Ch. 21 - Challenged Again

The Mercy Tree

Bane stood in the middle of the makeshift Arena, breathing deeply the crisp morning air. His arms hung loosely at his side, a sword resting easily in his right hand. The champion stood with a wide stance and with his knees slightly bent. Taking in another deep breath, Bane stepped forward and swung his blade powerfully. He began a combination of swift movements both with his feet and his weapon, moving steadily forward across the Arena. He swung his weapon left and right, up and down, blocking and slaying imaginary enemies. Bane could feel his own strength coursing through his limbs; it flowed through him and out into his sword. The weapon felt like a part of his own body.

As he practiced patiently and methodically, Dragonsbane considered what sort of champion fights Yorgen Maal may use. He knew that it would not only be the simple staged fights, but the champion challenges would become much more frequent. If Bane had not been so valuable, then he would have thought that his master was trying to get rid of him. Perhaps he was still. Perhaps Yorgen was looking for a new grand champion amongst the new swordslaves, which would give him an excuse to destroy Bane.

When the champion was finally through with his own training and pausing to catch his breath, he heard whispers from the slavehold. Bane turned and saw the younger boys watching him through the partially open doors. Dallion and Colby stood there as well, watching with just as much intrigue. Roli clapped loudly, and Bane couldn’t help a small smile. He was used to the rousing cheers of the spectators, but Bane was not used to being watched while he practiced and certainly not being applauded afterwards.

The young slaves came tumbling out of the doors, all speaking at once. Colby followed behind them, laughing at their eagerness. Dallion remained in the hold doorway.

“How did you become so good?” asked Roli excitedly. “Will we become that good someday?”

“Perhaps,” said Bane with a shrug. “If you pass the Trials.”

The young boys looked intrigued. “What are the Trials? Did you pass them?”

“I would not be a champion if I did not.” The champion wiped the dust off his blade and turned it to catch the rays of the sun on it. In its reflection he saw Dallion watching him closely from the doorway. “If a swordslave wishes to rise in rank from a Number to a Champion, he must endure the Trials and then the Challenges every year after that.”

The new slaves had about a million questions concerning those things, and Bane decided now was as good a time as any to educate them on the structure of the Games, especially seeing how they would soon be right in the middle of them. Bane didn’t know how soon Yorgen planned on using them, but knowing the master, he would introduce them as quickly as possible.

“Every new swordslave is assigned a number; you already know this. And you know that you are not to call each other or yourselves by anything but that number. Your old names are dead to you.” Bane gave Roli a severe look, and the boy looked down red-faced. He had been guilty a number of times of forgetting this and received a cuff from the overseers more than once.

“If a swordslave never becomes a champion,” went on Dragonsbane, “he will only ever go by his number. Only the champions are named.”

“Like you?” asked a boy.

“Like me. Names are earned, usually within the first season of being a champion. I earned my through the challenges that we champions must partake in every year to prove our worth. I slew two dragons that year, one that I was meant to fight and one that broke out. From then on I was called Dragonsbane.”

The champion realized that Dallion had stepped out of the shadows of the hold and drawn nearer, listening. “What exactly are these Trials?” he asked. “What does a Number have to do to enter them?”

Bane glanced at him sharply. “A lot more than you have done.”

“And who are you to decide that? How do you know that I am not ready to be a champion? I think that I am.”

“Anyone who thinks himself as great rarely is.” Bane sheathed his sword. “You are not ready and will not be for a long time. Focus on surviving your training and gaining the approval of the master. That is all that should matter to you right now.”

Dallion’s eyes narrowed. “And what would it take? What would it take for you to think that I was ready?”

Bane did not want to answer, but all the younger boys’ eyes turned to him for an answer. So he said, “The day you can hold your own against me in a duel, then on that day I will recommend to the master that you partake in the Trials.”

“Then I challenge you.” The slave’s response was so quick, almost as if he had been expecting that answer. Bane thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard him correctly. But he had. Dallion stood in a ready position, similar to how Bane had stood during the beginning of his practice. “Give me a sword, and I will hold my own.”

If the younger swordslaves were not standing there fully expecting Bane to accept the challenge, then Bane would have refused. But his pride pricked him; they would think him a coward if he said no. How could they respect him then?

“Get your own sword.”

Dallion’s eyes lit up, and as he ran into the hold to find another practice sword, Bane wondered if he had been expecting the champion to refuse. It was too late now. The other boys scampered back into the doorway of the hold where they could watch but also be out of the way. Colby turned to Bane with a concerned look, but didn’t say anything and joined his friends in the doorway. The champion gave him a reassuring nod. Bane was certainly not concerned about losing to Dallion, but he was very tired of the slave constantly pushing the boundaries.

Dallion finally reemereged from the slavehold holding a dulled practice sword in one hand and his other clenched into a fist. His eyes were gleaming, and his breathing came tense and excited. All signs of an overconfident and under-ready swordslave. Bane stood quietly, holding his sword at his side. He did not have to attack first; Dallion would do that and probably wear himself out pretty quickly.

The newer swordslave did exactly that, attacking the champion with a ferocious yell and a powerful swing. But Bane had already seen it coming and stepped to the side out of the way, not even needing to lift his sword in a parry. Dallion immediately slashed his sword sideways at Bane’s stomach, but the champion was ready for it. He blocked the blow and leapt forward in a sudden movement, throwing Dallion off balance. One more strike, thought Bane, and Dallion would end the fight on the ground as he always did.

