Vilmos awoke. He looked around the room, not surprised to find he was alone. A cold breakfast was on the table next to the window.
He brushed sleep from his eyes, finding no cheer in the new day or the bright sunshine. As he scooped tasteless spoonfuls of thick, pasty gruel into his mouth, allowing it to slide across his tongue and down his throat without chewing, he stared out the window. A blank expression was on his face, and for a long while, as he thought about the shaman, the city below cried out to him. It was his to explore if he dared—the whole of the largest city in all the lands, the whole of the Free City of Solntse, was his.
The early-day sun shining through the window brought out sudden bravery. It seemed as if the sun was inviting him to come outdoors. Suddenly he was no longer content to sit indoors and wait idly, and so he hurriedly gulped down the last of the cold gruel.
After stepping out onto the dusty street, Vilmos veered left, ambling around several long blocks before deciding which direction to proceed in. Passing some of the dingier establishments he recalled from the previous day, he quickened his pace, content to continue straight for a time. At the next intersection he paused, unsure whether to turn left, right or proceed.
“Lost, boy?” called out a gruff voice.
Vilmos rolled his eyes upward, taking in the tall figure in a single, gradual panning glance. “N-no, not really.”
“That’s not much of a response,” said the man, laughing.
Vilmos backed away warily. His eyes never straying from the long blade sheathed at the other’s side. “I have to go now.”
“Wait! Perhaps, I can help you find the place you’re looking for.”
“There is a square near here. I must have passed it. Good day to you, sir.”
“Perhaps we’re going to the same place. Describe the market you’re looking for and maybe I can help.”
Vilmos wanted to run but didn’t. “It’s not a market. I’ll find it. No need to worry.” Vilmos ran from the outstretched hand.
“You wouldn’t be looking for the competitions, would you?”
Vilmos’ eyes lit up as if the man had just offered him a piece of candy. “Maybe. Maybe I am; maybe I’m not.”
“Not too sure of anything are you? Do you have a name, boy?”
Vilmos thought about the question; he didn’t see any harm in answering it—or did he? “V-Vil… Vil… Vil-am. My name is Vilam, and yours?”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” said the man, grinning as he tugged at the stubble on his chin. “I’m not supposed to be here either. Maybe we can both do the thing we’re not supposed to be doing together. This is no place for a boy such as yourself to be about—and if you plan to go to the competitions, you had best take my hand.”
Vilmos stepped into the street.
“If you’re going to the competitions that is the wrong way. I’ll guide you—for a price.”
“For a price?” asked Vilmos, confident he had finally discovered the man’s ploy.
“For you, my friend, a one-time fee: good for all time. All I would ask is—” Vilmos took another step away. He had no money and didn’t know what the man would do if he refused the offer. “All I ask is a simple thing. You needn’t be afraid of me. For, you see, when I said I’m not supposed to be here either, I was referring to…” The man switched to a low, whispering tone. “…viewing the competitions.”
The man switched back to a fuller speech. “Allow me to introduce myself. Bladesman S’tryil, a ridesman by trade, a bladesman by necessity. But please don’t call me by my name, as I said, I am not supposed to be here either. So, I will call you… Vilam… Is that correct?” Vilmos nodded. “You can call me, Greer. Do we have a deal?”
Vilmos nodded agreement again.
“You drive a hard bargain, Vilam. Come this way and you’d better walk beside me. As I said before, this is no place for a boy to be alone—” Vilmos glared at the man. “—If I were going to rob you. I’d’ve done that a long time ago. I wouldn’t’ve even bothered talking to a boy. I’d’ve just grabbed you by the ankles. Just like this…”
The bladesman made a lunging motion with his right hand, reaching low and then flipping his gripped hand up. Vilmos flinched, imagining himself dangling upside down, both ankles gripped firmly by one burly hand.
“I’d’ve held you upside down until all the coinage dropped from your pockets. But you don’t have anything in your pockets do you, Vilam?”
“Vilmos. My name is Vilmos.”
“Vilmos is it?” S’tryil offered Vilmos his hand to seal their pact. “Well I shall stick with Vilam. Is that all right?”
Vilmos nodded. The two continued down the block, across the next, then turned right.
