Brave Men Die: Part 1 Page 4

  ‘You think he is going to make a run for it?’ Argol asked Castor.

  ‘He does look kind of nervous doesn’t he? It’s not that far to the tree line …’

  ‘But he might rip that pretty silk shirt of his in the brambles and thorns if he does.’

  ‘Or he could stay and get it all bloodied,’ Castor suggested.

  ‘Or surrender, but there’s no fun in that now is there?’ Argol laughed.

  At the sound of laughter the thief panicked, his head swivelling around frantically, looking for any opportunity to save his own life. His eyes darted around and sought safety in the forest and as his foot moved in that direction all three of the Nails charged at once. The bandit leader stopped running after three steps and stood his ground, realising it was too late, he raised his sword in a defensive ward to block either Argol or Castor’s strike. Time seemed to slow as hooves pounded across the dirt road. Both Castor and Argol raised their weapons to strike but pulled out at the last moment. The bandit didn’t have time to turn and block the sickening and bone-crunching blow that shattered his spine and sent him flying through the air.

  Castor pulled up beside the bandit’s shattered body. Blood spilled from the man’s lips as the organs inside haemorrhaged. Castor couldn’t look away. He could hear Argol’s heavy breathing beside him. It matched his own. He commanded his body to slow down, to calm down. He ignored the pain in his shoulder. Castor looked up to see Volans appear, struggling to lash his war hammer back in place on his back.

  ‘Guess it's over,’ Castor said quietly, summoning the remnants of his strength to begin the conversation and ignore the agony coming from his shoulder.

  Volans’ voice showed no sign of weariness, and if Castor hadn’t seen him struggle only moments before he would have believed him fine. ‘Looks that way. I’m proud of you two. You did a good job.’

  A faint smile formed on Castor’s lips. He was a hero. They'd saved the day.

  With Argol’s thirst for adventure quenched for today and nothing else to do or people to kill, he wore a bored expression on his face as he asked, ‘How long before the others come and we go home?’

  Castor caught Volans’ eye and raised an eyebrow. Castor knew that look. Castor and Argol had been mates as boys in Buckthorne, and when Argol was bored they ended up in trouble. That expression was well known — they had gotten into a lot of trouble. Volans had less experience with it but had learned the hard way how Argol’s mind worked when he was bored. Argol was only happy when he was doing what he wanted and what he enjoyed.

  ‘Who’s in the carriage?’ asked Castor.

  Volans addressed Argol’s question first. ‘Depends on how far out they are. It could be a while depending if they heard the screams or if they ride to the end and come back along the road. I don’t know who is in the carriage. Argol, go and find out. Castor let me look at your shoulder.’

  Argol moved closer to the carriage. He dismounted and collected his dagger from the dead man’s chest. He stood a few metres from the carriage, absently cleaning his weapon as he yelled.

  ‘Hello in there! We killed them all. It’s okay. We’re not as evil as them.’

  ‘Shut up Argol,’ Volans ordered. ‘I said to find out who's in there, not act like an idiot.’

  ‘Yes lieutenant,’ Argol said, striding closer to the carriage and sheathing his dagger.

  Volans rode closer to Castor, grabbed hold of the bolt protruding from his shoulder, and yanked it out before Castor even knew what was going on.

  Screaming in pain, Castor’s vision went hazy as Volans’ rough hands unbuckled his armour and pulled it off. Volans’ fingers pressed around the wound as he examined it, causing Castor to gasp in pain.

  ‘It went in deep enough, but it didn’t hit anything important. It glanced off your collarbone, which stopped it from going any further. You’re a lucky boy Castor.’

  Castor didn’t feel lucky at that moment. He really wanted something for the pain.

  ‘Get down from there and I’ll sort you out,’ Volans muttered as he dismounted and went rummaging through his saddlebag. Castor slowly got down and dropped as his knees gave way as Volans approached with medical supplies in hand.