But Dallion had a trick of his own up his sleeve; or rather, in his hand. His clenched fist opened, and a cloud of dirt struck Bane squarely in the face. The champion stumbled backward several paces, his eyes burning. Hot tears streamed down his face. Bane dashed his hand across his eyes, but that only made it worse.

He heard Dallion gain his footing again, and immediately Bane’s sense flew into survival mode. Dallion didn’t have a sharpened sword, but it would certainly still do some damage. He listened intently; the younger boys were shouting angrily, and Bane thought he heard one of them leave the doorway.

“No!” the champion commanded fiercely. “Stay back.”

Bane heard Dallion’s quick footsteps as the younger slave came running towards him, probably reveling in what must be his triumph. But Bane was quicker. He stepped aside, making Dallion pause enough to turn, giving the champion the time he need to execute a quick strike. Dallion blocked it poorly, and the dulled blade glanced off from the slave’s shoulder. Bane heard him grunt in pain.

Dallion quickly regained himself and attacked again. But Bane, even in his current blind state, remained perfectly in control. The champion ignored his burning eyes as only someone highly trained could, and instead gave his entire focus to the rest of his sense. He could feel Dallion’s steps in the ground. He could hear him lift his sword. He could smell his sweat. Bane lashed out with his foot, catching Dallion in the knee. The swordslave yelped and jumped back; Bane pushed his advantage.

By the time the overseers ran into the Arena to break up the impromptu fight, Dallion was on the ground, his sword several feet away, and Bane’s boot squarely on his throat. An overseer pushed Bane off. “What are you two fighting over? This is not the Numbers’ training time! And what is on your face?”

Bane didn’t answer, but turned and walked slowly back towards the hold. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the excited whispers of the boys watching. Roli ran towards him and took the champion’s hand. “That was a dirty trick Dal played on you!” exclaimed the boy. “I’ll help you.” Bane allowed Roli to lead him into the slavehold and to his cell where a skin of water was waiting for him. The champion washed his eyes and face with the cool, refreshing water and took a long drink. He wiped his sleeve across his face and it came back wet with what was now mud.

Tiredly, the champion sat down in his cell and leaned against the wall as he always did. Roli sat down beside him. Bane didn’t protest as he usually might; he was too tired to care. They sat there in silence for a few moments, Bane trying to calm his thoughts and Roli thinking of, well, whatever small boys think of.

Eventually, Roli couldn’t keep quiet any longer and said, “You were wonderful out there. I thought Dallion was going to have you dead for sure!”

Bane grunted. “It’s going to take a lot more than a little dirt to kill me. It’s not the first time I haven’t been able to see in a fight.”

Roli sat up. “What were the other times? Tell me!”

But before Bane could think of a reason not to, a reason was given to him. A horn sounded from somewhere outside the Arena, and he heard the large doors open. The rest of Yorgen Maal’s swordslaves were here. He rose and left his open cell, hoping he would find Golden Boy amongst them. He knew it was beyond hope to think that Naranil had come.

Bane watched silently as the swordslaves and servants trooped in. None of them were new; they all knew where to go, and they all knew their posts. What concerned Bane the most were the three large cages being taken into another part of the large hold. They were completely covered, but the champion knew what was in them: dragons. So Yorgen was planning on holding challenges. And more than one, considering he had brought three dragons with him. There were other cages holding large boars and a couple of drugged horned bears, but none of them were covered, only those three.

Someone grabbed Bane from behind, and he spun around defensively. Sparkling blue eyes laughed and golden hair whipped him in the face from the wind. “Have you missed me, old man?” cried Golden Boy.

Bane couldn’t help smiling. He gripped Golden Boy’s arm. “I’m glad you’re here again.”

The other champion feigned a look of shock. “Well, now that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you say such a thing! It can’t have been all bad; you being here all by yourself. Rather like a nice holiday. I certainly haven’t been on holiday. You wouldn’t believe-”

“I haven’t been alone,” cut in Bane. He nodded to Roli standing in the doorway, watching the swordslave procession with intrigue.

“Who is that?” whispered his friend. “What did the master get a little one for?”

“Not just one. A whole bunch of them. And then charged me with training them. It’s been a nightmare, especially the biggest boy.”

Golden Boy laughed. “What, you can’t handle a few sprouts? You can face down a mighty dragon but a baby with a wood sword has you quaking in your boots?”

“You don’t know this one,” muttered Bane, but his friend couldn’t hear him over his own laughing. Impatiently Bane hissed, “Stop that. Have you seen Naranil?”

“What?” Golden Boy wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Naranil. Have you seen her? Where is she now?”

Golden Boy’s face grew serious. “So it is true,” he said quietly. “You two really are…?”

“Yes,” answered Bane flatly. “Where did Yorgen send her?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. No one has. It’s rumored he sent her back to her own people.”

Bane’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” he gasped.

Golden Boy shrugged. “Just something I heard someone say. Or a few someones. They said he was tired of dealing with her, so he sent her back to her mother’s people, a group of Drunnim in the mountains of Koldar.” The champion hesitated. “I’ve heard some awful stuff about them, human sacrifice and such.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s one of them, so I’m sure she’s perfectly safe.”

But Bane was far from convinced. “She’s one of them, but her husband isn’t. That is strictly forbidden amongst the Drunnim, punishable….by death.”