Joe stood up as the wall ground open, behind which, outlined by the torches, the silent blind man stood. Joe waited silently as the man walked into the corridor Joe had called home for two days straight. The silent man nodded at Joe in greeting as the door closed behind them. Joe nodded back, hesitating on whether to ask the questions that had been plaguing him in his solitude. The man seemed to sense Joe’s hesitation and cocked his head in a strangely animalish manner. “Joe” he started in a bassato tone, “well done for making it this far” he cocked his head to the other side “ I must admit I had my doubts, despite, ahem, little Mary’s insistence”. A glimmer of something soft passed across his face as he said Mary’s name and he paused. Joe, still lost somewhat, asked the most obvious question. “Why am I here?”
The man’s face turned even more taciturn as his head returned to an upright position. “You are here to survive Joe, by tooth and nail, if it must be so. A call was made, an answer replied. You are now on the cusp of a path hidden from history, but a path well trodden.” He lay his hands out flat before him. “Many have died on this path, and many more will die. Tradition, nomenclature and the underlying principles of our society deem it necessary.” Here he stroked his scar with one finger and remained silent for a time.
Joe was a moment from breaking the silence but the silent man began again. “I am, what you may call, your backer. At this time, I am simply here to assuage any doubts or douse any rising confusion you may have. In the future I will have another role, if you succeed that is.” Joe felt the weight in those words and shivered slightly. ‘What have I got myself into’ he thought. Instead he asked “What society do you refer to? This feels like assassin training or something”.
“Hmph. Nothing so benign young man. The name cannot be uttered, not yet, but you will find the strength you need amongst our ranks. All I can say is that it is very much in your interest to succeed. And hence we come to the true reason I am here.” He placed both hands behind his back as if he were a seasoned lecturer beginning his preferred subject. “Your last battle was won by chance and by mercy. You could and most likely would have been dissected from the path of life if the challenger had been any other person. You must learn to be brutal. You must learn, despite being saved by mercy, to have none yourself. You” here he pointed directly at Joe’s chest “do not have that luxury.” Withdrawing his hand, he turned sideways to Joe. “I am bound by the old laws not to truly teach you anything here, for it must be by your own power. However, I feel I may say this. Utilise your strengths, and I mean that literally. You are unusually strong for your size and musculature. Play to that. Feign weakness if you must. Feign injury if you can, for you cannot feign death if you fail to do so.” He turned his back fully to Joe as the door once again began its rise. “I shall see you on the other side Joe, one way or another”,
—----
Joe mindlessly chewed on some slightly stale bread as he contemplated the silent man’s, well not so silent now, words. ‘Not particularly useful but he makes a good point, I need to use my brain along with all my other muscles. I am inexperienced but my pure underlying power cannot be denied. I can also draw the conclusion that those I fight in the future will have no idea of what I can or cannot do. Not to mention my prestigious healing and recovery. And finally…’ his mind turned inwards as he focused on the blue fire within. ‘Finally I have made slight progress.’ In his mind he could see a singular minute branch of blue flame that he had painstakingly drawn. The branch, or more accurately twig, flowed over and down towards a point at his left knee where it had somehow glued itself to what Joe had described as a node. Each time Joe sent more flames down the twig, the twig would enlarge, which in turn placed pressure on the node. Joe felt instinctively that one day that pressure would force open that node and he would take his next step.
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He withdrew his mind and refocused it on the problem at hand. Tactics. Tactics to survive whatever was to come. Tactics that would mean life or death. As his mind churned, the clock turned, and above in the castle, the sun began to crest the horizon in all its natural glory. The castle was silent, belying the tense activity hidden beneath its crenelations, and as the sand slowly drained of the blood, doors began to rise with the sun; another battle was about to begin.
—---
A sword clanged against a club, throwing iron echoes across the stone walls of the arena. The man, a convicted murderer from the north, revelled in his opponent’s weakness. He felt laughter rise to his throat but he forced it down, now was not the time. Now was the time for slaughter! He swung his sword in a wider arc forcing the tall but scrawny man back. Aklaq was a born warrior, a born survivor, a man from the icy plains of the north, a follower of the old traditions. Life and death meant little to him, there was only the bloody joy of slaughter. He could sense the fear from the other man and he understood him but felt no pity. I am stronger, I am bigger, I am the better man. “You only have the right to die!” he roared at the man, expecting him to cower in fear. Satisfied as his expectations were met he went in for the kill, exposing his torso as he did so to cleave downwards in a powerful arc. Yet the sweet feeling of cutting through meat did not meet his senses. Nor did he hear the beautiful music of death, no, no screams. Except, except his own. He looked down to see a fist protruding from his back as his sword impotently impaled the sand beneath his feet. He tried to turn his head but his strength was waning. The mighty drum that had accompanied him his whole life had grown silent. And with silence came the cold. The inexorable brutal cold. ‘Ah, I am going home’.
—--
The woman dodged the thrust of the sword easily. ‘How did he make it this far with this skill?’ she thought as she parried yet another weak thrust. ‘Something’s wrong here’ her intuition virtually screamed at her. She stepped back keeping distance from the man's prodigious reach. The man paused and looked Patricia in the eyes. He nodded at her and all of a sudden his posture changed. His back was straighter, the grip on his sword tighter. His eyes that once flicked nervously side to side now held her gaze. The woman uttered a silent prayer to whomever or whichever God had given her intuition. This man was dangerous. Anyone who had made it to this stage had to be, which was why the situation seemed so wrong. Caught up in her own thoughts she was too slow to dodge a rapid swing so parried it with her makeshift shield. A mistake. The shield shattered, the splinters piercing through her ruined arm like needles through cloth. She screamed in agony bouncing back away from the powerful sword. Too late. The sword pierced through her open mouth and out through the back of her head. Her last thoughts were of her estranged son whose mother had another name ‘Live well my dear’.