  Hydrus eventually came through the trees with most of the company in tow just before midday. ‘You found them or they found you?’ he asked, after casually trotting up to the three waiting men sitting on the rocks beside the carriage.

  ‘We found them sir,’ Argol said, a big smile on his face.

  ‘In the middle of crime,’ pointed out Castor, who looked considerably worse for wear with his arm in a sling.

  ‘Good work. Volans, organise an escort for the carriage to its destination and burn the bodies. Castor and Argol, you will wait for the stragglers and give them orders to return to Buckthorne.’ The orders were cold and hard. Castor caught Argol’s attention and his face said it all — of course we bloody will, you prick. Volans nodded in acceptance and watched as Hydrus swung his horse around and rode off, part of the company in hot pursuit, eager to watch the events of the arena that were taking place in Buckthorne today.

  ‘Jacob and Lucas!’ Volans yelled. ‘You two are responsible for escorting the carriage. See to it that they arrive safely and are well looked after.’

  Volans turned to Castor and Argol. ‘Guess you two won’t mind helping with the bodies while we wait?’

  ‘Sure, it looks like we’ve got time to kill.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pollux sat calmly on the bench beneath the stadium in the shadows, light flickering over him between the steady stream of combatants moving toward the arena. With his eyes closed, his lungs filled with the smell of sweat and anticipation as he breathed slowly to steady his racing heartbeat.

  Already dressed in his armour, he felt instinctively for the buckles and made sure they were all fastened securely before running his fingers lightly along the steel of his blade that sat on his legs. It felt cool to the touch, the nicks of use apparent on both edges.

  The Buckthorne championships were something he had been aspiring to compete in for all his life and now he was finally old enough to enter. At twenty he was one of the youngest competitors in the day’s competition and he was determined to win.

  The prize was something that youth aspired to, that old age had given up on and that a few held dearly close to their heart, the possibility within reach. There were fifty entrants enlisted for it today. By the time Pollux stepped into the arena ten would already have had their dreams ended and another fourteen would go after, all thrown away and scattered like dust in the wind.

  The winner would be sent to the capital, to Sarkridge, to represent Buckthorne and have the chance to train to become a sword master — a dream every child had. The day that he had picked up the wooden sword his father had made for him, swung it around in his hand and hit his brother over the head was when he had known. Things hadn’t changed, the same goal was there, but now that wooden sword had been put down and replaced with one made of steel.

  ‘Hey Pollux, I made it through to the next round,’ Octans said between pants as he pushed his way through the crowd of milling fighters, all going through different preparations.

  Pollux watched his blond friend remove his helmet and come closer. Octans’ sword was already away by his side, his armour completely unscratched.

  ‘Man that was a close one,’ Octans continued. ‘This guy almost had me but I managed to get my sword up to block it just in time, and you could tell by the look in his eyes that he hadn’t expected that, and then he just stopped, like he was confused about what to do next. So I grabbed his blade and hit him over the head. Then he kind of stumbled back and I hit him a few more times until he fell over and surrendered.’

  Pollux smiled. Octans was racing through his sentences, a habit brought out due to the child-like excitement of completing the first round. Pollux couldn’t remember the last time that it had happened.

  ‘Congratulations Octans, you did well to make
it through. Some of the fighters out there have years of experience on us.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? I’m better than half those talentless pansies out there. Just because you think you’re better than everyone else doesn’t mean you're going to win this thing. To be honest, I think I’m going to beat you when it comes down to the final and it’s just you and me.’

  Pollux stood up and arched his neck back to look directly into Octans' pale blue eyes. ‘And how do you expect to do that?’

  ‘You just wait and see. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve for our fight.’

  Octans turned and walked off, stopping to gulp down some water and submerge his head in the bucket. He brought it out and shook the water around the room.

  Pollux knew he was right though. It would likely be them two in the final: they were better than nearly everyone else competing. But on the day, in the heat of the moment, any one of them could get lucky and all Octans and he had to do was slip.

