The arrival of Lord Ruadan had changed that, raising Saul’s hopes. The Lordling was known for his love of hunting and Saul hoped that a village hunt would be organised soon. Just the thought of a hunt being organised filled him full of excitement. Illrycharran custom was borne from the frontier life – a man was not a man until he had been on his first hunt and killed his first deer. Garan had already been on his first hunt many years before and had accompanied Simann’s hunters on a few hunts besides that since then. Saul longed to follow his brother and indeed his father on this passage to manhood…..
Krishan continued.
“….Simann came into the kitchens this morning. He was organising some rations for the Lordling’s hunting party tomorrow. Looked like the kitchens were preparing a lot of food, must be a goodly amount of people going on it…”
Saul jumped to his feet, dropping his fishing rod to the ground.
“I have to go back to the farm and ask father!”
“What about fishing?” his friend asked, dutifully holding unto his rod
“Sorry Krishan, I have to get back. This could be my only chance to go, who knows how long Ruadan will be here!”
“You will probably manage to shoot yourself in the foot with your own arrow!” Krishan groused but Saul was already gone. With a sigh Krishan cast his line back into the murky river.
The Surlord
The Surlord watched intently.
Before him fought the Elflings of his Shield Companies, some fighting with sword and shield, others with pike and spear. Today, on chomortas, the Elflings competed against one another until just one of their number survived to be victorious and named teoir curadh, with all the honour and privileges that entailed. Tonight the teoir curadh would eat at with him at his High Table whether he or she be Lowborn, Highborn or First Servant.
Across the Sands hundreds of Elflings, armoured and carrying weapons with blades and points dulled, fought one another. When a Elf was struck down or their blood was spilled, then they were considered defeated and their part in the contest finished. The defeated quit the field and the survivors continued on fighting one another. As the morning would progress there would be fewer and fewer combatants on the field until the War-drum sounded, signalling the Final Twenty. Those twenty would continue to battle until their numbers became less and less and only two survivors faced each other for the ultimate prize.
The War Sands lay at the very bottom of the Low City, nestled behind the Ishaldun Gate of the Outer Walls. It stood, a rough circle, seven hides in diameter, its ground packed with sand and loose stones that gave it its ancient name. Along its circumference the War Sands were ringed with stone benches that rose up to thirty layers in height. Their capacity was such that all the populace of Elrurith, both High and Low, might witness the marital might of their War and Shield Companies. Yet even here, the social order of the city was observed. While the Lowborn made themselves comfortable was best they could on the hard stone benches of the masses, the elite minority of the Highborn and their First Servants were sequestered on the High Diadem, a most elaborate and comfortable viewing platform with soft-cushioned seats on which to recline on and Nyr-Drasgulian wines only a gesture away to be poured by a pliable Lowborn servant. It was here the Surlord reclined, watching the action unfold below….
The Surlord remembered his first chomortas keenly. A young scared Elfling, small for his age of fifteen summers and yet proud to wear the armour and tabard of his city, Elrurith the Valiant, Fifth City of Ninmuiria of the Mountains. He had not become teoir curadh that day but reached the Final Twenty. It was Ithien ni Huithilian who had bested him with spear against his sword and had gone on to become teoir curadh that year. Ithien ni Huithilian who had died eighteen years later on the field of Ishaldun, held in his final moments by his captain, the Elf he had defeated on their chomortas.
Of the Final Twenty Elflings, many now sat with him today, the Captains of his Shield and War Companies, the most esteemed and powerful of the Highborn of Elrurith. Yet not all sat with him. Some of their number, like Ithien, had perished over the years, their lives sacrificed for the preservation of the city, the glory of Ninmuiria, the pride of a Surlord..
