‘And what if I said no?’
‘It is your decision, of course. Though rumours of the cowardice of humans might start to spread through our village.’
‘And no one wants that, do they?’
Dramalliel smiled back at him. He called to Tiavon, the two of them spoke briefly, then Tiavon walked towards one of the racks of spears.
‘I take it you have something in mind for us?’
‘I do. Come with me.’
He walked towards one of the covers and with a flamboyant gesture pulled it back. Underneath it were two raised wooden rails running parallel to each other, some two to three feet apart. The
rails themselves were narrow, barely an inch wide, and stood over what seemed to be a bed of smooth pebbles. No, they weren’t pebbles, thought Morgan, they were glowstones. Tiavon then
returned to the group carrying two spears, both of which had their heads covered with some soft cloth.
‘Allow us to demonstrate what we do here,’ Dramalliel said to Morgan, and with that he leapt cat-like on to the rails, balancing himself on them with ease. He was barefoot, Morgan
noticed. Tiavon then hopped on to the rails to face Dramalliel, the two of them some four feet apart. Another of Dramalliel’s cronies passed a spear to each of them.
‘The first to fall off the rail loses the round. We either compete for an hour or until somebody wins a set number of rounds. Observe.’
Both elves adopted a crouching position, spears held in both hands as they shuffled forwards and backwards along the rails in their bare feet. Morgan could see that the object of the contest was
to use the haft of the spear to unbalance the opponent and cause them to fall on to the stones beneath. He saw Tiavon try to hook his spear behind Dramalliel’s right leg, only to see his
effort blocked as the princeling executed a lightning-fast riposte – causing Tiavon to spring backwards, gazelle-like, and reposition himself on the rails.
‘Little physical contact, blunted spears... I am wondering what all the fuss was about,’ said Morgan wryly.
‘Perhaps having Terath and myself here has calmed things somewhat,’ Cedric replied.
‘It’s just as well, I haven’t got a fool’s hope against those two; I can’t even balance myself on a horse.’
Suddenly, after many feints and bluffs, Dramalliel launched a full-scale assault on Tiavon, aiming his spear low as he tried to hook Tiavon’s legs from under him. Tiavon blocked the first
attack, then the second – on the third he actually jumped clear of the rails and the low spear blow, but the fourth caught his right ankle as he landed. With the dexterity of a mountain goat
he managed to stay on his feet, but he was in no position to defend himself as Dramalliel leapt high, spun a full one hundred and eighty degrees and upended Tiavon’s left leg, causing him to
topple over and crash painfully on to his back on the stones.
Terath, Cedric and Morgan applauded the two men as Dramalliel helped his defeated opponent on to his feet. They both bowed to each other and Tiavon went to join his two other companions some
distance away. Dramalliel came towards Morgan, holding one of the spears out to him.
‘Fancy a trial? I promise I will go easy on you.’
Saying nothing, Morgan kicked off his boots, feeling the cold damp carpet of grass beneath his feet. He took the spear and gingerly stepped up on to the rails. They were smooth, but hard on his
soles; he saw Dramalliel’s feet were angled inward slightly and so copied him. He soon realised that finding a secure balance that he felt comfortable with was an art in itself.
‘
Vitremon!
’ Dramalliel called to him, holding his spear across his body in both hands at a forty-five-degree angle. Morgan nodded at him and did the same,
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Are there any rules regarding the parts of the body I cannot hit?’
‘Convention dictates that we target the legs to unbalance the opponent, but it is only the head that you are not allowed to hit. Allow me to demonstrate.’
With that, he attempted to hook Morgan’s left leg away. Morgan saw it late – the elf certainly was quick – but he managed to block the attempt with the spear shaft. It was
little more than a feint, however, for Dramalliel thrust again, fast as quicksilver, catching Morgan’s right leg just above the ankle and hooking him off balance so that he stumbled to his
knees on to the unforgiving stones.
‘Nice block,’ said Dramalliel. ‘You get the idea now?’
Without speaking, Morgan got to his feet and repositioned himself on the rail, adopting the attack stance the elf was using.