  Now that he was standing he felt the compulsion to move, to swing his sword about and get this fight over and done with. He moved in and out of the filtered light, the cheers of the crowd getting louder as he left the closed rooms of the fighters and moved into the tunnel leading out into the arena where the blinding daylight flooded in and the roar echoed at a deafening decibel.

  Kryst’s dark eyes bore into Pollux. In the poor lighting, his dark skin looked black and only the whites of his eyes and the shine on his bald head could be clearly made out. It was stuffy down in the tunnel and Kryst was sweating, the moisture clinging to his muscular chest. A foot taller than Pollux, he just tilted his head to look down at him, an arrogance of command. Pollux shifted from foot to foot, hesitating, waiting.

  ‘I didn’t know you were fighting today, captain.’

  Kryst didn’t answer, let the awkward silence hang in the air.

  ‘I mean, I don’t remember seeing your name on the list,’ Pollux continued, anxious to end the silence.

  ‘I had my chance years ago Pollux. Didn’t quite make it. I’m just down here to make sure you hot heads don’t go at each other here in the darkness instead of up there where everyone can see you.’

  Pollux had heard about Kryst’s chance, it had been the year before he came to Buckthorne and was still talked about at the next year’s games. More so even than the challenger who won the next year’s games. Kryst had been the favourite, had gone through the qualifiers, dispatched two of the opponents in the five man brawl, and made it to the final without a scratch. Then during the final, overconfident, he slipped and the first blow hit him across the head. Woozy and confused the next four strikes hit him quickly before he could gather his senses and defend himself. He lost the chance to become a sword master even though he was by far the best swordsman of Buckthorne.

  Until, of course, Pollux got serious.

  At the age of ten.

  Pollux had promised himself that he wouldn’t make the same mistake. Wouldn't be overconfident even though he was leagues above some of the other entrants. He was going to take one fight at a time and then, once he had won, would listen to the crowd cheer his name and be remembered for all time. He was going to prove to everybody that he was better than Kryst, better than the once expected champion of Buckthorne and, more importantly, his teacher.

  ‘I’m up soon, better get going, captain.’

  Kryst nodded and said nothing, but turned and walked further down the tunnel to a group of fighters. Pollux stood there and watched him go for a moment, his confidence apparent with each stride as he went unarmed into the lion’s den.

  Moving along, Pollux joined the line with several other fighters in the near darkness of the tunnel. Light swept in through the cracks of the door allowing Pollux to make out leather, steel, and flesh.

  The screams and cheers echoed into the dark waiting area. The arena was alive with enthusiasm and competition, and the blood pumped furiously through Pollux’ veins as his breath quickened and the adrenalin threatened to overwhelm him.

  The crowd championed their favourites with screams and encouragement, confetti and banners. If there was no favourite the crowd stood divided, taking the side of one fighter and supporting him, cheering when he scored a point, booing at his opponent when he lost one.

  Outside in the arena a bell chimed and the two fighters standing in the middle of the sand-covered floor put up their arms. The closeness of the match meant the score was five-four in favour of one man, but the fight had exhausted both combatants. Shaking hands the warriors made their way to the doors of the tunnel, slowly crossing the ground and soaking in the applause.

  The doors opened before them and they came forward, but once in the shadows of the tunnel’s walls the loser staggered and collapsed, his opponent and a handful of others racing to his side to get him to the medical bay. Pollux couldn’t help but stare as the man was carried away.

  He was lost in the moment when his name was called, summoning him to the arena floor. It took a few seconds to realise that everyone remaining was staring at him, waiting for him to get on with it.

  The vibrancy of the crowd pulsed through him as he stepped out of the tunnel and onto the sandy arena floor. Boisterous cheers filled the stadium. He smiled broadly, never imagining it would feel like this, the pride, the applause. He raised his hand and the crowd roared louder, his acknowledgement sending them into a frenzy, and he knew instantly that he was the favourite for the match.