The competition had reached a frenzy – as always occurred at some point, fighters joined together to face loose groupings of opponents. These temporary alliances, sometimes built on family or Company ties, or simply born out of the practical necessities of the battlefield, would usually last only a few scant minutes at most until a common enemy was vanquished. The allies would be forced to turn on one another, it was an inevitably – there could only be one teoir curadh
The young Elfling maiden was a stranger to him. She was wearing black-plate armour with a helm that covered her face entirely, a peculiarity as Ninmuirian warriors traditionally wore helms that covered their cheeks and foreheads. Her size and shape proclaimed her to be female and perhaps not much older than fifteen or sixteen summers. For weaponry she carried a Ninmuirian longsword, clothed for this non-lethal contest, and instead of the standard Ninmuirian Longshield, she held a long dagger, its edge dulled, with which to parry her opponent’s strokes.
The diminutive Elfling fought like a demon. Her sword strokes were relentless, battering down opponent after opponent, many of them much larger and stronger than her. Who was she? The quality of her armour proclaimed her to be one of the Highborn and yet had no obvious markings of her house or Company. Whoever she was, her skill stood out among the other combatants, drawing appreciative murmurs from among the assembled Highborn.
As the morning drew on the combatants upon the War Sands began to thin out until with a rumbling of the ceremonial war-drum the contest was paused. The Final Twenty stood upon the field.
The Surlord beckoned to Cirda.
The warrior maiden was captain of his guard and one of his most trusted officers. She was a large woman more comfortable on the march or the battlefield than any other feminine pursuits. She had served him since before he had been elevated and her loyalty was beyond question. As always she stood slightly to his rear, awaiting his commands, and if necessary, guarding his back from the dagger of any would-be assassin. Elrurith was not like Urithrarith, with its politics and power-struggles that oft ended in death, but it had not been unknown for a Elrurithian Surlord to fall to an assassin’s blade. Not all the Highborn who sat with him today loved him and many were all too prepared to spill his blood if they thought his fall might further the position of their Houses. Such was the lot of any Surlord. Cirda bent slightly to hear his words.
“Tell me….who is the maiden. A Highborn beyond doubt but she bears no mark of House or Company”.
Cirda frowned at his question a faint tightness around her eyes.
“My Lord…” she hesitated “…..I do not know my Lord, she is not known to me. The warriors, they are saying she is one of them, a Lowborn, but…..”
The Surlord nodded “yes….her armour is too fine for one of the Lowborn to possess….and the way she dances with the blades, she has been tutored by the best….”
“Yes my Lord, I agree”
The warrior maiden looked unhappy for some reason but the Surlord could see that she did her best to keep her face impassive.
“When the competition is done I would have words with her, whether she wins or looses. I would not have it in my city that a stranger, Lowborn or no, can enter our ancient rite and bring such ruin to our younglings without even giving us the honour of her name and House”.
“Your will my Lord, it shall be as you say”.
He dismissed his captain with a brief gesture. She retreated to retake her place behind him. Her eyes were already searching the field for the Stranger. On catching sight of her she began to grumble softly to herself but not so loudly as to let the Surlord hear.
The final contest commenced, ten pairs struggling against one another. Among them the Surlord recognised several sons and daughters of the Highborn around him. Today they would gain much honour for thei
r house and parents and their performances would be noted and evaluated, even for years to come, when these Elflings were elevated to command in far Nestoria or on the Hfaunian marches.
To the rear of the field, the Surlord noted that Authien of Isaldur continued to compete. In Elrurith the young warrior was known as the Prince Exile among the Lowborn but of course Ninmuiria had no princes, nor Kings for that matter, not since the departure of the High-King and the Rise of the Surlords so many centuries ago. In truth the Prince Exile was the son of Vvieine, Surlady of Isaldur, entitled to no real position, power or title. The city of Isaldur the Mighty was only ruled by Surladies and since the Dark Ages of Ninmuiria all Surladies who had begat sons in Isaldur had sent them abroad in exile once they had reached their maturity. No son of a Surlady would ever rest untroubled while his mother ruled and he had no hope to inherit her power. The history of Isaldur, and indeed her sister-city Caldur that was also always ruled by a Surlady, was littered with troublesome rebellious sons that had brought strife and ruin to their mother’s reigns. Thus, was Authien sent to live in Elrurith, a permanent guest, who would never hope to return to his birthplace until his mother’s body lay buried in the ground. To be born a son of a Surlady of Isaldur or Caldur, was to be born into a life of exile and unhappiness. All that Authien could hope for was to gain position among the Highborn of this city and today he showed that ambition, fighting with a fury that matched the Elfling stranger in the black armour, stroke for stroke.