Five more times they duelled and five more times with the exact same result. Dramalliel was plainly enjoying sending the human on to the stones, giving him bruises and grazes, but Morgan did not
give up – every defeat was teaching him something. Dramalliel was flamboyant for one thing; he would never go for a conventional blow when he could leap into the air and assay a full turn
before driving his spear at Morgan’s toes. He was overconfident, and so his concentration was suspect. Morgan still couldn’t land a telling blow on him, however. Dramalliel was as fast
as a hummingbird around a flower.
‘You have the basics now, human?’ said Dramalliel with a malevolent smile.
‘I suppose I do, after a fashion.’
‘Good! And so it is now that the real contest begins.’
The elf passed his hand over the stones, whispering quietly under his breath. With a slight twinge of alarm, Morgan saw the stones begin to glow, first a deep red, then turning whiter; even at a
distance he could feel the warmth on his face.
‘
Dramalliel! Fezhaye al ukellusha!
’ Terath shouted at him.
‘No, young man,’ Cedric joined in, ‘this is not an acceptable development.’
Dramalliel, still smiling, bowed slightly at the older men.
‘I apologise profoundly for offending both of you. I will nullify the
haraska
of the stones immediately, as I obviously had too elevated a view of human courage. All Morgan the
warrior has to do is agree with the two of you and the matter will be closed.’
Morgan looked at the young elf with a little admiration. If he agreed with Cedric and Terath, he would look a coward in the eyes of the elf warriors present – something that no doubt would
sweep through the village in no time – but if he didn’t agree he risked having his feet turned into the sort of burnt offering the priests of Mytha still specialised in.
‘Cedric, Terath,’ he said. ‘Thank you both for your concern – it is appreciated – but I will play the elven prince at his game; not to do so, after all, would be
discourteous of me.’ Offering a quick and silent prayer to Artorus and St Berris, patron of the true-hearted and those who insist on doing the right thing no matter at what cost to
themselves, he hopped back on to the rails and held his spear in readiness.
Dramalliel faced him. Morgan could feel the heat from the hundreds of stones under him making his feet slippery; obviously glowstones could get a lot hotter than the ones in his room. He
concentrated, not on Dramalliel himself, but on his spear and his feet splayed on to the rails. He blocked the first blow, then the second; he even managed a quick counterthrust causing Dramalliel
to jump clear of the rails, though the elf landed sure-footed as ever.
Morgan was getting to be able to read Dramalliel’s attack patterns and his blocking tactics, so far, were excellent. He was being forced backwards, though.
Then it happened. A quick thrust from the elf that he didn’t fully block, and the butt of the spear caught him full on the shin, forcing him backwards as he winced with the pain.
Dramalliel’s next thrust he barely blocked but stepped backwards again, trying to right his balance on the rail.
But there was no rail there...
...His right foot landed on to the stones. There was a soft hiss and an unpleasant smell of burning, then the pain hit him, forcing him to call out and fall backwards, clear of the stones and on
to the grass. His spear rolled away from him, stopping at Dramalliel’s feet.
‘Well fought, human.’ Dramalliel helped him up; he sounded conciliatory. ‘For someone who had not even seen the
zezheflenta
an hour ago you performed admirably. Our
warriors will respect you, now that your bravery has been proven.’
Morgan gingerly put his full weight on to his right foot, brushed some grass off his leather tunic, and looked the elf in the eye,
‘Best of three.’
The elf looked firstly astonished – this was something he certainly wasn’t expecting – then, however, a thin smile spread over his handsome features. He nodded slowly at
Morgan, handed him his spear and leapt over the stones on to the rail.
‘Morgan,’ called Cedric, ‘desist from this; it is achieving nothing.’
‘No, my friend,’ Morgan said slowly, ‘it is achieving a lot more than you realise.’ And with that he climbed back into his position on the rail.
‘
Vitremon!
’ called Dramalliel and launched a ferocious attack on Morgan’s legs. There was no holding back now; it was a fight he wanted finished and quickly. Morgan,
however, was holding his own – he blocked all of the elf’s initial blows and then, as Dramalliel swept his spear around in a wide arc, he too leapt clear of the rail, landing
sure-footedly, as the elf paused for breath. Then he countered – three successive low blows designed to hook his opponent’s legs from under him. Dramalliel defended all three but for
the first time Morgan saw the uncertainty in his face. Back and forth the two of them went, thrusting and blocking, the elf faster and more experienced, the human more powerful, his defensive blows
sapping his opponent’s energy. The small audience watched open-mouthed. This duel was far more finely poised than any were expecting.