“Is this your first time at the competition?” asked S’tryil, not waiting for a response before continuing. “You see that long, high building there with the balcony? That’s City Garrison Central Post. That’s where the competitions take place every year. Now, if you can find that one building, for no other looks like it, you’re there. And look, here we are.”
Surprised, Vilmos looked away from his companion’s face. The first bouts of the morning were already under way and a fair-sized crowd was gathered. Vilmos pushed his way into the circle beside the man he would call Greer. He reminded himself of this fact.
“Here stand in front of me, but don’t take a step forward. You see that circle there? Good, don’t break it, and if someone comes lunging at you out of the circle, in the name of the Great Father, jump out of the way!”
“Who’s going to attack me?”
“No one, as long as you stick close. I was talking about the combatants. If they start to get too close, back away or you’re liable to get a sharp blade stuck right where you don’t want it.” S’tryil motioned graphically with his hands. “They’ve taken people away every day so far. They just don’t want to move out of the way. So mind my warning… Move, and be quick about it!”
“How many days does this go on?” asked Vilmos excitedly, swaying his small body to the reactions of the warrior to his right, the one he favored. The two men struggled with great battle swords, the kind Vilmos had seen yesterday.
“Weeks, until the final competitors are chosen,” said S’tryil. Vilmos jumped back as the competitors battling in the circle came close. “And then those chosen will go on to train for many more weeks. There is a special grudge this year… Do you see the man seated up on the high balcony? He is Lord Geoffrey.”
“Is he dead?” One of the fighters had just fallen.
The first match ended. The victor returned his great sword to the long scabbard strapped crossways upon his back, dipping the blade skillfully and quickly over his right shoulder with a casual, fluid motion that made the blade seem unencumbering. Then the victor raised both arms high over his head, waiting for the next challenger to enter the circle. The man on the balcony, the one Greer had called a lord, stood. A voice boomed out across the courtyard.
“Shalimar takes the first match. Who would challenge?”
A hush came over the crowd as the waiting began.
Vilmos pressed close to Greer and whispered, “Why is no one moving?”
“Stand still and silent!” hissed the bladesman.
Lord Geoffrey spoke again, “There is no challenger? Are there none worthy?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Vilmos. “Why has the fight stopped? Is it over already? Did we miss it all?”
S’tryil snapped a hand to Vilmos’ mouth. “Be still!”
“You there!” A hand pointed and all eyes followed its path. “Do you take the challenge?”
S’tryil swallowed hard. “No, my lord,” he said in the gruff voice again, “I was just quieting my… ‘m son. Please forgive me, my lord.”
All eyes turned back to the balcony as Geoffrey continued, “Then I declare, Shalimar the—”
“Hold on,” cried out a man from the crowd, hastily appending “My Lord.”
The man, clad in light mail, entered the ring, removing the chain shirt as he did so. The next bout began, and with its commencement S’tryil removed the restraining hand.
“During relief you must say nothing,” said the bladesman. “That man there is one of the best in the whole of the Free City. I may bout him one day, though not today.”
“I am sorry,” said Vilmos. “I didn’t know. Why do you know so much about the competition? I thought you said you have never been here.”
“Well that’s not quite accurate; I said I’m not supposed to be here. I didn’t say I’ve never been here.”
The two combatants faced off. The winner of the first bout was clearly tired but this did not slow his attacks. A relentless, heavy arm drove the challenger to the far side of the circle, nearly chasing him beyond the line: a disqualifying step for the challenger.
“Do you see now why no one wanted to compete with this one?” asked S’tryil.
Vilmos nodded. He understood.
“He will be chosen if no others challenge him after this bout. He will join the others on the balcony…” Vilmos’ eyes followed the gesturing hand up to the balcony. “I’ve seen him win five battles in one day. He is good, really good. Today should be his last day. Do you see the weariness in his eyes? He is fatigued. He will not last much longer, especially if there is another challenge, but I don’t expect there to be.”
Vilmos asked, “How do you know?”
“We’ll have to wait.” The bladesman smiled. “But only a true fool would enter the ring with so weary and fierce a competitor. Instead of quick victory, such a challenger more often than not ends up being carted away to the death house. They say, if you corner a snake and don’t expect it to strike—to kill—you are to blame and not the snake.”
