Jabberwocky (4 page)

The entire town was present, as well as the king’s representative. He was one of ten Legates who traveled across Maravilla as a spotter for the King’s Elite. Many towns and few Legates meant representatives of the Elites only attended every second year.

Only the finest fighters were invited to attend the training Academy, and it was cause for celebration if a town produced such a fighter. Not every man in the kingdom wanted to be an Elite, but those skilled enough to win a chance at the Academy had gained that skill after years of practice. In the history of the Academy only a handful had rejected an invitation.

The Legate watched both the boys’ and the men’s competitions to determine if the winners would be offered an invitation to the Academy. Runners up and other contestants were not eligible without the personal approval of Captain Darieus, commander of the Elites. Since the Captain was not in attendance, there would be no exceptions this year.

The boys’ tournament took place first. The level of skill had dropped considerably when Tjaden decided to compete in the men’s contest. Fourteen boys between the ages of eleven and fifteen fought for the title.

Ollie had never mastered staff fighting, but had practiced some trick moves that kept the crowd entertained. He started his first match by advancing and parrying a few times. Then he stepped back out of range and dropped one end of his staff, holding it like a walking stick. In the exact instance his confused opponent dropped his guard, Ollie used his foot to kick the planted end of his staff up. It struck the gullible lad’s staff and knocked it out of his grasp. Ollie easily finished off his unarmed opponent.

His second match was against Thom Thomson’s son, Zee. He came close to winning by planting his staff and launching himself forward, leading with both legs. He caught Zee by surprise and sent him sprawling backwards toward the edge of the ring. Ollie turned and started doing a victory dance, thinking his opponent had fallen out of bounds. “I am the best! I…”

An unexpected leg sweep brought him down flat on his back, and he blacked out.

“…am the best ever,” he mumbled when he came around, picking up where he had been singing.

Zee won his next two matches to become the Youth Champion. He received the trophy, but the Elite Legate was not impressed enough to extend an invitation to the Academy.

The open competition followed. Tjaden waited anxiously for the first seven matches to end. Stefen easily beat Pratt without getting touched. Much to Burt’s dismay, his brother Talex advanced past Rox in a sloppy fight. The other five matches ended without incident.

Tjaden stepped confidently into the circle for his first fight, stealing a quick glance at Elora. She was smiling and even from a distance he saw a glimmer in her eyes.

Ten feet tall.

He was a little surprised when Brune entered the circle, instead of finding an excuse to forfeit. Brune’s stance was defensive before the fight began—a bulldog waiting for a beating—and Tjaden’s opening assault sent him backing step by step out of the ring, landing in the grass. The crowd cheered as Brune rose quickly from the ground and stormed from the wabe.

As the sun crossed the sky the competition became more intense. Tjaden’s second match lasted longer than the first, but not much. He struck five blows without taking any damage. The hours and years he’d spent training with the staff paid off.

Upon reaching the third round he was one of eight fighters remaining in the competition. His aggressive fighting style was countered by Langon’s excellent defense and it turned into one of the longest battles of the day. Tjaden’s tirelessness won the match for him. The final score was five to one, but Tjaden had expended much more energy than he wanted to.

Ten days had passed since the encounter with the bandersnatch. The wounds on his forearms were holding up well, with only two spots bleeding through the stitches.

Four fighters remained. Stefen facing Thom Cooper and Tjaden battling Algus, Stefen’s brother. The anticipation of the crowd reached a new height as Stefen and Thom Cooper stepped into the ring. The majority of the crowd rooted for Stefen, hoping a victory two years in a row would be sufficient to impress the Legate and earn him an invitation to the Academy—the first in Shey’s Orchard in nearly twenty years.

As expected, Stefen handled Thom Cooper. Not overwhelmingly, but proficiently enough to earn a win. Immediately after the fight, he approached his brother Algus. With the anxious crowd calling for the next fight, the brothers stood looking into each other’s eyes conversing in tones too low for anyone else to hear. While Tjaden couldn’t tell for sure what was being said, he knew it went beyond brotherly well-wishes and congratulations.

