinct except for his black beard, beneath a shaded pavilion, as his son, Master Perringen, mounted up saluting and led the opening lists.
Names of distant village champions rang out from the crier as they loped in a broad ellipse to Lord Belkrestar's balcony and tilted. With the warm weather, all were lightly proofed - I saw nothing heavier than leather jerkins in the sunlight. That done, they cleared the field and the contestants entered the field in couples, to vie in earnest with blunted weapons.
"Just show," Terrek muttered quietly, as the crowd cheered a very palpable hit. "These are the sons of lords on field. They won't so much as scratch a fingernail."
Although the first bout was a stunning exchange of sword blows and counters, the truth behind Terrek's words slowly became clear. Watching closely, I could see the fighters posturing on their steeds, showing off to the crowd in the name of a fighting style, rather than actually striking for the felling blow. At times when blunted blade met blunted blade, there was almost a conspiratorial air about it, as if to make the blades sing out the contest for the benefit of the viewers.
I grew bored by the third round and began scanning the audience, looking for any other group of adolescents - our competitors. One cluster lolled on the floors beside the seated stage, chewing black bread and spitting out the seeds. I discounted those - probably just local boys here for the show. Further across the stadium towards the nearest corner, I saw a row of young men and boys wearing the colors of Hasid. Several of them seemed about our age, but it was difficult to tell who would be in the youth lists and who might be older.
Lotal snickered at my elbow as one rider overbalanced and almost fell out of the saddle. "Worse and worse!" he said to himself, his eyes scrunched into skeptical slits above his freckles and unruly red hair. Prasti next to him hollered, raising up in his seat as the mounted fighter in the field regained his. Only Lindo seemed to notice my distraction.
"What do you see, Cob?" he asked. I tilted my head towards Hasid's people, and he shaded his eyes before I shooed his hands down.
"Not so obvious," I warned. "Those are Hasid's folk. They're our rivals... but that's where Bela's family came from."
Lindo stared, oblivious to my warning.
"Some of them are really tall," he mused. "I reckon they have different ages to challenge Flex."
Terrek came up behind us and handed me a pouch of grapes. "Eat these and then we're leaving," he said curtly. "We're not staying for the whole thing - just enough to show you what it'll be like."
Prasti and Lotal took very few grapes, reluctant as they were to leave the show. Fortunately for them, I'd had enough of watching, and I ate enough grapes for us all to go back to training early.
* ~ * ~ *
Our own youth footmen list didn't start until the second-to-last day, by which time we had trained for five days in the cramped confines of the guildhall. We had gone out once, sneaking out without Terrek's knowledge, but the cobbled streets of Flex hurt our heels in a way that the dirt roads of Forg never had, and we returned, abashed, after only a few hours. Terrek saw us return but said nothing, although he ordered us immediately to the training room again.
In up close combat, Lotal was arguably the best of us. He reversed his shield and his spear in his hands, so none of us quite knew how to face him, as we were overwhelmingly used to fighting right-handers. Lotal knew our discomfiture and he more than once took us in the wrist, the forearm, or the armpit in an unguarded moment.
Lindo, perhaps because of his smaller size and slighter frame, was nimbler than the rest of us. Though his spear arm was not particularly quick, his feet carried him well around formations and between shield covers. Also, as bannerman, he was well used to carrying the Forg colors, and I was confident that his own innate pride would be as strong a shield as any wooden targe.
I was worried about Prasti, though. In Terrek's practices and drills back in Forg, he had distinguished himself by his unquestioning obedience and his ability to master new orders quickly. In the sparring room, however, I saw a certain slowness of thought behind his quickness of action. Each time he was called upon to perform a maneuver, he did it, without so much as an second's worth of wavering... or an inch's worth of deviation. In the chaos of a fight, however, this meant one thing: predictability. I flummoxed him in a training bout by opening my entire side to him, pointing my spear downwards in a brazen invitation. He thrust with his point, as Terrek had taught us, but still for the lower torso instead of the upper, as such an opening should have favored. With a turn of my wrist, I batted his point away with the butt of my spear and buried my own blunted point into the toes of his left foot - all in one fluid motion. In another bout, several hours later, I tried the trick on him again, and though he did not fall for it, he was clearly perturbed, so much so that had I not pulled my own counterattack, I would have taken him in the thigh. Prasti was a boy who knew how to follow orders, but I doubted whether he could learn how to fight.
Still, he was a strong-willed lad, eager, perhaps, to live up to the wounded legacy of his own father.
