The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 7

  Chapter 5

  Quarrel

  “Don’t bring your fight to me,

  I know you’ve a legitimate quarrel

  With each other, but this isn’t the place nor the time

  To dole out your sense of justice to each other.”

  —Command from Angoria

  Oaka winced when he heard of the matchup between himself and Hastin, and he suspected right then the tryouts were fixed in favor of the baron’s son. Although the crowd cheered, the other young men blinked in surprise. These two were obviously mismatched, and Oaka was disappointed Sir Nickleby would be part of such a travesty.

  “You wanted to fight for real,” Basha said to his brother.

  “But not against Sisila’s brother,” Oaka muttered. “This is a setup.” Yet, as he didn’t want to be called a coward for running away, he stepped out from behind Basha.

  “I’ve heard you’ve been seen with my little sister,” Hastin said to Oaka, his big hand gripping the entire hilt, from pommel to guard, of the practice sword he’d accepted from Sir Nickleby.

  Oaka glanced over at Sir Nickleby, but the knight looked up at the sky, away from Oaka, as he held out the second wooden sword to him. Oaka hissed at Sir Nickleby before snatching the wooden sword from him. He didn’t want to say anything; the whispering crowd said it better than he ever could.

  “You sure it isn’t just a rumor?” Oaka smirked at Hastin. He loved Sisila and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, but he didn’t want to get killed by her brother just because he loved her.

  “You know it’s no rumor. I think you’ve been seeing her for a long time,” Hastin said, moving out onto the field of combat. He bowed his head without taking his eyes off Oaka. “Are you going to come out here and face me like a man, or run away like a little girl?”

  “You’d like that, winning by default, wouldn’t you, Hastin? Too bad. There’s no way I’m going to give you the pleasure.”

  * * * *

  Sisila could see the hatred in Hastin’s eyes as Oaka walked out to face him. She hated seeing them stare each other down, when all she really wanted was for them to get along. Sisila decided to end the farce here and now. Everyone knew she and Oaka were seeing each other, that they loved each other. It made no sense to ignore reality.

  “Oaka! Oaka! Oaka!” Sisila chanted, waving her red scarf from amidst the crowd.

  Oaka turned and smiled at her and then threw her a kiss. He then turned back to face her older brother, and with a shrug, said. “Okay, so maybe we do see each other. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The look on Hastin’s face said it all. Wooden sword or not, Oaka was going to die.

  * * * *

  “Fence!” Sir Nickleby shouted.

  Hastin lunged at Oaka, and Oaka retreated as Hastin swung his practice sword as if it were a sharpened blade, and Oaka weakly blocked it. The force of Hastin’s blow impacted Oaka’s whole body, cracking his wooden sword in half.

  “New sword! New sword!” Sir Nickleby cried, stepping in to pull Hastin away from Oaka before it turned into fisticuffs. “Keep your temper down, please,” Sir Nickleby told Hastin. “At least, let him defend himself.”

  “All right, all right,” Hastin said, grumbling to himself as Sir Nickleby reached into his box and took out another wooden sword for just such an occasion. “If you want this farce to continue, please be sure not to break this sword too. Understand?”

  Hastin glared at him but nodded.

  Satisfied the young man had gotten the message, Sir Nickleby went over to Oaka and handed him the replacement sword. “Try again,” he said, thrusting the sword into Oaka’s hand. Then he stepped off to the side as Hastin charged Oaka once more.

  This time Hastin put less force into his thrust. Oaka parried and then dodged Hastin’s next thrust. He still had to make his own first thrust.

  “This isn’t a playground; this isn’t a practice field—this is real life, Oaka!” Sir Nickleby shouted. “Your opponent isn’t going to spare you just because you’re smaller and weaker.”

  Sir Nickleby knew his off color remark would anger Oaka, which would hopefully better his chances against Hastin. He smiled when Oaka charged Hastin and forced him backward on his heels with three successive blows. Angered, Hastin parried with his own attack, and the crowd turned restless as it quickly became obvious Hastin wouldn’t only win the bout but would likely harm Oaka in the process.