Tellef called the next two names and Tjaden and Algus stepped into the circle. Tjaden concentrated on his task; the roar of the crowd was merely background noise. Only the two brothers separated him from victory and from a chance at being invited to the Academy. He felt as focused as when he faced the bandersnatch in the nearly impossible task of protecting Elora.

The only mode of fighting Tjaden knew or had ever considered was all out attack. In staves the goal was to strike your opponent, and he did it with a passion that was unmatched in Shey’s Orchard. He knew he was fighting at his best when he felt like a mighty waterfall, relentlessly buffeting his opponents.

Today was such a day.

The instant the fight began Tjaden advanced on Algus like a cat on a mouse. Surprisingly, Algus didn’t attempt to defend himself or take the offensive, but turned his body full into Tjaden’s first attack, allowing a solid blow to land on his upper arm. He gave up the point, but as Tjaden’s blow bruised him, he swung a vicious, tight strike directly at Tjaden’s exposed forearm.

A collective gasp from the crowd sucked the air from the arena as excruciating pain brought Tjaden to the brink of unconsciousness. Instinct took over and he kept up his ferocious attack. The scheme was a purposeful attack on Tjaden’s injured arms, and not even worth a point. In the clarity of battle Tjaden realized what Stefen and Algus had been discussing before the match.

The sparring portion of Swap and Spar had always been attended by sportsmanship and respect. Purposefully injuring an opponent without attempting to gain a point was unheard of. But the chance for a family member to attend the Academy had tainted the fair play of the tournament.

Blood poured from Tjaden’s left forearm and he could barely grasp the staff with his left hand, but that didn’t stop him from seeking total victory over his unscrupulous opponent. An aggressive attack was the only thing that could keep him in the tournament. Algus was so busy avoiding being pummeled that he could attempt no strikes of his own. One by one, Tjaden earned the remaining four points required for victory. As soon as the fight was over he fell to his knees, clutching the injured arm.

Methos rushed in and inspected Tjaden’s battered arm. As the doctor led him away, Tjaden caught a glimpse of Elora’s concerned face, and some of the pain faded from his body.

Tjaden was disappointed to find that not only had dozens of stitches been torn free, but his forearm was disfigured, now forming a lazy S shape. His father and Methos tried to convince him to give up and not risk further injury, but they had a better chance of convincing water to run uphill.

Tjaden bit leather as the doctor set the bone, then added dozens of stitches twice as wide as the original ones. A splint, bandages, and a swathe were placed to prevent Tjaden from reflexively using the arm as a shield. He chose a shorter staff that could be hefted with one hand, more like a sword.

As Tjaden stepped back into the circle for his final battle, the surprised crowd exploded with applause, but as far as Tjaden was concerned only three people were present – himself, his opponent, and a dark-haired girl with a light in her eyes that he could see half a wabe away.

Tellef wasted more breath trying to talk Tjaden out of fighting. When Tjaden refused to be convinced, Tellef backed out of the circle. Tjaden swung his stubby weapon on each side of his body and stared at Stefen.

As soon as Tellef announced the start of the fight the combatants rushed each other, both trying to gain the offensive. They each earned a point with their initial blows, but as Stefen regrouped for the next attack Tjaden was already making another thrust. Tjaden’s one-armed awkwardness gave Stefen a chance to block, but Stefen had lost the offensive, and Tjaden’s aggressiveness made it nearly impossible to recover.

He continued the assault. Thrust. Strike. Reverse swing. Tjaden managed to gain two more points, but the battle was at a stalemate with Tjaden working much harder in his off-balanced attack than Stefen was defending it. Stefen watched for an opening on Tjaden’s left side, since all the attacks came from the right. With expert timing he earned a couple points of his own.

Three points each. He knew no one would believe that he could last this long using only one arm with a staff. But he was going to the Academy and Stefen was the only thing in his way. The only avenue to training was victory.

Stefen had figured out how to penetrate the single handed attack so Tjaden decided to change his strategy. He forced himself to take a defensive stance, catching Stefen by surprise with the reprieve. They circled once or twice and as Stefen stepped in to make his first blow Tjaden instinctively struck instead of defending. They both connected and were awarded one point.

Four points each.

