Wolf's Bard

To Fight

“And if I’m killed, Grandma, keep a close eye and don’t let the spirits get into me.”

Grandma shivered in the night wind, staring at my face.   “Oh, I won’t, I wouldn’t!”

“And bury me with my brown boots, so I can’t get bloody-footed on th’ journey west.”

“Ohhhh, Tiwyr!   You’re making me cry.”

“And, and don’t let any animals get close … ?”

“You rogue!”

She turned and hobbled toward our flapping tent.   In we went, letting fall the door behind us.   Bright lanterns bobbed in the semi-darkness of scurrying children and bags, lighting up Grandpa’s face as he hove up from his skin bed to see me.   Lowantà leapt to her feet.

“He’s ready to go,” Grandma said.

I strode over through my aunts to my pack.   Digging on the dirt behind it, I pulled out my brown leathern sheathe by the belts.   Light it swung up—

Oh—where’s my sword?

It had not slid out and hidden back here!

“Where’s my sword?” I demanded, cocking an eyebrow.

My cousins laughed an uproar as my sister Lowantà came up cross-armed and trying to smile.   “You don’t need to fight, dear brother.”

“But where is my sword?”

“There shall be, no fighting.”   She twisted a strand of golden hair between finger and thumb as did she always in a predicament.   “None at all, Tiwyr.   You don’t need your sword.”

I reached out and tickled her under th’ pretty chin.   “If I don’t have my sword …”

“I said, no bloodying will occur!”

“Where is my sword-ord-ord?” I said, blipping her chin up and down thrice.

She pointed a slim finger toward Grandpa.   “Under the skins.”

Grandpa’s cheeks poofed out and he maintained a look of innocence as I stalked over.

“Hawa, Grandpa, where’s th—O here!   Whatcha doin’ with my sword?”

“Grandma was cutting butter with it,” Grandpa coughed.

“Haha … they gave it to you?   Well, Tiwiz Dà, I’m going.   Bye.”

Old Tiwiz wrinkled his brows, pulling at my arm.   He effected a hoarse whisper in my ear.   “If you win it th’ girls will look at you!”

Grandma scowled.   “Then he can find a woman and settle down.”

“Good bye, Grandma,” I muttered, wrapping the old woman in an embrace.   Lowantà ran into my arms as I released Grandma, she buried her face in my leathern jerkin—

“Lowantà … if I die.   Promise me you will marry Cnaef.”

“He’s only a boy!”

“We aren’t boys anymore!   Lowantà!   He is the best man I know, Hawa!”

She burst into tears.   She tightened her arms round my middle as I tried t’ pull away.

“Promise,” I said darkly.

Well, she gave a sob for reply, which was not what I particularly wanted, so I petted her shining gold hair and eased her grip off.

The cousins waved at me from the back of our tent.   The aunts stopped chattering and stared up as I stepped to the door.   Fifteen scared faces met my gaze—I hesitating here on the threshold, hand on the rough cloth beside me …

I grinned, and swung out.

Before my eyes the glittering camp stretched.   As I struck off down, I caught the sudden skirl of th’ bagpipes.   Right out of the night, and though slight, blood-stirring!

Walking through the camp, brushing past men, all about the flickering fires.   I slung my belts off.   With anxious fingers I undid th’ buckles.   Brought the familiar weight round my middle.   Now my sword slipped and banged comfortably against my left leg and down from my side.   Up over my shoulder went the other belt, fixing in firm buckles to my sword-gear.   Hawa, Hawa!

Grinning widely, I dragged my jerkin down further over my breeks.   The belt-gear settled hard in.   My boots tripped over a long stick and I stumbled past three playing children.

Now the bagpipe halted.  

“Goodnight,” I laughed, waving to them.

Out skirled the bagpipe quite close and loud!

Breaking into a run, I came dashing up over the hewn tree-barrier and down with a skidding tangle through the crashing thwacking greenery and tumbled headlong before my comrades.  

Onto one of the endless rows of ox-hides staked round in this enclosure—

Up I got, blood pulsing all through, in my cheeks.

“Hawa!” I yelled.

Cnaef whirled, fair face flushed and green eyes wide.   He charged me and bore me down to the dirt and over we thrashed, laughing.   Flash went Cnaef’s white face past.   His close-cut crimson curls made a bad hold—

“I will kill you!” Cnaef howled, groping for my sword.   I caught his hand, we went back over and, Cnaef under.

The bagpipe sang to a heady height.

I grimaced down into his face.   “Liar!”

Spinning him into the death-hold and whipping out my dirk, I pressed it to his bucking chest.

Cnaef burst into his entirely addictive laughter and we let go and came up.