  Oaka swore loudly at Hastin and then at Sir Nickleby. He knew he had been set up to lose and in doing so he’d never prove himself worthy of Sisila.

  Stop thinking like that, he told himself. He was starting to sound like Basha, which made him lash out even harder at Hastin. Moving as fast as he could to block and retreat and then thrust, he pressed forward, but Hastin blocked every move he made. The older, stronger, and more accomplished student drove him back until Oaka’s heel caught in a tuft of grass and he fell backwards, landing hard on the ground. Knowing Sisila was watching, Oaka burned with humiliation.

  His blood seemed to sizzle in his veins and sweat poured from his brow. His arm felt as if it were ripped from his shoulder socket and then his fingers spasmed around the hilt of his sword as flames shot from the end of it. Hastin yelped and dropped his sword as it caught fire. Behind Oaka and Hastin, the crowd collectively gasped in shock.

  Horrified, Oaka staggered, winded and breathing hard. He tried to release his grip on his now burning sword but couldn’t force his fingers free; they were like iron bands around the hilt.

  Both Basha and Sir Nickleby rushed to help him, but he waved them off, knowing he had to defuse the situation himself and take advantage of it. It was his only hope of winning the match.

  With a devilish grin, Oaka swung his fiery wooden sword with vigor as he moved again toward Hastin. Frightened out of his wits, the older boy retreated in fear. “I win!” Oaka cried, raising his fiery sword in victory.

  “Enough!” Sir Nickleby advanced, stomping on Hastin’s fallen sword to put out the sparks before they could set fire to the grass.

  Oaka extinguished his flaming sword in the nearest watering trough. He stared down at the steaming water, knowing the looks he was going to get from everyone when he turned around. Oaka knew they’d be frightened of him now. What had possessed him to flaunt his ability? Magic was repugnant. A curse. Something to be feared.

  Sisila stared at him, wide-eyed and wondering, What now? While Hastin’s stare was angry and incriminating, Basha found his voice and tried to explain the fire away as a result of friction caused by the two swords, wood rubbing against wood, but no one listened to such nonsense. Not even Oaka.

  This was magic, and Oaka knew he’d pay dearly for having used it in front of others.

  Sir Nickleby strode forward in front of everyone and cried, “This match is over!” Everyone stared at him, murmuring amongst themselves. He raised his hand to quiet them. “Men have died recently, good men, protecting you and your homes. Months ago, our forest burned. A wolf attacked us, and one man dropped his torch just one, which started the blaze much like Hastin here”—Sir Nickleby pointed an accusatory finger at him—“dropped his sword today.”

  Hastin gasped. “My sword was on fire! I had to drop it or burn!” Hastin shouted, stunned at being so berated.

  “So you chose your own well-being over that of the community?” Sir Nickleby turned from him and faced the crowd. “Hastin here was self-serving. People die here recently, and when militiamen care more for themselves than the populace. You all think that this is some sort of game. It’s no game! Winning this competition could mean promotion to the Border Guards.” He shook his head. “This is real, and you people could all die if the wrong young men are chosen here today.” Sir Nickleby zeroed in on the group of competitors. “You will fight for me today and prove you have what it takes to survive in the militia and in the Border Guards. The next time I face an enemy all of you will be standing and fight
ing beside me, doing the exact same thing.” Everyone stared at him. “Except for you, Hastin.” Sir Nickleby turned toward the young man. “You’re out of here.”

  “What? How can you do this to me?” Hastin fumed.

  “You’ve failed the test! You may not have been beaten, but you dropped your sword, and Oaka here was about to attack you. You would’ve lost,” Sir Nickleby insisted. “Now get out of here, Hastin. Oaka, you stay. And your next challenger will be…” He paused, looking around at the other boys inching back, away from his gaze and away from Oaka. “Basha,” he declared as Hastin stormed away.

  “Basha?” Oaka, along with everyone else, gasped.

  “Basha, step forward.” Drawing a deep breath and blowing it out, he rammed his glistening steel sword into the ground and stepped forward. Everyone watched as he advanced, picking his choice of wooden sword from Sir Nickleby’s box. He hefted it in his hand, testing it for balance and fit of the hilt in his hand. His first choice went back into the box and he chose another. This one appeared to be to his liking, and he took it with him out onto the battlefield.

