Champions

Jeffrey York                                                                                        

About 2,000 words

                                              Champions

I’d finished programming the box and wrote up the install ticket. The old man watched me from a massive wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace. He sat ramrod straight, white hair ringed his head just above his ears. His skin resembled well-polished mahogany. He appeared to be about 80, but it was hard to tell. He could have been older.

“You say I’ll be able to receive all the cable stations?” he asked in a strong sonorous voice.

“Yes, sir you’ve got our premium package. You’ve got all the history channels, complete adult package, sportsman package, all the news stations, and the whole thing.”

I stood and looked around the room while he read and signed the contract. The walls were adorned with ancient weapons, suits of armor, and shelves books. There were books of every description and title, ancient leather-bound books, paperbacks, well-worn books, and books of every hue. There were titles dealing with science, geography, history, poetry, military tactics, psychology, math, and politics. The collection had to have spanned centuries. I’d heard of collections like it before but only at libraries and museums.

He studied me for a minute. “Young man, do you have a few minutes to sit with an old man and talk? You seem very interested in my collection.”

“I’d hoped to get home early tonight. But I guess I could sit with you for a while.” I shrugged.

 “There’s a drink cart over there. Pour yourself a drink. Pour me a brandy while you’re at it.”

There was an array of single malts, an expensive gin or two, a couple vodkas, a bottle or two of bourbon, and several very old brandies. I poured myself a lowland malt and him a Napoleon. I settled into an ancient wing back opposite him.

“As you might have guessed I’m not like other people.”

I looked around. “If your collection of books and weapons is any indication that must be true. It’s unlike any I’ve heard of outside of the British National Museum, the Tower of London or the Smithsonian. Your collection is extensive.”

“Yes, I’ve been collecting for a very long time. Ages in fact. See that Saracen blade over there? It’s as light as a feather. Go pick it up and bring it over.”

I crossed the room and carefully picked it up from its stand. It was extremely light. The Damascus steel blade shimmered as I shifted it in my hands. The sword was straight except for the last six inches which had a slight upward sweep. It was obviously very sharp                                                

“There’s a pretty good story behind that blade. See how the tip is slightly heavier and thicker than the rest of the blade? It’s built that way to pierce chain mail. That blade is about a thousand years old. It used to belong to an Islamic warlord.”

He watched me as I carefully carried the sword back to my seat.

“I see you know your swords.”

“Not really, I do know quality though.” I sat studying the blade.

“As I said, you know your weapons.”

“So tell me the story behind it. I’ve always enjoyed a good yarn.”

“That sword was won on the field of battle. Legend has it that a group of Danish raiders had ventured into the Mediterranean to raid coastal villages in search of riches.”

“I’ve always loved stories about Vikings. They were the motorcycle clubs of their day.” I interrupted.

He smiled, “You might say that many considered them outlaws, most of the time they were peaceful traders.”  He took a sip of his drink.

“So tell me about the fight.”

“Well the raiders had been unsuccessful in mounting a raid on a Moorish outpost in North Africa, they had lost the element of surprise and the Moors had forted up. The raiders couldn’t get in, but the defenders couldn’t get out to There's where the Moor's problem lay”                                                                                               

“Typical problem with a static position.” I agreed.

“That is the difficulty with a castle or fort. Eventually, you run out of supplies. Things quickly go bad after the food and water run out. The defenders offered a parley.”

"So what was the tribute agreed upon?"                                                                         

 He looked at me and smiled, “No tribute, as I said it was an outpost. There wasn’t much to sack besides weapons. The offer from the fort was one of champions.”

“Things would be so much more genteel if we still decided things that way.”

He smiled at me. “The raiders chose as their champion the youngest amongst them. The boy they chose was seventeen or eighteen, piercing blue eyes, slightly built, red hair with a stringy patchy beard. He had no family, so if he were to die they would not have lost much. The defenders of the fort chose a battle-hardened warrior. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was rangy and had a heavily scarred face. His white teeth stood out against his sunburnt skin and dark beard. He grinned at the boy. The boy ignored him and tended to his shield and broad sword. Both champions wore leather jerkins and coats of mail despite the heat. The Viking’s mail was heavy and ungainly while the Moor’s mail looked light and fine as silk. Almost immediately, the Danish champion appeared to be adversely affected by the heat. He was sweating before the fight had even started. The North African dressed entirely in black, seemed perfectly comfortable with the heat. “ He paused and took another sip.