“Form rows!” shouted the Miíh`tern’s—the King’s—War Chief, starting in and standing stark against the night by th’ flare of the torches here—the torches, stuck into the ground and just beginning to burn from the tops down.   He sauntered over and stood by the piper, lips moving.

Cnaef grabbed my arm and tugged me in a trailing run towards the Warchief.   All around us the warriors jostled into strict rows—

“Hey, hey,” Cnaef said, breathless, “Warchief, give Tiwyr some of that stuff.”

“What stuff?” I asked, glancing up fro the ground.   The Warchief’s blue eyes passed over me coolly.

He shook his head.

Cnaef made a half-forlorn face.   “Oh please, Good Uasond—”

“No,” the Warchief’s said, hard lipped.   He shoved me away.   “Get in the row.”

“Please?” Cnaef pled, turning to the red-cheeked piper.   “He’s one of us, he’s Gwëre?”

The piper rolled his eyes.

Cnaef’s face flushed deeper.   “He’s Gwëre!”

“Two black eyes has no Gwëre.”

Cnaef balled his fists, breath coming hard.   “Give Tiwyr some, bloody lurdan!”

Rolling his eyes the other direction, the piper played faster.   Fingers-and-thumbs flying.   Torrents of sound flighted and lurched about us.

“Get in th’deuce row!”

Cnaef leapt on the Warchief with a left fist swing and a fast kick.   First they grappled, then the Warchief flung Cnaef reeling back onto me.   He lifted a hand half-way and his blue eyes slitted perilously—

I swung Cnaef around and dragged him into our comrades.   Down to the end of the row.   Where the Warchief could just barely see us.   Side to side we stood, beginning to move.   The faces around me were so familiar.   This was when the fun began—

“Uh, Tiwyr,” Flym blundered, fisting me between the shoulders.   “Hey, where’s our arm-binds?”

Here came the Warchief.   He had a load of leathern thongs in his arms.   Down the line he sauntered, letting us grab as much as we could.   I caught four hands-full, dropping the stuff to my feet.

“Tie on,” the Warchief snarled.   “Tie on.   Slap each other.   Start slapping!”

With shaking fingers we bound th’thongs round our forearms.   Jerk—yank—the leather’s salty.

Having got his arms bound, Cnaef whirled and slapped out at me.  

Biting furiously at my knots, I fought to finish it as we started slapping.   Once I am in the frenzy …

there would be no way to stop!

“Move your arms!”   The Warchief trode along the line.   “Forward!   Back!   Forward!   Back!”

Suddenly I was not interested in finishing it.   I swung my arms before me, twisting, back, forward, swing.

“Stamp!   Tread the dirt!”

The leather looked well on my moving arms.

I lifted my feet, slamming them down!

“Tramp to the bagpipe!”

Cnaef burst into wild laughter.   He flung his arms around.   Got my face—

Up went my chin and I touched my back, accidentally, and Cnaef’s arm dislodged.

“Slap yourselves!” th’ Warchief shouted.

The pipes pulsed faster.   Up, down, our feet tramped quickly.  

I laid hand to myself, slapping my arms to tingling and sharpness.

“Keep slapping!” he yelled, clouting me and then Bloúrk.   Sthwam, aagh!

Slowly the pain faded from my consciousness.   I was listening to the music, the fast running tripping music, accentuated by th’ beat of one hundred and seventy boots.   I tried focusing on that, the music.   Oddly my heart stepped with the rhythm of the one-droned pipe.   It tricked within me.

“You!” he called, pointing to me and Cnaef.   “Come here!”

Cnaef grabbed my arm and rudely flung me to the ground.   I soared up and laid into him, he fell backwards with a bleeding lip and writhed in the dirt.  

“Here!” the Warchief yelled.

Turning, we dragged each other straight up to the Warchief, onto the ox skin pegged down with three ditches dug round it.   He pressed his finger to his lips and regarded.

“First fight,” he shouted.   “Cnaef!   Tiwyr!”

Cnaef’s eyes went crazy.   He drew his sword as did I.   We circled a moment, his bright steel point made a circle in th’ air.   And in the circle of the dirty ox hide I leveled my sword and charged him.   Cnaef’s mouth opened wide and he ducked, I rammed over him and down he tumbled!

“Fight over when the other man is dead, senseless, surrendered or out of the rings!”

Cnaef struggled under my boot.   He drew his dirk and stabbed for my foot, off I leapt, he scrambled up.

His cheek was very smudged.

“I am Tiwyr!” I shouted, splitting air by sharp steel.   “Thrash me who can, cause I am a man!”

Our swords met.

Cnaef’s arm swung wide and his sword was far away behind him.  His fair face went dark.