Then, however, as with every time before, Dramalliel caught him, on the instep this time, causing him to sway unevenly. Smiling, Dramalliel aimed for the same spot again, aiming to topple him on
to the stones and finish what he had started. This was supposed to have been a spectacle to put the humans in their place – to show them as fumbling, clumsy and inferior – but
Morgan’s stoicism and determination had all but put pay to that ambition. Seeing this, Dramalliel just wanted to finish things as quickly and expediently as possible. He swung his spear,
waiting for the impact on Morgan’s leg that would give him his triumph.
But no contact was made. As Dramalliel was aiming his final stroke at the man’s legs, Morgan thrust the butt of the spear, full length, into the elf’s solar plexus.
‘You said no head contact. You said nothing about the chest.’
Dramalliel toppled backwards, landing full on his back on both rails. He dropped his spear, which rolled clear of the stones, smoking as it did so, and his long hair started to hiss and burn
underneath him.
‘Concede?’ Morgan offered him his hand, noting the barely suppressed surprise, shock and anger in the prince’s eyes.
‘
Cothoza prushu olea pritutazho!
’
He recognised the voice. Coming into the glade, flanked by two warriors and with a face that was all cold fury, was Itheya.
‘Am I surrounded by fools? Is every man here a savage? How is it I leave all of you for less than two hours and you end up at each other’s throats?’
Morgan helped Dramalliel up.
‘Really, Itheya, it is nothing like as bad as it might seem. Your brother was showing me how your warriors train. I have to say I am impressed.’
She appeared to be partly mollified, but only partly. ‘It was still not a good idea, especially the decision to fire the stones. Were either of you hurt?’
‘Not too badly.’ Morgan tried to pay no heed to his sore foot. ‘We actually still have to fight the decider.’
‘The human is clever, and unorthodox,’ said Dramalliel, rubbing his chest. ‘Ask the others – no one lost honour in this fight.’
‘Well, there will be no decider,’ she said. ‘I have finished preparing for the festival, so Morgan is returning with me. Come.’
She was wearing a long white cloak that covered her completely and dragged on the ground behind her, its hem stained with grass. Morgan followed, feeling a little like a trained poodle. Terath
and Cedric came behind. Dramalliel remained with his followers; they appeared to be continuing with their training.
Back in his room, Morgan sat on his bed and wetted the sole of his foot with some water from the pitcher. He hadn’t been on his own long when Itheya came into the room
unannounced.
‘Did you have to fight him? Couldn’t you have declined?’
‘No. Your brother has been desperate to try something since he first saw me. I figured better to let him get it out of his system rather than let things fester. I think the two of us
understand each other a little better now.’
She appeared to accept what he said, nodding slowly. ‘Very well, I will not admonish him; perhaps the matter is best left buried. Father needn’t know of it.’ She noticed his
bare foot. ‘Did you fall on to the stones?’
‘Yes, it is not too bad. I will be fine in a little while.’
‘Let me look. Burns from the stones can be nasty. I should know; I have had enough of them over the years.’
‘No really, I’m fi...’
‘Shut up and hold your foot out. You do not refuse a princess of the Morioka in her own home.’
Feeling like a naughty child, he complied; she got on to her knees and took his foot in her hands.
‘It is blistering already; if you are to attend Armentele tomorrow you will need a poultice and a bandage, or’ – she sighed heavily – ‘I could use
haraska
.’
She placed her palm gently against the sole of his foot and spoke softly under her breath. Suddenly he felt something akin to a cool blush pass into his leg; it felt like being washed by a
gentle wave on a beach of soft, cool sand. She seemed to be drawing the heat out of his body into her own. When she stopped after a few minutes, the pain had all but stopped. She, however, looked a
little grey and tired.
‘It wearies me, doing that. Rest your foot for the afternoon; you should be able to walk on it without pain by this evening.’
‘Thank you. Your magic is of a healing nature?’