ANDELON UNDERGROUND
Chapter 2.1 - Selections
Emory of Ivory raised his heavy practice sword high to deflect the blow. His opponent for this match was a heavy-set youth named Vulpash who had the look of one that came out of the lowland region. Just another of the young men that gathered here from all over for Selections.
Economically, Emory cut quickly to force his opponent to back away giving himself room to move. Vulpash was stocky, short. Emory had the advantage of height and reach. If he could just keep Vulpash from getting inside…!
There! Vulpash stumbled with a poorly executed a feint. Swiftly, Emory’s practice blade leapt through the momentary lapse in his opponent’s defenses striking a decisive blow to the chest.
Emory cried out exuberantly, “Yield!”
Vulpash glared sullenly in return, before lowering his practice sword. He snarled, “I am not beaten by a cave-dweller from Ivory…”
Emory’s ears burned and he shook his head angrily. Not this again. Once more, his region of birth had somehow become important. “What does that have to do with it?" he asked in frustration, "You were struck. Yield.”
Vulpash sneered, “You’re from Ivory. No prospects, no future. You’ll never be selected by the Orders.”
You're from Ivory. How often had Emory heard those words since he traveled from his home to Selections? Ivory was by far one of the poorest regions in Ivonwell, but until he had left his homeland it hadn't occurred to him just how bad its reputation really was.
It didn't take Emory long outside of Ivory to learn that the elders of his homeland were prone to embellishment. To them, Ivory was the most perfect and blessed of lands, and until recently Emory agreed. Located high in the eastern mountains, the people of Ivory lived freely and simply. They were neither hindered by the crowds of the cities nor bothered by the constraints of the infrequent circuit magistrates. Beauty could be found all around regardless of the season and the air was clear and life was long and healthy. They claimed it was a land where a man could want for nothing.
All true, of course. However, the elders often left out that it was a meager existence in Ivory, far away from the center of power in Emerald. Throughout the kingdom of Ivonwell, the one virtue of Ivory the old men failed to claim was the one that Emory needed most at this moment. Respect. Quite simply, what the elders did not realize was that to love Ivory one must be from Ivory.
Emory could feel his face grow hot, as the insult to his home wormed its way through him. The blow had been decisive. Yet, he could not back down from the Vulpash’s challenge. Exhaling heavily to calm his fiery thoughts, he laughed harshly, goadingly, “If you’re the prized pig of your particular little mud farm, then I’m not worried about my chances.”
For a moment, Vulpash stared at Emory. Emory could see the words rattling through his mind. Finally, realizing that he had just been insulted, Vulpash’s eyes flashed red as he howled in rage and held his practice blade aloft.
Grinning, Emory readied his blade once again, this time hoping he might give the twit a few more bruises. An angry opponent was a stupid one, quoted Uncle Maliard. And one, concluded Emory, could not get more stupid than Vulpash.
Emory’s sword rose again and again, turning aside Vulpash’s furious assaults, waiting patiently for the eventual opening. And there it was, Vulpash’s tendency to leave his left side open for a dramatic overhand strike. Emory swung his own blade back and readied himself to let Vulpash’s wind out.
“Halt!” hollered an imperial voice in his ear. The command rang throughout the courtyard. A stern-faced sergeant stood on a raised platform off to the side of the fighting arena, glaring down at the hopefuls.
“That’s enough, you skinny-shanked mops! Disengage and return to the wall!”
Crack! Emory reeled from a blow to the side of his shoulder and staggered away from a grinning Vulpash, the late blow getting through Emory’s defenses as he was momentarily distracted by the sergeant’s instructions.
Growling, Emory hefted his blade again, when the sergeant shouted once more. This time his glaring eyes focused directly upon Emory himself. “I said halt, you moronic lackwit! You raise that weapon one more time, I’ll beat you black and blue before throwing you out in the gutter where you belong! Halt!”