As for myself, I could not boast a quick spear arm, nor a particularly nimble shield arm. But one thing I did possess to a far greater extent than the others was endurance. Hours after we'd started, I would reach a state of flat concentration, with my body welcoming the exertion just as it had cried out under the punishing regimen of Wilmar's blade. Where other boys groaned under the rigors, I revelled. Terrek's curses and cuffs did not so much as faze me - with my pride and my skin both worn into a smooth shell by Wilmar's brutal regimen in the winter.
Every evening, while they timidly played at sipping mead from flagons in the central hall, or pretended to carouse with the serving girls, I would sit apart, carving diagrams of tactics and counter-tactics in the soft surface of the tabletops, my mind abuzz with theories of conflict.
* ~ * ~ *
Allin made it to the final horseman's duel, but on the last bout, he took a series of blows to the chest and neck from Perringen, Belkrestar's son, and the arbitrator called a halt and a victory. Still, the crowd cheered him as he returned to the stables, a not ignoble second place.
Terrek brought us leather jerkins, some light greaves, and a new set of bucklers crafted from Old Carrustin's forge. With new sandals replacing our old shoes of cloth wraps, we took to the field on the penultimate day of the tournament - one quartet of boys blinking in the sunlight among many.
The status of Forg as a village under Flex's protectorate meant that we leapt ahead in the lists, bypassing the first round of competitions. Now there were four teams left, with a group from Flex and their sister town of Hasid, as well as a New Aurim team bearing the King's colors of gold upon white. All three of them were well-reputed, and among their vaunted names, Forg was the scrawny brother. As we lined up with the twelve other boys to salute Lord Belkrestar, I felt a slight shiver run down my spine.
The others didn't look much stronger or taller than us, but there was a precision to their moves that we lacked. With two of them as wealthy towns, and one even from the capital of New Aurim itself, we began to wonder if our faith in Terrek's teachings was enough to deport us honorably today.
The crier ordered us to the corners of the field, and we had a muttered consultation. To the best of my memory, this was what we said:
Prasti (softly): There are twelve of them and four of us.
Lotal (loudly): Aye! It's hardly fair. We outnumber them one to three, the miserable swine.
Lindo: Do you think we can shelter with Flex? After all, they are our protectorate.
This gave me pause. Flex would likely not move to eliminate Forg, their own ally, in the lists, surely? But to so openly side with them would be an admission of our own weakness - and Wilmar had made me promise no bearer of his hearth would disgrace the Wilmar name.
Prasti: Twelve is larger than four.
Lotal: Not when they're laying arse-up on the ground it ain't.
Lindo: It's "lying", not "laying". And I think we should ally with Flex.
Cob (revelation): We'll take out New Aurim. Flex has enough of a rivalry with Hasid to keep them busy. So all that remains is for us to challenge New Aurim.
This created a stir. Lotal and Prasti both gaped at the folly of attacking the kingseat team, though Lindo seemed intrigued by the idea. He nodded and hefted the blue-and-white Forg banner to his shoulder.
"We go for New Aurim," he said simply.
Then the muttering died down, and the crier gave the clear command to engage, and four sets of spearpoints angled towards the center of the field.
As we'd anticipated, Flex's boys charged down the field to meet Hasid in a resounding melee, their spears held high and their shields held forward. Hasid met them head on, and the din of their shields and flashing spears clouded the field.
We were more cautious, well aware that we were the least favored group, but Lotal made several harsh stabs at a Hasid flanker, then followed us as we circled round Flex's rear and engaged New Aurim from the side.
We had surprise going for us. New Aurim had evidently assumed we would ally with Flex against Hasid, and they were focused entirely on weakening Hasid to eliminate one team. As such, their point man and their right flank were busy engaging Hasid, leaving their bannerman and left flank to hold the center.
Lotal gave a ragged whoop as he lowered and charged at the New Aurim point, flailing past his shield with his devious left hand. Prasti also charged the pointman, leaving me with the defense of Lindo.
In theory.
In practice, the New Aurim pointman recovered quickly from his initial surprise and took on Lotal and Prasti's attacks with a firm, practiced defense. His shield flicked in and out of their blows in a way that belied training beyond anything we had received. A stinging blow to Lotal's hand shook him, his spear almost falling free, and then a shield charge to Prasti brought him to the ground, and out of the combat.
I looked at Lindo and gave him a wave to the right, and we both charged the New Aurim bannerman. Terrek would later tell us that the crowd gave a long, disbelieving sigh at this crazed maneuver, jeopardizing the safety of our own banner, but at the time I heard nothing - my ears were full of the sound of the fight as we crashed into the enemy bannerman headlong. I took his shield with mine and thrust at him with my spear, holding his attention as Lindo came beside him with the Forg banner in both hands and wrapped it around his neck and forced him, cursing, to the ground.