“Those three?” Vilmos pointed to the men who stood behind the seated lord. “Did they go through the same… the same…?” Vilmos was unsure what word to use.
“Yes, they did. Do you see the man standing in the middle? The broadest one?”
“Yes.”
“He’s the lord’s son—”
“Then he was assured a spot.”
“I wish that were the case,” said S’tryil. “I wish that were the case.” After pausing momentarily to regard the sure victor in the contest, he continued. “The test of steel lasted six days for that one, a record I do believe. Many believe the same as you, and every year he teaches them the meaning of the word defeat. No, he is by far my biggest concern.”
Vilmos was silent for a time. The match ended. The one called Shalimar won again; the challenger was carried out. Vilmos pursued no questions about the defeated man. He waited quietly, eyeing the dark, red stain that marred the hard dirt only a few steps away.
A new challenge never came. Vilmos saw glee in the jaded face that marched from the courtyard.
A ruckus erupted from the crowd amidst shouts of applause. Two men were shaking a stout, fat man and behind them another pair faced off about to brawl.
“Stand close!” shouted the bladesman.
Unsure whether to remain silent or speak again, Vilmos clung close to S’tryil. “What is wrong?” he whispered.
“This always happens. Someone doesn’t want to pay their marker—and this happens. He’ll pay or he’ll suffer the consequences… Don’t worry, the contest will continue. It always does.” S’tryil turned his eyes back on the vacated circle. Vilmos did likewise. “One more,” whispered the bladesman, not meaning for Vilmos to hear him.
“What do you mean? What one more?”
“Well, let’s just say that the matches after next are the ones I came to see.”
Vilmos, not knowing when to stop, asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t worry, the next combatant is very skilled. So skilled in fact I’m confident he’ll go on with the others, but that’ll be days from now,” said S’tryil. “There, you see the one stepping back into the circle? He is Shchander: quick and sharp. His attack is his best skill, not very good on the defense.”
“Do you know all the fighters?”
“Quick, aren’t you?” said the bladesman. “In a way, yes, I do.” He was starting to like to the inquisitive youngster.
“If he’s not very good defending, how come you think he will be the victor?”
S’tryil grinned. “You’re smart, aren’t you? Watch the way he jabs. He’ll get two to three thrusts for every one of his competitor’s. I guarantee you. That’s why he’ll win. He never tires; it’s amazing. The sad thing is that most of the would-be challengers know it. No, they’re waiting for the next. The strongest have been holding back. They want a taste of the best, especially after his lordship’s defeat in Imtal last winter. They figure he’s getting old. Gray, if you know what I mean. Me, I don’t think so. He’s been the best for a decade now and, the Father willing, I think he’ll make a comeback this year.”
Vilmos nodded, which was a sign for the bladesman to keep mumbling on and on. It was strange that he told a boy things that he would not tell any other.
“Beat by a captain of the palace guard. Can you imagine the thoughts that flooded his mind in that moment of defeat? … Now if you want to see a real test, a combat to the death, there is such a test of steel.”
“I think the boy has heard enough!” boomed a voice that Vilmos instantly recognized. He knew he was in trouble, though he didn’t know how much.
“I beg your pardon,” said S’tryil. “Do you know this man, Vilam?”
Vilmos replied, “Yes,” at the same time Xith asked, “Vil-am?” Then Vilmos quickly said, “Thank you, Greer, for allowing me to stand under your protection. I must go now.”
Xith and Vilmos hurriedly returned to their rented room to gather their supplies and pack what few belongings they had. Vilmos’ only real possession, the staff Xith had given him, was his most prized, and he carried it downstairs with the last of the supplies. Then he packed the goods into the saddlebags and stood by the horses.
Xith came out of the inn a few minutes later, but instead of mounting a horse as Vilmos expected, the shaman touched a leathery hand to Vilmos’ bare arm and said, “Stay here. I have one last task to perform. If I don’t return by twilight, leave the city. Go south; take the horses and supplies with you. Follow the Kingdom road. I will find you when I can.”