“A man should always know where he’s from,” the trader said, “we all need our roots.”
“Uhh,” grunted Corban. He usually asked a lot of questions—too many, so his mam told him—but he didn’t like being on the receiving end so much.
A shadow fell across Corban, a firm hand gripping his shoulder.
“Hello, Ban,” said Gar, the stablemaster.
“We were just talking about you,” Dath said. “About where you’re from.”
“What?” said the stablemaster, frowning.
“This man is from Helveth,” Corban said, gesturing at Ventos.
Gar blinked.
“I’m Ventos,” said the trader. “Where in Helveth?”
Gar looked at the merchandise hung about the tent. “I’m looking for harness and a saddle. Fifteen-span mare, wide back.” He ignored the trader’s question.
“Fifteen spans? Aye, I’m sure I’ve got something for you back here,” replied Ventos. “I have some harness I traded with the Sirak. There’s none finer.”
“I’d like to see that.” Gar followed Ventos into the tent, limping slightly as always.
With that the boys began browsing through Ventos’ tent. In no time Corban had an armful of things. He picked out a wide iron-studded collar for his da’s hound, Buddai, a brooch of pewter with a galloping horse embossed on it for his sister, a dress-pin of silver with a red enamel inset for his mother and two sturdy practice swords for Dath and himself. Dath had picked out two clay tankards, waves of blue coral decorating them.
Corban raised an eyebrow.
“Might as well get something my da’ll actually use.”
“Why two?” asked Corban.
“If you cannot vanquish a foe,” he said sagely, “then ally yourself to him.” He winked.
“No tankard for Bethan, then?” said Corban.
“My sister does not approve of drinking,” replied Dath.
Just then Gar emerged from the inner tent with a bundle of leather slung over his back, iron buckles clinking as he walked. The stablemaster grunted at Corban and walked into the crowd.
“Looks like you’ve picked up a fine collection for yourselves,” the trader said to them.
“Why are these wooden swords so heavy?” asked Dath.
“Because they are practice swords. They have been hollowed out and filled with lead, good for building up the strength of your sword arm, get you used to the weight and balance of a real blade, and they don’t kill you when you lose or slip.”
“How much for all of these,” Corban asked.
Ventos whistled. “Two and a half silvers.”
“Would you take this if we leave the two swords?” Corban showed the trader his silver piece and three coppers.
“And these?” said Dath, quickly adding his two coppers.
“Deal.”
Corban gave him their coin, put the items into a leather bag that Dath had been keeping a slab of dry cheese and a skin of water in.
“Maybe I’ll see you lads tonight, at the feast.”
“We’ll be there,” said Corban. As they reached the crowd beyond the tent Ventos called out to them and threw the practice swords. Instinctively Corban caught one, hearing Dath yelp in pain. Ventos raised a finger to his lips and winked. Corban grinned in return. A practice sword, a proper one, not fashioned out of a stick from his back garden. Just a step away from a real sword. He almost shivered at the excitement of that thought.
They wandered aimlessly for a while, Corban marvelling at the sheer numbers of the crowd, at the entertainments clamouring for his attention: tale-tellers, puppet-masters, fire-breathers, sword-jugglers, many, many more. He squeezed through a growing crowd, Dath in his wake, and watched as a piglet was released squealing from its cage, a score or more of men chasing it, falling over each other as the piglet dodged this way and that. They laughed as a tall gangly warrior from the fortress finally managed to throw himself onto the animal and raise it squeaking over his head. The crowd roared and laughed as he was awarded a skin of mead for his efforts.
Moving on again, Corban led them back to the roped-off ring where the sword-crossing was to take place. There was quite a crowd gathered now, all watching Tull, first-sword of the King.
The boys climbed a boulder at the back of the crowd to see better, made short work of Dath’s slab of cheese and watched as Tull, stripped to the waist, his upper body thick and corded as an old oak, effortlessly swatted his assailant to the ground with a wooden sword. Tull laughed, arms spread wide as his opponent jumped to his feet and ran at him again. Their practice swords clacked as Tull’s attacker rained rapid blows on the King’s champion, causing him to step backwards.
“See,” said Corban, elbowing his friend and spitting crumbs of cheese, “he’s in trouble now.” But, as they watched, Tull quickly side-stepped, belying his size, and struck his off-balance opponent across the back of the knees, sending him sprawling on his face in the churned ground. Tull put a foot on the man’s back and punched the air. The crowd clapped and cheered as the fallen warrior writhed in the mud, pinned by Tull’s heavy boot.
After a few moments the old warrior stepped away, offered the fallen man his hand, only to have it slapped away as the warrior tried to rise on his own and slipped in the mud.
Tull shrugged and smiled, walking towards the rope boundary. The beaten warrior fixed his eyes on Tull’s back and suddenly ran at the old warrior. Something must have warned Tull, for he turned and blocked an overhead blow that would have cracked his skull. He set his legs and dipped his head as the attacking warrior’s momentum carried him forwards. There was a crunch as his face collided with Tull’s head, blood spurting from the man’s nose. Tull’s knee crashed into the man’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground.
Tull stood over him a moment, nostrils flaring, then he pushed his hand through long, grey-streaked hair, wiping the other man’s blood from his forehead. The crowd erupted in cheers.
“He’s new here,” said Corban, pointing at the warrior lying senseless in the mud. “I saw him arrive only a few nights ago.”
“Not off to a good start, is he?” chuckled Dath.
“He’s lucky the swords were made of wood, there’s others have challenged Tull that haven’t got back up.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s getting up any time soon,” pointed out Dath, waving his hand at the warrior lying in the mud.
“But he will.”
Dath glanced at Corban and suddenly lunged at him, knocking him off the rock they were sitting on. He snatched up his new practice sword and stood over Corban, imitating the scene they had just witnessed. Corban rolled away and climbed to his feet, edging slowly around Dath until he reached his own wooden sword.
“So, you wish to challenge the mighty Tull,” said Dath, pointing his sword at his friend. Corban laughed and ran at him, swinging a wild blow. For a while they hammered back and forth, taunting each other between frenzied bursts of energy.
Passers-by smiled at the two boys.
After a particularly furious flurry of blows Dath ended up on his back, Corban’s sword hovering over his chest.
“Do—you—yield?” asked Corban between ragged breaths.
“Never,” cried Dath and kicked at Corban’s ankles, knocking him onto his back.
They both lay there, gazing at the clear blue sky above, too weak with their exertions and laughter to rise, when suddenly, startling them, a voice spoke.
“Well, what have we here, two hogs rutting in the mud?”
Publications by Daniel Abraham THE LONG PRICE QUARTET
A Shadow in Summer
A Betrayal in Winter
An Autumn War
The Price of Spring
Leviathan Wept and Other Stories
Balfour and Meriwether in the Incident of the Harrowmoor Dogs