It took three arbitrators to separate the fracas and to sort out what was going on, as the New Aurim trainer bellowed furiously from the stands. Ultimately, however, the rules were firm - though their spearmen were all still standing, impudent Forg had managed to pluck its bannerman. As we retreated back to our corners, New Aurim's boys spat on the ground near us - the capital city, not so proud, and first to be eliminated in this competition.
* ~ * ~ *
Prasti was not the only spearman forced off the contest. Flex had lost one spearman, and Hasid had lost two. Suddenly, the balance of power was shifting - we, the Forg contingent, were no longer the weakest. With New Aurim gone, there could have been little doubt that Forg would side with Flex and eliminate Hasid.
As the crier announced the second round, we moved cautiously, however. Flex had seen the expectations of engagement turn against the wind once already, spelling disaster for New Aurim. They no longer charged headlong against Hasid, but adopted a heavy defensive posture. Hasid's forlorn two men sparred with them at half-hearted range, and then we realized what Flex was doing.
By making themselves unassailable, they gave us and Hasid no choice except to fight each other. We reformed with myself taking Prasti's place at point and Lotal retaining his tricky left position. Lindo flitted about behind us, ready to break for a corner on his own if we came under heavy attack - a purely defensive move to buy us some time.
"There's only two of them," I said to Lotal, wincing slightly at my swelling cheek where the New Aurim bannerman had hit me. "You trick the pointman and I'll take banner."
Lotal nodded once, and we were off, leading a quick charge against Hasid. They saw us coming, and retreated as far as they could until Flex's pointman landed a blow against their bannerman. Crushed between my spear and Flex's pointman, their bannerman seemed almost relieved as he dropped the flag of Hasid. He went down at the same time as Lotal struck away their pointman's spear with a loud clatter.
And then Flex was suddenly upon us, snarling and raging with a ferocity that stunned me briefly. Wasn't there a pause before the third round? I wondered, as spear blows rained upon my shield. But no, looking at the arbitrator, there wouldn't be a break. Whether because it was the last two fighting, or whether Hasid's elimination was too clear to warrant a break, we would be fighting to the end now without the benefit of a plan. I took one blow to the shoulder that jolted my shield arm, and then narrowly parried a spearthrust to my torso, as I sidestepped over the wriggling Hasid bannerman trying to get free underfoot. With one leap I cleared him and batted away spearthrusts, getting back to Lotal.
His eye was swelling and his lip was cut, but that didn't stop him from hissing "Lindo's in trouble!"
I glanced over - one of Flex's boys had broken from the main group to take Lindo, who was making his way back towards us. Evenly matched though we were in numbers, Flex's pointman beat back Lotal's offhand spear sallies with a practiced hand and a sure shield. I tried to rush around him to get at their bannerman, but the bastard was crafty, bringing his parry round so that Lotal's own spear deflected my own, and then bashing me away with his shield.
Lindo made it back behind us, and I had to leave Lotal to his man as I focused on Lindo's assailant. The guy was a good sparrer, just like his remaining partner, but his legs couldn't keep up with Lindo's nimbleness. I engaged him shield to shield and thrust at his head, his exposed arm, his thigh. Each time he parried me effortlessly, and after the third strike he brought his spear butt up and walloped me hard on the ear, leaving my head feeling hollow and ringing like a bell.
Things seemed to slow down for a while. I lazily wondered whether we would lose, and whether it really was all that bad even if we did. After all, hadn't we already outlasted all the crowd's expectations of us? We, little Forg!, were still standing, when not even mighty Thenol remained. Surely it would be an honorable exit now?
Beside me, Lotal's opponent put out one savage thrust, and took Lotal in the pit of his elbow, forcing his spear out of his hands. I watched him stagger then straighten, furious at his spear drop and balling his hands into fists. And with a sudden heartbeat's recognition, I realized Lotal was out, and his assailant - more importantly - was vulnerable on his left jowl.
My spearpoint, blunt though it was, scattered the Flex pointman's bloody teeth across the field as I brought it hard into his jaw. The pointman made a complete revolution in midair before coming to an unconscious landing several bodylengths away.
Perhaps aghast at the ferocity of the strike, my own opponent seemed offguard for a moment. I redoubled my offensive against him, even as I saw his own bannerman move to engage Lindo. Much later, recovering in the guildhall, I would hear of our competition referred to as the "dueling banners" for the number of times our bannermen had come into direct combat, but all I knew at the time was that I prayed Lindo could take it as I thrust, spiralled, parried, and sliced at my opponent spearman.
I later heard that Lindo's opponent, the Flex bannerman, had charged him shield to shield, and Lindo had dropped his shield from the impact. Now defenseless and holding a useless banner haft, Lindo cut a lonely figure on the field - his own spearman defender far away taking a beating, and himself shieldless against a superior opponent. I hadn't known of this at the time, and it was a good thing too, because I might have given up if I had.