The chomortas had been a tradition in Ninmuiria since the rise of the Seven cities more than a millennia before. All of the five surviving cities held a chomortas each year at the beginning of spring although the exact traditions varied from city to city. In Elrurith the Valiant, the Day of War was held to determine a Teoir curadh that would be immediately elevated from the un-blooded warriors of the city into the officer-elite regardless of their standing before, whether they be Highborn, Lowborn or First Servant.
Two of the Elflings from House Huthieniul had joined together to defeat the Stranger. Although their helms obscured their faces, the Surlord knew them to be Hiumath and Luithien, brothers to each other, and sons to the man who sat three places from the Surlord’s left. Puithylan, scion of House Huthieniul and Lord of the Inner Walls. The Elf drank deeply from his goblet, nervous that his sons courted with dishonour by joining against a single opponent and yet even more nervous that they still might be bested.
The brothers split apart and came at the Stranger from both sides simultaneously, hoping to press their advantage before she could counter. They were not fast enough however – the Stranger rolled avoiding a spear thrust from Hiumath and came to her feet to sweep the legs from under Luithien with one precise stroke of her blade. His brother down, Hiumath retreated, nervously clutching his spear and shield. The Stranger gave him no respite, pressing him with quick sword thrusts above and below his shield rim. She avoided his spear thrusts easily as they became increasingly clumsy as the Elfling grew ever panicked and weary from a morning of battle, unsure how to counter the opponent that showed no sign of fatigue, that showed no sign that her assault would ever lessen.
The Surlord had seen this a thousand times before in the heat of battle. Many a good warrior had entered into a desperate panic when pressed upon the battlefield, paying in their blood and their life for such a weakness. He remembered well, eighteen years before, when the Elrurithian armies had quailed before the Urithrarithian assault in the Battle of Ishaldun, the ninth of its name in the nearly continuous warfare between the two great Ninmuirian cities. On that day the warrior companies of Elrurith had nearly given in to the battle madness, the panic of sheer fear, with their centre routed and their Surlord bleeding and dying upon the battlefield. It had taken a young captain, who’s mind had not been broken by the battle fear, to use all the power in his voice to strengthen the backs of the older but wavering officers and rally the warrior companies around the Elrurithian banner. It was on that day, the Ninth Battle of the Pass of Ishaldun, that Elrurith the Valiant was victorious over its hated rival, Urithrarith the Unmerciful, and a young captain, still bleeding from his battle wounds, was elevated by his brother officers, to become Surlord. The same Surlord who sat now watching the spectacle below.
Hiumath had lost his shield now and was vainly trying to keep the Strangers assault at bay with broad sweeps of his spear. On the High Diadem the Surlord noted that the father was no longer drinking. The Elf clenched the arms of his seat tightly, the back of his hands whitening, almost translucent, with the effort. The Lord of the Inner Walls was an experienced warrior, blooded sixty years before among the Hal’runnan Elves against their Crandorian enemies. He knew that his remaining son faced defeat no matter how much he willed it otherwise.
And there it was! The Stranger’s blade turned the Elfling’s spear-point and its bite took him across the chest armour, knocking him solidly to the ground and ending any further hope of furthering House Huthieniul’s glory on this day.
On the other side of the sands the Prince Exile continued his relentless onslaught, battering down opponent after opponent.
As the Surlord had hoped, it was the Prince Exile and the Stranger left upon the field to face one another. He rubbed his hands relishing the contest to come – it had been many years since Elrurith had witnessed such a fight between such skilled combatants.