In the split second it took for them to regain their stance Tjaden thought,
One point
. One point separated him from victory. Surely his youth, his injury, and competing against men would give him the prestige in the Legate’s eyes to earn the invitation.
All I have to do is score one point.

Tjaden didn’t have the stamina for much more all out attack, and he couldn’t thrust or parry efficiently enough with only one arm. His best chance was to lure Stefen out of the ring.

Staying on the defensive, he allowed Stefen to drive him back little by little. When Tjaden was less than a foot away from the line, he thrust, purposely missing Stefen and inviting a counter-thrust. The counter came, and Tjaden was ready for it. Discarding his own staff, he grasped Stefen’s and pulled him toward the circle’s edge.

The battle was taking place in slow motion. Stefen’s eyes grew wide as he realized the ruse. His momentum carried him forward, unable to stop. He spun, wrenching his staff from Tjaden’s hand and thrust it forward. Tjaden pulled away as he watched the tip of the staff approach his chest.

He could see the grain in the wood, smell the dust in the air, and taste sweat at the corners of his mouth. His dreams hung in the air as he watched the staff make contact with his shirt and lightly tap his chest, releasing time. Stefen sprawled out of the ring and Tellef signaled one point for Stefen.

The tip of the staff had touched Tjaden a fraction of a second before Stefen crossed the line. The match was lost. His dream was dead for two more years.

PART II

“
Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!
”

Day
.
Despair
. As the sun rose in the sky his rage mounted. It had grown for months. Gnawing. Swelling. Not much longer. He had been alone too long and the fury would soon be uncontrollable. He closed his eyes and drew a cavernous breath that emptied the dense forest of air. As he exhaled, trees in the vicinity swayed and lost leaves.

A borogove griped nearby. Before its pitiful cry was through, he lashed out his tail and flattened the creature. How dare it disturb his despondent trance.

Anger
.
Hate
. He lashed out one arm, severing a small copse of trees at their trunks. He closed his eyes again and images of the past filled his consciousness. Days that were different, when he was not alone. When fury did not rule him. Days when hate was foreign to him. Days that were no longer days, but mere memories. The images persisted, but he was incapable of experiencing the former feelings and he was consumed.

Alone no longer,
he growled.

With a bellow, he sent a flock of small birds tumbling into flight. Hatred filled him and he rose powerfully into the air. His rage had reached a frenzy and he would not rest until it was sated. As he flew in search of human prey, for only human prisoners would slake his wrath, the image of one human filled his mind. And one thought.

Revenge
.

*****

Tjaden was inconsolable. The town heaped praise on him after the match, but all their compliments and consolation stung like clothing rubbing against a wound—each word reminding him of the injury. Victory had eluded him, the Legate’s hands were tied, and he was a farmer for two more years. He enjoyed farming, and if he didn’t have his mind set on being an Elite he would embrace it with fervor, just as a coyote contented itself on a lizard dinner only after a fat rabbit had been snatched away.

The crowd continued to press him, though Tjaden just wanted to get away. Each face that presented itself just caused his own to redden, and he found it hard to meet people’s eyes. Though they had nothing but supportive words for him he knew they thought he was an arrogant fool for entering the men’s competition.

After the crowds thinned, the Legate approached. Tjaden forced himself to meet the man’s gaze despite his humiliation. But just like the townsfolk, the Legate congratulated Tjaden and let him know that his aggressive fighting was brilliant.

“And more importantly,” he told Tjaden, “your mettle is as strong as metal.”

“Thank you, Sir. I
will
see you at the Academy in two years.” He forced himself to say it, but for the first time he wondered if it would actually happen.

“I believe you will, Tjaden. I believe you will.”

Elora was especially enthusiastic in her congratulations and condolences. As she hugged him, Tjaden didn’t feel the pain in his forearm. Even his disappointment and embarrassment faded.

She said, “I, for one, am glad you’ll be around for the next couple years.”

As usual, he had no reply.

Eventually the wabe cleared and people returned to their homes, still talking about the final match between Tjaden and Stefen. The majority was both saddened by the lack of a Legate’s invitation and agog at the drama of the day. The only way it could have ended better for the town of Shey’s Orchard and its citizens was if Tjaden had edged Stefen instead of the other way around.