Instead - and I'll hold this to his credit ever after - Lindo twirled his banner haft carefully a few revolutions to wrap the Forg colors tightly around it, so they wouldn't touch the ground and risk disqualifying us. Then he faced off against his tormentor, banner haft held cudgel-like in both hands and with a firm set to his jaw.
I did not see this myself until much later, when I had lost my own shield and then taken a brutal spear blow to the ribs, and then wrapped my free arm around the enemy's spear haft, and then yanked it inwards while bringing my own weapon firmly against the shoulder of my opponent. When my vision cleared and I could breathe again in mewling gasps, I had his spear trapped between my armpit and wrist, and he was standing with a look of disbelief and dismay, his spear hand empty.
When I ran back to Lindo, his face was bleeding freely in places where the enemy bannerman had taken him to task. He ducked behind me so I could take the enemy's charge against my double-handed spear haft, but he was having difficulty seeing from the blood from his cut eyebrow. The enemy bannerman saw me shieldless and ignored me, charging me aside with his shield and tripping Lindo. Lindo almost fell but steadied himself with one hand on the grass, the other holding his banner upwards defiantly, and that was when I stepped past and caught our banner just before his knee gave out and he sat down heavily.
The enemy bannerman grinned in disbelief. I suppose I cut a ridiculous looking figure, holding a spear and a banner, neither of which I could rightly drop without forfeiting the game. But we'd come this far, and I was damned if he'd take them from me without a fight.
I cradled both the spear in my right elbow and levelled it against my enemy. On my left side, I did the same with the banner haft. When he came for me, I thrust twice on his spear side, making sure to pull back as fast as I could so he couldn't grab them or knock them out of my grasp. He hid well behind his shield, closing quickly and almost pinning my spear with it - I saved myself only by spinning on my right leg across his shield flank, briefly exposing my back.
We circled, and feinted left and struck right. He parried. Pulling back, I feinted right but then carried through, landing a blow that his shield took. He almost countered my spear arm, scraping against my wrist as I pulled back a second too soon for him.
He tried for my banner arm, and I hopped back, then went back to circling. This was futile - sooner or later I would make a bad attack and he would counter it and knock the banner or the spear from my hands.
I stepped back and wrapped my hands around both, holding them as one bundle. I dropped my stance so my hands were at waist height. The crowd went silent as I stood, inviting the blow, with my spear and flagstaff held across my thighs.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. He could strike with his own flagstaff, but could I trap it with my double grip? He seemed to dismiss this and closed quickly with me behind his shield, keeping his own haft out of the way and bringing his shield into my jaw. I had raised my hands to head height, not to ward off the shield charge, but to bring my arms up and over his head as he came in.
His shield knocked the breath out of me as it crunched my breastbone, but my hands won clear of it and looped over it, lodging beneath his chin.
I twisted to one side, pulling myself towards him, as we teetered on uncertain feet. Then I hugged him closer, wedging his neck tighter behind the joint spear and flagstaff, as I brought my right knee into the soft spot of his left calf, twisting it on the way down.
I barely kept my balance as he fell, the flagstaff clattering from his grip. As it was, I put out a hand to steady myself, and both worthless pieces of wood flailed and touched earth - a few clear heartbeats after his bulk subsided on the grass.
It was hard to tell whether the crowd was shouting approval or jeers as the crier declared Forg the victor today.
* ~ * ~ *
Terrek took us back early, possibly for our own safety. We even had to forego the prizes: specially-crafted weapons and armor. Instead, we left pretty much as we had arrived, as unknown youths on a nondescript cart heading along the cobblestone road to Forg.
Terrek promised us we'd get our arms and armor from Old Carrustin, however. And when we got back to Forg, they slaughtered five pigs in the courtyard and sang and danced for a day and a night for us.
* ~ * ~ *
Wilmar came up to me, his voice beery, sometime after midnight.
"Ah-Cob," he said, careful to use the respectful prefix. "I was looking at your prize and I wondered to myself - where's the other sword Old Carrustin gave you?"
My goodwill slowly ebbed away and I looked at him - drunk but not disagreeable, in the moonlight.
"Ah," I said. "I haven't really thought about it for a while."
Wilmar put his hand around my shoulder in a surprising gesture of camaraderie.
"I always knew you'd be a fighter," he said. "Just wasn't sure if anybody else would know." He let me free and swept his hands across the vista of the bonfire, the ore cliffs, and the wall.
"Guess they do now!" he said, and gave an abrupt, barking laugh.
I nodded at him.
It was the polite thing to do.
_