Vulpash snickered mockingly as he lowered his weapon and hissed at Emory, “No prospects, no future.”
Emory seethed and refused to rub his shoulder under the watchful eye of the sergeants. Straightening his back, he bore Vulpash’s parting shots with as much dignity as he could muster and stalked back towards the shade of the courtyard wall to wait his turn to be evaluated with another opponent.
As Emory leaned against the cool, stone wall he watched the others sort themselves out. There wasn’t much to be said for the gaggle of young men before him. Most of them were no more talented than Vulpash had been, and all with the same poisoned tongues. Not a single man had the grace of a natural warrior or was as comfortable with the practice blade in his hand as Emory. Not, Emory chided himself, that he was an expert.
Far from it, but he had the benefit of living in Ivory and having a mentor in Uncle Maliard, who had himself been selected to the Orders at one time. They said if a man of Ivory could not protect his land, then he did not deserve to keep it.
Still, however, Vulpash’s words rang in his ears. No prospects, no future.
Emory fought three more opponents that day, each one of them gradually weaker and less skilled as candidate after candidate was selected and pulled away in turn by the Order sergeants. Until all that was left was Emory himself, the last man on the field.
At the end of the day, one last remaining sergeant turned towards the arena’s gate unaccompanied.
Desperate, Emory caught his attention. “Sergeant! Sergeant, sir!” he cried, loping towards him in his clumsy padded armor.
The Sergeant turned warily. Giving Emory a hard look, he asked, “What do you want, boy? We’re through here. Come back next year if you wish.”
Emory slowed breathlessly, “Next year? But… but why?”
Scowling, the Sergeant asked, “Are you stupid boy? We don’t need you.”
Gulping, Emory swallowed his pride and pressed his question, “No sir… why was I left behind when others less skilled than I were taken?”
The corner of the sergeant’s mouth quirked slightly, before he smoothed his expression. “Well, if you don’t know the answer, then you’re thicker than I thought you cave-dwellers were. With no fortune or political connections, you’re worthless. Those of you from Ivory have nothing to offer even the smallest, most menial Order, let alone mine.” His voice grew stern, “Now get out of my way.”
Stunned, Emory took a step back with a certain confirmation to the fear gnawing in his spine. “I’m from Ivory…” he whispered, before shaking his head. He took a deep breath and trudged back across the empty courtyard towards the equipment stands to rack his gear.
The sun was setting, and Emory could feel the cool air of the lowlands chilling the sweat from his body. The weather wasn’t too bad, as Ivory was much colder in general with harsher springs than the lowlands around Emerald. Many of the equipment racks were empty, armor and weapons tossed haphazardly upon the ground by departing initiates. Others were piled high with gear, pitched there carelessly by Sergeants.
Glancing about the empty courtyard, Emory knew that Uncle Maliard would have been most disappointed with the disorderly sight.
Emory settled for the rack furthest from the doors to the inner courtyards and pulled the sweaty padding over his head. He felt heavy, exhausted. There was nothing left but to begin the long trip back home, probably in the morning. He couldn’t even afford to ride with a trader or supply wagon, so it would likely be on foot.
Emory was a tall lad. He had always been considered strong for his age. When he grew into manhood it had been clear to his family and neighbors that he was meant for great things. Ivory was a tiny district compared to the other regions in Ivonwell, after all. It had little to offer their children unless they aspired to raise sheep or goats, or tend the small herds of long-haired horses that roamed the rocky mountain plateaus. It had been decided before he reached manhood that Emory would have to see the world and join the Knightly Orders of Ivonwell.
Of course, the rustic folk of Ivory knew very little about what was needed to join such an exalted group. Ivory had no Order fortress to protect their region. They were too insignificant to deserve one. Yet everyone knew the songs and traditions, and the tales of the renowned Knights of Ivonwell remained popular during gatherings.