The Stranger and the Prince Exile circled each other warily, their movements articulated to an excessive carefulness that only the very weary possess. Among the crowds, the Lowborn cried out, anointing the Stranger with praise, cursing the chances of Authien, for they still believed that she was one of them. It had been many years since one of the Lowborn had risen to become teoir curadh. The Surlord had been but a youngster himself when the last Lowborn teoir curadh had been elevated. He remembered it well. His father had taken him to watch the chomortas and how they had cheered to see one of their own, a Lowborn, to be elevated to teoir curadh. Not long after that his father had paid the great endowment necessary to have his son elevated to First Servant and join the War Companies soon after that…
The two seemed evenly matched. The Stranger was fast and agile and seemed to possess an almost inexhaustible supply of energy and stamina. Even with these attributes however she could not hope to match Authien’s raw power and strength. He was twenty summers old, perhaps a little older than she, a little more experienced. Perhaps he had held a little something back through the course of the competition, a small reserve of energy to unleash in the final hurdle, a move or swordplay he had yet to reveal. An experienced warrior would do just that. The Surlord suspected that the Stranger had held nothing back. From the way she fought there was nothing left inside her, she had given everything to the fight but now would she have enough to counter the more experienced, stronger opponent? Among the Highborn on the High Diadem the wagers began to fly. The Surlord suspected that the Lowborn too were betting heavily on this match, albeit for much more conservative sums than those of the Highborn.
A cry came up from the crowd as the Stranger attacked, driving Authien back. For a moment he faltered under her assault, his foot slipping on the sand his sword dipping slightly, but it was only for a moment. He quickly recovered, his training rising to the fore as he studied his attacker’s pattern, found it, then matched her blade stroke for stroke. With a grimace he began to counter and soon it was the Stranger who was in retreat. The Prince Exile’s attack was relentless, his great strength showing now as he reigned blow after blow down upon his smaller opponent’s blade. She turned his weapon again and again, parrying desperately, seeking a weakness in his technique and finding nothing. Before his exile, Authien had been trained by the finest swordmasters in Isaldur – his technique was flawless almost perfect – the only opening would be if he made some slight error from weariness
They pause for water – she refuses to open her visor to drink
Sweat from his brow dripped into his eyes and he paused for a moment t
o wipe it away. That was all the Stranger needed – she attacked with all the might she could muster, she knew this would be the last attack, after this she had nothing left to give, it was now or never. Her blade came down hard on Authien’s sword, one, twice, thrice – the effort of each blow evidenced by her muffled cries of excretion. Throughout the competition she had remained eerily quiet, inscrutable to her opponents. Now she cried out with each movement of her body, each bladestroke a torrent of pain to a body that sat on the edge of breaking down, giving in to the crushing fatigue. Across the stadium the crowd had gone quiet, thousands of eyes locked on the contest below. All that could be heard was the clash of blades, the Stranger’s cries and the muffled grunts of Authien as he beat back attack after attack.
The combatants danced around each other in a whirlwind, their blades making crazy patterns in the air. Had Elrurith ever seen a contest such as this?
Seeing an opening at last Authien lunged. His battered shield took her dagger thrust square on and it skittered away uselessly from her hand. Their blades clashed once more but without her dagger to parry the Stranger was vulnerable. He hit her hard with his shield top sending her crashing backwards. She fell and barely managed to regain her feet before he was on her again, bashing her with his shield, bringing his blade down again and again. Her strength failing, the Stranger tried one last, desperate attack – she sidestepped his shield thrust hoping to get in under his guard. An hour ago perhaps she might have succeeded but not now. Now her body was too fatigued to do all that she commanded of it – she was simply not fast enough. The side of his shield took her on the shoulder spinning her body about, opening her up fatally to his sword. His blade took her across the chest and for an instant she was airborne until she came crashing down into the sand, defeated and broken.