The Chambered Shepherd

The shadow of Risteard’s cape cloaks me. ‘Lag Oscaid,’ freshly embroidered in Risteard’s black cape below the oxen family crest. I am to champion my crippled older brother. Accused of murdering and kidnapping a mariner’s daughter, Risteard rots shackled in a Pori labyrinth.

Burly magistrate guards bust our hut and find blonde hairs in Risteard’s chamber. Hair of the missing girl. Chief Falltach’s wife shaves her own blonde hair to the scalp, days prior. A coincidence? Last summer scourge men cleave Risteard’s arms. A sacrifice defending Chief Falltach’s sugar cane fields. Risteard’s arms lay buried beneath the sugar cane, feeding our village. Wreaths of ginger and hibiscus wilt around our hut, once delivered daily by villagers.

Jealous, Chief Falltach dooms Risteard to thraldom. Whispers of shock and disgust spread hut to hut. Monsoons of scandal descend on our family. No choice bar Imperial appeal. Emperor Anceartas answers our plea via letter.

There is sufficient doubt of Risteard Sweet Leg’s guilt in the murder and abduction of Allanagh Watson. By royal decree Lag Oscaid will challenge Chief Falltach’s doom of Risteard Sweet Leg by means of single combat. The bout’s outcome shall deem the will of the gods and by extension, Emperor Anceartas. Chief Falltach can select any citizen or beast as his champion. Thus, Risteard Sweet Leg’s fate will be determined in Pori next full moon.

Each sweep of Risteard’s sword along the wet stone hisses and reverberates around the chamber. Risteard’s splintered shields lay stacked against the east wall. His spears to the west. The southern wall bears his armour, which shan’t fit my scrawny shoulders. Baying for blood, the crowd’s chants pour in via north facing oaken doors. I'm their lamb, ripe for the slaughter.

Risteard calls his sword ‘Gomharr Namhaid’ meaning harvester of enemies in the old tongue. A lip of burr curls towards me. I flip Gomharr Namhaid and sharpen its other side. The sword’s weight burns in my forearm. The wet stone quickly gives Gomharr Namhaid sheen reflecting the chamber’s amber torch light.

A gladiator’s shrieking cry pierces the oaken doors. The crowd cheers to deafening levels. Only two bouts before mine now.

I throw my robe into the spears. Three spears scrape along the wall rattling into the ground. I inhale until my chest puffs out. One, two and three. I release the tension in my body with a long exhale. Getting stressed and throwing gear around will not help me.

Risteard says, “focus and composure are your mightiest allies, and the mind is your strongest weapon.”

I slip into Risteard’s sweat-stained silk tunic. The resewn shoulders sag to my elbows. So much space to fill.

Muffled grunts and steel clangs filter into the chamber as I fasten my leather sandals. Keep preparing, ignore the carnage. The greaves, poleyn and cuisses all fit my chicken legs with ease. I rise to receive a sharp pinch on my right knee.

Another of Risteard’s axioms, “always put your gauntlets on last.”

I lean over tucking the skin back inside the poleyn.

Another thunderous roar of the crowd. No scream? How did he die? Sword through the visor? Knocked unconscious by a mace and hacked into a slurry of flesh and shattered armour? My throat runs dry. A lineated woodpecker heartbeat pounds my ribs. Deep breath. Risteard would be ready by now.

There is only one bout until I am due on the sand.

I strap on Risteard’s glistening breast plate. It fits snugly over the chain mail running from my chin to my wrists . The weight presses on my chest. I rack my knuckles over the plate a couple of times, solid. Courtesy of the scourge men, the pauldrons are cracked and chipped. They are too large, spanning out from my shoulders like eagle wings.

Gomharr Namhaid hisses sliding into Risteard’s belt scabbard. I inspect the splintered shields. “Each reinforced with blood,” as Risteard would say.

I choose a green shield with a oxen horn bolted onto the boss, ideal for solo battles.

A gladiator’s groaning wail flows into the chamber submerging me in horror.

The wailing says, “your time is up.” Snickers, turns away, turns back, and says, “your brother won’t see day again nor taste sugar.” It flicks me behind the ear and whispers, “to think you, a second son may raise a spear on the sand and win is ludicrous. Farm your oxen, till your fields and herd your sheep. They will maul you like the runt you are. All you’ll accomplish is annihilation of the Oscaid bloodline, second son.”

The groan ends and silence grips the crowd. Stomps of guards and a corpse grinding along sand are the only sounds in my chamber.

Guards will call me out any second. I fumble at the spears, picking the longest for reach. A spark of blue light flashes off the spear tip. Deep breath. One task at a time, get the helmet on.

As Risteard says, “Once you have the helmet on, the world stops, then it’s just you and your prey.”

The horned helmet blinks between amber torch light and blue lightning.

“No,” I say.

Pale blue light is strobing through every crack in the oaken doors. I am in the bowels of a sinking ship filling with lightning.

“No no no.”

The earth trembles. Thunder booms on the sand. The amphitheatre shakes with each sky splitting strike.

“By the gods, please no.”

A deep growl echoes around the amphitheatre penetrating my chamber.

This time saying, “I’m a godless thunder bear. Chief Falltach has starved ravenous. I will tear you open and rip free your innards. The armour you wear makes but a plate for my dinner.”

I fold a thick cloth twice around my runt head, covering my ears. Sweat causes me to lose grip of the cloth. I tighten the knot until the thunder is a distant echo.

In my haste I jar my right index finger on a gauntlet. Agony radiates from my knuckle. Deep breath. I clench my right hand; it still makes a fist. Deep breath. The gauntlets slide on.

Clinking, clanging, and clattering, I sit in a trembling crouch. My right leg twitches and jerks. Sweat from the cloth around my head already stings my eyes.

To cross blades with another man is challenging. I’d give myself a one in three chance of victory. Long hours as Risteard’s training partner taught me battle principles. Keep my feet shoulder width apart. The legs and torso generate striking power. Grip the spear’s shaft by the midpoint for maximum control. Technique will not be my issue. Risteard is a great warrior, and I am blessed by his training, but a thunder bear is a force of nature.

Why haven’t they called me out yet? Is Emperor Anceartas absolving Risteard? The thunder bear turning on its handlers, scattering the crowd. No, infrequent faint cheers still find me. Thunder bear stomps still shake my bones. Beast lightning flares still jump into the chamber.

Chief Falltach is putting on a show for Pori’s aristocracy. Also, to intimidate me. Prolonging my convulsions, stomach bile whirls up touching my tongue. Deep breath. One, two, and three.

“Focus and composure are my mightiest allies,” I say. “My mind is my strongest weapon.”

I shan’t cower. Bouts are lost in chambers and won on sand. Risteard would not wait for a shrill voiced guard to knock on the door. Nor shall I.

The black cape fits well. I secure the oxen head broach. Deep breath. Bloodied shield on my left arm, spear in my right hand and Gomharr Namhaid’s pugnacity on my hip. I stride forth kicking the oaken door with oxen force. The metal bolt bursts into shrapnel. Doors hurl outwards crashing across the sand. The afternoon sun blazes upon me, a glistening hero.