  Having been born of different parents, there were no physical similarities between Basha and Oaka. Having been raised in close confines by Oaka’s parents, they had some of the same emotional and mental similarities, but their fighting styles were as different as night and day. Oaka fought like a rooster pecking and then darting away to strike again, while Basha was more grounded, defending himself until the right opportunity presented itself, and then, like a snake, he’d strike a death blow. Moreover, Basha was more alert than his older brother. While Oaka struck a flight-or-fight position, leaving himself no other options, Basha set himself in the classical style of fencing. He looked more ready to strike or defend himself with vigor.

  While hating they had to fight one another, Basha nodded at Oaka, in accord with the rules of chivalry, to let him know he was ready. Oaka couldn’t ignore the crowd’s whispering. He was nervous, facing a formidable opponent with more experience. Basha, on the other hand, ignored the crowd, concentrating instead on his opponent and what he had to do.

  Oaka stared back at Basha, wondering if Sir Nickleby assumed he’d not harm his brother. Most everyone here had to be frightened of him after what had just happened, but he knew Basha and Sisila would never be afraid of him. He just hoped Sir Nickleby wasn’t frightened of him, if only because he’d never seen the knight afraid of anything. Oaka used to be brave himself, but now he wasn’t so sure of himself.

  “Fence!” Sir Nickleby declared, and Basha and Oaka went at each other, clashing wooden swords, neither of them trying to impact the other. They both jabbed and swung wildly and wide of each other, just as they’d done when they were children.

  “Oaka! Basha! Sir Nickleby yelled at them. “Stop fooling—!”

  A loud disturbance in the crowd drew his attention. As he turned toward the crowd, he watched Hastin charge through the crowd. People screamed as he jostled them aside, knocking one old woman down as he ran onto the field of combat carrying a steel sword in his hand. Oaka retreated as Hastin swung at him. He dodged a second thrust and prepared for a third just as Sir Nickleby’s blade blocked Hastin’s sword. “You don’t want to do this, Hastin!” Sir Nickleby warned.

  “You’re in the wrong here, Sir Nickleby!” Hastin declared, anger distorting Hastin’s features. “I’m in the right! I’ve had enough of Oaka’s treacherous ways. He has seduced my sister. Both he and Basha are insubordinate. They have no respect for authority or class, just like their father, and you’re on their side.” Hastin cried, pointing his sword at Sir Nickleby. “You’re a traitor to my father!”

  Collectively, the crowd gasped. No one had ever shown so much public disrespect to Sir Nickleby. Some of the men pulled their swords, fearing Hastin had gone violently mad. Or was Hastin right about Basha and Oaka? Oaka and Basha stood in the middle of all this, stunned by what they were hearing and seeing.

  “I’m not a traitor to your father,” Sir Nickleby declared, a sweep of the knight’s sword ripping Hastin’s sword from his hand. “I’m only trying to protect Oaka and Basha, because they have done nothing wrong.” He pressed the tip of his sword to Hastin’s chest. “I’m loyal to your father, and I don’t want to see him, or anybody else, get hurt!”

  “You’ve conspired with Oaka and Basha, perhaps even with their father, to remove me from the competition and to dishonor me, while they are set up to win the competition when we all know I should win.”

  “You’re mistaken, Hastin. I’m sorry for whatever hurt you feel they or I’ve done to you, but we didn’t rig this contest.”

  Hastin fumed. “I’m going to tell my father what’s happened here, and I’ll see you rot in jail!”

  “I’m only guilty of one thing, Hastin. I didn’t see your breaking point, and for that, I’m sorry,” he said, turning around.

  Hastin tried to rush after him, but two townsmen leaped forward to restrain him. “You’re going to be finished here—do you understand me, Nickleby?” Hastin shouted after him. “Finished! You will be demoted from town militia commander, and you will never teach another class of students! Ever again!”

  “I no longer want the job,” Sir Nickleby muttered and turned back around to face Hastin and then the crowd in general. “I quit,” he declared, loud enough for everyone to hear before turning and walking away.