The history of Ivonwell was littered with legends: Persistal of Brighttower, Swaenne of Callia, and Boare of Drydock were celebrated names. But not all knights belonged to the Legendary past. Emory’s Uncle Maliard returned to Ivory after many long years of service with the Order of Ravenward. It was he who instructed Emory in the basic tenants of the Orders. “Any brute can swing a sword, and there are countless cut-throats and brawlers in the world. But few pledge themselves to codes of loyalty, self-reliance, persistence, and honor,” Uncle Maliard insisted.
A growing sense of shame spread through him at the thought of returning home without the badges of an Order pinned to his collar. Everything that his family had worked for rested upon his shoulders. He had let them down by returning home empty handed. The cold chill of failure settled upon him as he worked.
The shadows grew like tendrils as Emory placed the last piece of his equipment on his now full rack, checking to make sure each buckle was in place and ready for the next user. The next hopeful probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, however he couldn’t leave it uncared for. Call it his last duty before leaving Emerald for his journey home. Sighing, he hefted his dulled practice blade for the final time. Flat stones had been strapped to its sides to increase the weight, and the old wooden blade was nicked and cracked from overuse. However, it had been his for a week and it was a good weapon. Uncle Maliard would have been disappointed in his only student if Emory could not have appreciated the comfort of a tested blade. Closing both of his hands about the worn leather hilt, he drew what reassurance he could from the consoling weight.
Suddenly, the shadows around him became long, longer than they should have, and the hairs on the back of
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Emory’s neck tingled as the measured swish of a practice blade signaled an impending attack. Anticipation raced through him. Was it Vulpash returning to try and catch him off his guard? Crying out, Emory whirled about, his weapon thrown out in defense as a heavy practice blade clacked resoundingly against it.
Emory gasped as the weapons made contact, the force of the heavy strike practically wrenching the practice blade from his hand. It was only by chance that he held on with two hands, for if he were dueling with his customary one-handed grip, he would have been disarmed.
Recovering his guard, Emory took several steps back from his attacker, his heart hammering in his throat. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted.
Emory's assailant was shrouded in the shadows of the setting sun, but what he could see he did not like. It was an older man, hunched and lean, wearing a rich tunic of Emerald’s court. He was clean-shaven and his face was blotchy with the most horrendous web of scarring that Emory had ever seen. And to Emory’s despair, the heavy practice blade in the ambusher’s bony hand was held with an expert’s grip, the weapon poised and ready with careless ease. Emory knew he was outmatched.
Assessing Emory’s practical retreat, the assailant chuckled in rough amusement, “A respectable parry, lad. You’ve got good form for a stripling.” Lifting the practice blade, he made a small cut through the air to demonstrate his next words, “Next time, though, angle your blade a bit more and you’ll be able to feel your fingers afterwards.”
“Again,” breathed Emory, hoarsely, backing slowly away even further, “I ask you, what is the meaning of this? Attacking a man from behind?”
Cool teeth flashed in the shadows as his assailant took several steps towards Emory, closing the small gap that had been opened between the two. “Very good. I can see it in your eyes that you recognize a superior opponent. Not a very difficult accomplishment with your present experience, but much better than the yowling babes that populated the field here earlier nonetheless.” The stooped man stopped and lowered the practice blade, “I stand between you and the main doors to the inner keep, a place that if you managed to reach it, you might be able to call for assistance. Wise of you to stall and keep your guard up. Maintain your distance and back away until the ground favors you. Perhaps you’ll find that on the steps leading up to the landing at the end of the courtyard… or maybe at the gate out into Emerald itself where you may retreat at greater speed.”
Emory hissed, as those options had occurred to him but the speed of the attack had left him no time to toss aside the practice blade and run for his life. Offering his backside to be cut down would have mortified Uncle Maliard.
The stooped man frightened him, but Emory was not so unmannered that he could not recognize a compliment when he heard one. “Thank you,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Who are you? What do you want?”
His assailant bowed his head and smiled, moving easily to one of the racks and putting aside the practice blade. “My name is Oulen, and I’ve been watching you for the better part of the day, Emory.”