The following morning Tjaden was awakened by a pair of borogoves jeering disinterestedly in turn. He got out of bed and peered at them through his wooden slat window and decided he had been wrong—they actually did look more bored and pathetic than they sounded.

They still don’t look half as pitiful as I feel.

Breakfast was bread and slabs of rath meat with fresh juice. The brightness of the green meat and orange juice annoyed him. He forced down mouthfuls of food, casting a dismal feeling over the room.

His relentless mother told him again that she was extremely proud of him. “Besides,” she insisted, “you’re only fifteen. You have time.”

“I don’t want time. I want training. I’m ready now.” He was in the worst temper of his life. His voice was gruff and his manner as rough as he could manage.
His father joined the conversation. “There’s no reason to be uffish with your mother, Tjaden. Maybe you are ready now, but that’s not the point. You know the life of a soldier is all about discipline and following rules. Well, this is your first test; how will you face it?”

Tjaden set his jaw. Through clenched teeth he said, “I’ll pass any test they give me. Including this one.”

He went to work in the groves with his whole heart and body, less one arm. Lacking the use of the arm frustrated him since he wanted to lose himself in work. He wanted to forget, if only for a few days. As he attacked weeds, dug irrigation ditches, and picked fruit the agony began to fade. But it still felt like a bruise in the back of his mind that refused to heal.

One week after the Swap and Spar, Tjaden and his father finished work early. Tjaden grabbed his staff and loped to Falon’s workshop to see if Ollie was free. When he arrived they were making the last batch of soap for the day. He waited as they combined the lye solution and lard, mixed the blend, poured the finished product into molds, and placed it on shelves to harden.

The two liberated boys made their way to the wabe planning their day and a half of freedom. Knowing Tjaden wouldn’t be content until they did some sparring, they decided to start with that.

Located in the center of every town, the wabe was a place for gathering and relaxing. Each wabe, so named because it extended way beyond and way behind, featured a large sundial in the center. As certain as the sundial in the center of every wabe, were the toves which built their nests underneath. Toves constructed nests in other locations, but nowhere as predictably as under the oversized timepieces. They preferred the large grassy areas for foraging, and the tight plugs of sod they extracted as they gimbled kept the grass green and healthy.

Toves were spindly and spirally from muzzle to tail. Their faces resembled badgers, but with a long, pinched proboscis of a nose. They didn’t have hair—their skin was similar to that of a smooth, brown lizard, and they had the stubby legs to match. A coiled tail protruded from their posterior which they used for boring into the ground. They gyred their entire body in successive circles as they sank their corkscrew tails into the soil. After boring the wagger to a sufficient depth, they extracted it along with a narrow cylinder of earth which they examined for worms and grubs.

After shoeing a few of the slithy animals from the area, they prepared for their duel. Tjaden’s left arm was still bandaged and he wore a swathe to confine it. Ollie’s excitement at fighting a disadvantaged Tjaden showed as he fidgeted with his staff before they began sparring. Tjaden was usually a larger pup toying with the runt of the litter. But now that he was injured, Ollie acted like the big brother.

Ollie scored much more than usual, and it was obvious by the way he spoke. “Give up now and I’ll stop hurting you. You fight like an injured borogove. I let you have that one ‘cause I felt sorry for you, cripple.”

In the middle of a particularly long exchange, Ollie looked over Tjaden’s shoulder and asked, “Who’s that coming up the road?”

“Yeah, I’m going to fall for that,” Tjaden replied, jabbing at Ollie’s midsection.

“No, I’m serious,” Ollie said, blocking. “There’s a dust trail.”

Tjaden took three steps back before looking away from Ollie and was surprised to see he was telling the truth—a line of horses approached from the South.

There were no wagons in the group, so he knew they weren’t peddlers or traders. No one on the outlying farms to the south had a dozen horses or enough men to fill the saddles. As the horses approached it became clear that the steeds were more impressive than plain farm animals—those men were soldiers.

By the time the company arrived in the center of town a small gathering awaited. The men on the horses were distinguished and solemn. With perfect posture and a dignified air, they exuded discipline. Their uniforms were dark blue, almost black, signifying the highest level in the king’s service. These were not mere soldiers. They were Elites.