  His opponent trailed out behind him to a less excited crowd once his name was announced. The look on his face told Pollux that he already knew he wasn’t the favourite, but smiled when a small block of the crowd waved banners and blew horns. He waved sheepishly back at them.

  Jon stood opposite Pollux the smile still on his face. ‘That’s my wife over there,’ he said, indicating the cheering section of crowd. ‘My two boys are over there as well, with some of our family.’

  Pollux nodded and smiled. The man was in his early thirties, was a member of the Sentinels, and by the look of him a proud family man. Pollux had heard nothing of his opponent, but looked forward to the battle in any case. A challenger was a challenger.

  ‘Then you are blessed my friend. My family couldn’t make it. My brother was recalled to duty last night but he sent his best wishes.’

  ‘Then we must both do our families proud, in presence or absence,’ Jon said.

  Pollux nodded and raised his sword in salute. Jon did the same and the bell tolled, commencing the round.

  The two men instantly went into wards and started circling each other, each man waited for an opportunity. Initial strikes were parried, testing defences as the circling continued. The crowd grew silent in anticipation, waiting for the onslaught of blows to rain down, for the strikes to land and for the points scored.

  Pollux stepped around further left and drove his blade down, watched the defence and counter come and go and twisted his blade in, driving the tip into the breastplate. The crowd roared as the point was scored and recorded as the two combatants went circling again. Jon stepped up the attack as he rained overhead blows down, over and over again. Defending with minimum movement, Pollux flicked his wrist to either side to defer the blows, stepping occasionally out of range, waiting patiently for the opening to come. When it did, Pollux rushed forward and struck his opponent’s helm with a nice metallic ding. The crowd became relentless as they screamed and cheered.

  Jon moved faster with a sense of desperation. All control was gone as he swung time and time again, pushing Pollux back across the arena as the crowd supported his fervent attack. Ducking under a wild swing aimed at his head, Pollux rounded and sliced across the man’s side, calmly moving back into a ward as Jon charged ruthlessly in, blade extended. Slapping the sword away, Pollux pivoted on his heel as Jon raced past and smashed his blade across his back.

  Tired and defeated at four-nil, Jon stood back panting to catch his breath, his eyes darting in the direction of his wife and kids. A twang of guilt hit Pollux as he
realised that Jon was doing this for his kids, so they might get a better chance in life. A soldier’s pay wasn’t anything special. At this rate, how could he bear to look at them if he couldn’t even manage to strike a point?

  Resigned to his fate, Jon stepped forward cautiously, his blade held defensively before him as Pollux held his blade a little low. Pollux feinted to the left, hitting Jon’s sword before he could switch sides of the attack and left himself open for the counter. And come it did: the trained combatant rotated his wrist and brought it down on his shoulder.

  Screams rang out from the crowd as a smile broadened across Jon’s face and his eyes filled with relief. He had scored his point and his kids would have something to remember. Pollux darted forward, raining blow after blow down on the tired man’s defence until it cracked and, ploughing through the upturned blade, drove the steel down across Jon’s chest.

  The crowd roared at the end of the fight as the fifth marker was put in place and signalled Pollux’ victory. The bell tolled and the crowd stood on their feet, confetti flung into the air as they chanted his name. Even with the one point scored against him they still loved him. He raised his hand to salute his fans as he moved toward Jon, hand outstretched. He took it and shook, a sign of a good competitor.

  Both men walked side-by-side back to the tunnels, breathing in the respect and praise that Buckthorne had to offer.

  ‘Good luck in the next round Pollux. You are by far one of the deadliest men with a blade I have ever faced.’

  ‘Thanks for the fight, Jon. I hope your kids enjoyed watching you in action even if you lost.’

  ‘They probably enjoyed it more because I fought the winner of the tournament and shook his hand.’

  As they walked into the darkness of the tunnels and into the fighter’s rooms, Pollux replied, ‘Don’t forget Jon, that you also scored a point against the future tournament winner.’