  Basha and Oaka stumbled forward, mouths open in disbelief, to watch Sir Nickleby’s departure. The rest of the crowd milled about, wondering what to do about the competition with Sir Nickleby gone. Most of them didn’t want to have another person instructing the students or leading the town militia. Sir Nickleby had been their knight for so long they couldn’t think of another who could replace him. Basha and Oaka had depended upon a placement in the Border Guards, either to leave Coe Baba or to earn a living, but now, without Sir Nickleby, all their training and practice would go for naught.

  * * * *

  The stranger watched the matchup between Oaka and Hastin with distaste for the baron’s son and foremost for the crowd. These people were too bigheaded in their lofty opinions of themselves. He thought they deserved to be cut down to size for the sake of Doomba.

  But when that wooden sword caught fire, he perked up. The one named Oaka had magic on his side, making him more dangerous. He would have to be more cautious around him. Despite the touch of Doomba upon him, the stranger possessed no magic. He didn’t dare attack someone who could wave his magic finger and set him aflame. He’d have to be more cautious in how he approached the destruction of Coe Baba if he didn’t want to be turned to ash in the process. He just had to figure out what to do, now that the knight had quit.

  Part Two

  The Courtship Ritual

  Chapter 6

  Knives and Music

  “Gorbana, goddess of the hunt, was scorned by

  Her husband, Qei, of the harvest, and she turned

  To the god of death, Loqwa, who eyed her coming.

  “Bring me a unicorn, Loqwa, and I’ll bring you a centaur.”

  —The Legends of Arria

  Sunset streaked the sky in colors of orange and magenta. In the gusty breeze, dust swirled up on the main gravel road of town, carrying with it the scents of pine and oak from the forest.

  The Smiling Stallion Inn sign swung and squeaked with the wind as guests began to arrive to celebrate their betrothals. Inside, the inn smelled of the wood burning in the fireplace and ale flowed freely in the tavern. The milder scents of cream and honey emanated from the kitchen.

  On stage, in the alcove beneath the mezzanine, several tables and chairs had been removed and moved to another part of the room for tonight’s show. Geda and Smidge sang to the familiar old tune they played on fiddle and guitar.

  This was the last song in the band’s set for now, the opening set. “Thank you, thank you, everybody!” Geda shouted over the applause. “And now I’d like to present to you my two sons, Oaka and Basha!”

  Few
er people clapped as Basha and Oaka came up on stage, and Geda frowned. A pall seemed to fall over the crowd as the brothers took the stage. The two boys hadn’t earned any friends over their roles in the militia tryouts. Only one day had passed since Sir Nickleby quit and walked off the field. Oaka in particular drew some looks of condemnation over his fire-starting.

  “Thank you, thank you, everybody,” Basha said, less enthusiastic now as he took up his father’s bow and fiddle. “We would like to thank you all for coming and hope that you all have a great time this evening.”

  “Louder, Basha!” his father called.

  “I know that some of you are here to get engaged tonight,” he said, a little louder, “and we’d like to congratulate you all in advance.”

  “Louder, Basha, we can’t hear you!” the audience chimed in, and Smidge laughed.

  “I know.” Basha grinned self-consciously. “Let’s try this again. We know you’re all here tonight celebrating.” This time Basha’s voice boomed off the walls of the common room. “And we appreciate you all coming here tonight. But we want to remind you to be careful going home tonight, after imbibing…and not ride over somebody.” A few people coughed. “Or get trampled. Thank you,” Basha said, setting bow to fiddle-strings. As he began to play, a few people began to clap in time to the piece, Oaka juggled, singing as he did so and getting the crowd up on their feet.

  “That Oaka; he’s got the talent in pleasing the crowd.” Smidge said, eliciting a nod from Geda just as Habala breezed by with an order for a table of lumberjacks. She handed the tray to one of the serving girls she’d hired for the evening and pointed to the boisterous lumberjacks. On her return trip to the kitchen, she stopped to speak with Geda. “I don’t think you should serve those lumberjacks any more ale. They’re getting far too rowdy.”