The soldiers rode in two columns. The Elites rode on the right, wearing swords or battle axes. Emblazoned on their uniforms and on their horses’ barding were the Circle and the Sword—the symbol of the Elites. Each was accompanied on the left by his Fellow. They wore the same uniforms, but without the Circle and the Sword. The Fellows’ weapons were more varied—mostly bows and crossbows, but Tjaden noticed one Fellow with a spear and an assortment of throwing daggers.

Tjaden took personal pride in the appearance of the unit. One day he would ride alongside these men.

At the head of the column rode the Captain of the Elites. He was also the General of the army, and the most respected man in the Kingdom—Captain Darieus. The only person as well known was King Barash himself.

Captain Darieus hadn’t visited Shey’s Orchard since Tjaden was seven years old, but there was no mistaking him. He was roughly the same age as Tjaden’s father. His face was lined with experience, and his back was as straight as decades of leadership. Rows of square medals covered the left side of his chest. He was proud, but did not come off as arrogant.

He pulled his imposing mount up to the assembled crowd with his men forming two perfect columns behind him. After quickly surveying the crowd, his eyes settled on Tjaden. Allegiance filled Tjaden.
This is a man worth following into battle
.

“I intended to ask for directions to Tjaden Mikelson’s residence. But either my deductive skills have gotten as rusty as a sword left out in winter, or he’s standing in front me.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m Tjaden.”

“Tjaden, I am Captain Darieus, of His Majesty’s Elite. We need to talk.”

*****

Half an hour later, five people sat around the table in the kitchen of Tjaden’s modest home—Tjaden, his parents, Ollie and Captain Darieus.

His father said, “We’re honored to have you in our home, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mikel. I’m sure you are aware I’m here regarding your son. As I was traveling to Palassiren we encountered Legate Whitroe. I questioned him regarding any promising recruits he had discovered and he was overflowing in his praise of Tjaden. Did Tjaden truly battle a bandersnatch single-handedly?”

Tjaden cringed.
Why did he have to bring that up? He’ll find out for sure I had to be rescued.

“Yes, he did,” his father said. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Looking at Tjaden, Captain Darieus said, “Why did you not attempt to flee? The bandersnatch is a particularly ferocious fighter, but rarely pursues a foe. Until, of course, it reaches a frumious state.”

Tjaden’s father answered. “A friend of his, a young lady,” he glanced at Tjaden, “was cornered on a ledge. The creature was advancing on her. I don’t think Tjaden thought about it, just jumped between them.”

Tjaden decided to admit his weakness before someone else did. He interjected, “To be fair, Sir, I wouldn’t have survived if Elora hadn’t distracted it and my dad hadn’t shown up. The bandersnatch was aggressive, sure. But it didn’t feel like sticking around to let my father fill it with arrows.”

“I’ve seen a bandersnatch dispatch a half dozen men armed with proper weapons.” Looking directly at Tjaden, Captain Darieus continued, “The gallantry displayed in that encounter is the precise attribute we desire in recruits. Not to mention your determined fighting despite the broken arm. Skill and discipline we can teach if a young man has a shred of talent, but heart…I believe heart is an innate characteristic.”

Tjaden’s face flushed, but his back straightened and his eyes gleamed. This was not the empty praise of townspeople. Captain Darieus’ approval meant something.

Actually
,
it means everything.

“Tjaden, based on your outstanding performance despite debilitating injury, and unparalleled courage defending a vulnerable individual, I formally invite you to attend the Elite Training Academy.”

Tjaden wanted to jump out of his chair and holler. He maintained his composure and managed to say, “Thank you, Sir. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I believe you are right. You have remarkable potential, but training is exceedingly difficult. And being one of our most promising recruits will make it more difficult, not easier.”

They struck hands firmly. Tjaden’s mother rushed to embrace him, and her tears wetted his face. His father shook his hand and said, “I’m proud of you, Son.”

Tjaden had to fight back tears of his own. He would not embarrass himself in front of Captain Darieus.

On his way out the door, Captain Darieus added, “Training starts in six weeks. Give some serious thought to who you will choose for your Fellow. A contingent of soldiers will escort you and your father to Palassiren when the time arrives.”