I thrust forward.   Like rain to the earth went the shimmer of my blade to Cnaef—he screamed.

With a rush Cnaef slashed upwards, soaring with my sword.   He had got all the strength of a tight corner in it—so I played easy, my sword went off his and Cnaef was still sailing away to the right.

Trip went his feet on the edge of the ox skin.   Over the pegs straddled Cnaef and his green eyes gave a shocked glance to his boots.

Lunging forward, I hewed sideways from my right.   Everybody shouted at Cnaef and he spun around.

“Ruaaa’driii!” Cnaef cried, whirling his sword round as a shield.

I put my right foot forward to take my backwards swing.   Down it descended and Cnaef’s entire body jerked.   His arms strained with me.

Sword to sword …

“Tiwyr Hew!” I shouted.

I made a wicked grin at him; he had no time to respond.   Flash double quick.   Cnaef, flung in a sprawl out across the ditches circling us round.

The Warchief came stepping in.   “Tiwyr is victor!   Cnaef, pick up your sword and go stand there!”

Cnaef rose, wildly groping for his blade.   He got it, grinned at me and tripped to th’ side.

Shout.  

The heavy tramp of boots drummed under the bagpipe.

Laying hand on my arm, the Warchief pulled me out over the rings in the dirt.   He thrust me towards the piper and began walking.   “You and you!   Come here, get on the ox-skin!   All fights simultaneous!   Everybody get on the skins!”

I fell back into my swinging motions beside the gyrating pipe-music.   Watched my comrades run to the duel-spots.   They drew their swords and fell at each other.

Suddenly the Warchief was yelling into my face.   “Into the rings!   Get IN, blade!”

Drawing my sword, I leapt into th’ indicated ring.   I shouted in the man’s face across from mine.   Then I saw it.

Oh—Nistan!

Nistan made a slender smile at me, eyes worked wide and lips quivering.   He flung his brown hair out from his long face and laid hand to sword hilt.

“Tiwyr, lemme win!   I’ll pick your Thirl slave as my reward.”

“I want to free Lodyé!   Not you!”

“Lemme, please!”

“Only if you can beat me, swëre!   Cause I am Tiwyr!   I am a Gwëre!   Lick me who can—I am a man!”

Hissing between his teeth, Nistan whipped his sword out.   His fingers clasped it like a vise as he came on, his ring’s green stone glittering above the grimed skin.

“Damn you!” he shouted, whirling in.

We met with an instinctive gasp.   For a moment we were straining over our swords, noses almost touching.   Nistan broke my lock and spun off, spun back.

Back he came, grinning wildly.   Swing, back in the lock.   Quick and sudden up came his boot and slammed into my chest, knocking me backwards.   Down I arked and my sword spun from my hand.

Slam, dust.

Flipping over, I let out a shout.

Where is my sword!

There—therrrre!

Snatching my sword, Nistan whirled it and his own out at me.   In a swift gesture my friend’s sword slid in cool and sharp beside my neck.   The other sword—slender, fierce, and mine—pressed under my chin and forced my face up, so—staring at Nistan.

“You will be my slave,” Nistan said, lips sweet.

Blood burst in around my eyes, pounding.

I reached out.   I fastened my fingers round my precious blade.

He began kicking me.   He was kicking me to the rings.   Over the ox hide.   I am going to lose.

Blood glistened on my quivering blade now, my fingers.   The bagpipe’s music resounded so loud, I wanted to kill him.  

Slowly I tightened my grasp.   I yanked towards myself.   Nistan gasped.   Nistan pitched on me.   His cold steel stabbed the ground by my throat.   I jerked away, pulling from it.  

Flinging over, I leapt onto him.

Nistan flailed beneath.   Up, seizing hands.

Kicking aslant, I sent him athwart th’ last ring.   Over we fought, Nistan kneeling outside now and spitting at me.   He glanced down and his face went blank.   His fingers released mine.   They shook.   He raked up the dirt and browned his palms.

Wrenching his sword out, I threw it in his face.   I drew back into the ring and knelt upon the hide, beginning to laugh.

“You get up!” a voice bawled.

Oh—the Warchief!

Leaping aloft, I dashed after the man.   I found myself on another ox hide and shouted at my adversary.

Lay steel by his ear, slice past his shoulder.   Wheel about and charge— duck.   Try to get it past his guard—

The man’s face was sweat-streaked.   He howled and screamed.

Anmwynt!

I put it through him!

I did not mean to do THAT!

Gaping, I stared at my glimmering blade where it disappeared into the bloke’s jerkin.   I had stabbed him clean through the heart.   Blood simmered uneasily at the edge of my sword.