Huh? Emory’s breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed to jump with both fear and anticipation.
“You know my name…” he breathed, a sudden flash of hope rushing through him, “Are you a Sergeant of an Order, sir?”
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To this question, Oulen sneered and turned back to the young man, before folding his arms behind his back and stumping straight towards him at an alarming pace. Even with no weapon, Emory had to keep himself in check from fleeing from the predatory posture Oulen radiated.
Oulen growled, “No, no… I’m not one of those jackals, Emory, who scavenge for young men based on their politics and family wealth.” His teeth flash once again, “I select them for the way their lines flow as they move, the way they comport themselves on and off the field, and the way they react to unexpected stress.” He chuckled, “Like having a man attack them suddenly from behind.”
Emory’s mind worked furiously, unwilling to let down his guard for he could still sense the immense disadvantage he was at. “Although I appreciate your candor, what you say does not ease my apprehension, sir Oulen,” Emory replied, slowly working himself around towards the doors of the inner keep.
Oulen considered the bristling lad quietly for several moments, before he asked “Where are you from?”
“Ivory…” Emory sensed another trap.
Suddenly, the older man grinned, “Ivory. You are right to be cautious.” Seeing from Emory’s expression that he remained unassuaged by his friendliness, Oulen sobered in placation, “Emory, it occurs to me that your native stubbornness and independence acts not as a hindrance, but… as an asset.”
Emory’s eyes narrowed, and his guard slowly lowered, the dulled point of his blade wavering. “You speak in a roundabout manner like a man of the King’s court, Oulen. Yet, you wield your blade and move like the most frightening person I could ever meet. I don’t understand what you want of me.”
Oulen approached the youth and lifted his hand to lower the practice blade further. “I’ve already given you my name, Emory. I am Oulen. Oulen of Casteltide.”
Emory’s eyes grew large, as suddenly his belly grew hollow. He did recognize the name of Oulen of Casteltide. Oh, Uncle Maliard would beat him senseless when he returned home.
“And I am…” continued Oulen.
“One of the King’s Men and the Swordmaster of Ivonwell,” finished Emory, his knees trembling. He was in for it now, that he had questioned such a man. His mother would surely starve him for the rest of his life.
“Yes,” replied, Oulen mirthlessly as he reached for the youth’s shoulder in a comforting fashion, “And I am so glad that the Orders have left you to me, Emory of Ivory… for this old man has need of assistance, and it wouldn’t be any great wonder if the dreaded Ivory pig-headed temper would not serve me well on my hopeless mission.”
Emory lowered his practice blade fully, his emotions clutching at the faint wisps of hope. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to go home in disgrace. “My family would be most honored, Oulen of Casteltide, if I could be of any service to the King.”
Oulen nodded as he stood before the young man, his hand resting heavily upon Emory’s shoulder. “Then let’s go in, Emory, and get you fed. For you have not yet heard the nature of the mission placed upon me by our King Tegeere.”
The youth nodded appreciatively.
“Oh…” murmured Oulen, stopping Emory from returning to the equipment racks with a squeeze of his shoulder, “And one last thing, Emory.”
“Yes?” Emory paused, stunned from his change in fortune.
“A lesson,” smiled the King’s Man wickedly, as he suddenly balled up his fist and struck Emory in the pit of his belly.
Emory’s eyes went wide as he heaved and staggered forward over the old man’s hand. He felt as if he were just kicked by a horse. Age had not diluted Oulen’s strength.
As Emory wheezed and doubled over, Oulen laughed more joyously than anyone in the courtyard had done that entire week and helped the young man to his feet, slapping him heartily on the back, “Always keep your guard up, lad.”
Tears watered out of the corner of Emory’s eyes as he staggered along by Oulen’s side and tried to shake off his own self-reproach. Always keep your guard up, lad. Uncle Maliard had said the very same thing.