“The youth waited while the Moor knelt and bowed three times to the east. The defender stood and took up his weapons. They circled each other. The defending knight feinted to the left while striking the youth on the left side of his head with his shield.                                                                                                            

The Viking’s ear started to bleed. Fast as a snake, the youth struck his opponent’s sword arm with his own shield and then struck him twice in the chest with the boss of his shield. The North African dropped to one knee and rolled away. You could hear his compatriots sigh in unison. The Viking continued to bleed.”

        “The defending champion sprang to his feet quickly. He flexed his back and raised his arms as if to alleviate the pain in his chest. The youth’s ear dripped blood from where his earlobe used to be. What followed was a flurry of feints, parries, thrusts, and slashes. It appeared that as many strikes were landed by smashing shield blows as from sword thrusts. Every time the Moor attempted to deliver a decisive thrust or blow on the youth it was parried by his opponent's shield. Every time the youth attempted to press home his attack he found himself slicing thin air as his opponent sidestepped. It was apparent that the two were closely matched as neither could initially achieve the upper hand.”

    “The Viking youth was attempting to press home his attack when the Moor flicked his sword in the vicinity of the boy’s sword hand and the youth cried out. He dropped his sword. It was obvious that the youth’s sword hand had been damaged, it started to bleed. He quickly switched his shield to his right arm and covered himself with it while he retrieved his sword with his left hand. As he straightened and was recovering his footing the Moor slashed at his head. The youth narrowly pulled his head back in time. A wound running from the left side of his mouth the lower corner of his chin had appeared.”

“Retreating the boy appeared barely able to stay out of arms reach of his opponent. Every time the boy took three steps back his opponent took three steps forward slashing continually. While the Viking was apparently able to keep just out of arms reach of his

opponent it was obvious that he was not nearly as successful as he wished to be, his coat of mail and leather jerkin were in tatters.”                                                                                                      

“Both champions were struggling, the boy had difficulty parrying his opponent’s attack, and the Moor appeared to be unable to raise his arms, especially his sword arm, above his shoulders. Despite the apparent impairment of his sword arm, the Moorish knight held the upper hand. The Viking’s chin flowed freely and the blood mingled with the sweat from his brow and washed over his tattered mail vest. His chest was a ghoulish red.” The old man smiled wistfully.

        “Suddenly the boy staggered and stopped parrying; he bent over and began to retch. Smiling the Moor approached the Viking from his right, cast down his shield, and gripped his sword with both hands. He struggled through the pain to raise his arms above his shoulders. As the arc of his strike reached its apex the boy straightened, his shield rose and met the descending sword. The sword buried itself a good six inches into the wood. Twisting his arm the boy yanked his opponent’s sword from his opponent’s grasp and flung both his shield and the sword away. Turning to face his nemesis he smiled for the first time since walking onto the field. As he smiled a bloody ghastly gruesome grin, he raised his sword above his shoulders and brought it down on his opponent’s right shoulder crushing it. His opponent dropped to his knees. The Viking brought his sword down again on the other shoulder. The Moor pitched forward onto his face.”

        “Scarcely breathing hard at all, with his color returning, the youth stepped forward. He proceeded to strip the fallen knight of his helmet. He glanced at the Moor’s comrades and nodded. He turned to his own comrades winked and smiled for only the second time since the fight started. Gripping his broad sword with both hands he brought it down on his opponent’s neck. After a brief gush of  blood and the fight was over.”

“Did the Vikings honor their promise to withdraw if their champion won?” I asked.

“Yes and the Moors honored their end of the agreement to allow the raiders any and all weapons, their meager foodstuffs, and any other supplies they had if their lives were spared. The Moors were left in peace. There were some amongst the raiders that argued that the Moors should be put to the sword for causing them so much trouble. This was overridden by their own champion. He countered that anyone desiring to break the peace could take it up with him just as soon as his missing fingers and chin were tended to. No one stepped forward.

I stood and carried the sword over to the shelf gingerly setting it in back its stand. A log popped in the fireplace. Startled by the noise I flinched a bit.  He took a long sip from his brandy.

         The old man stood surprisingly he was about six foot tall with broad shoulders,

 “That’s yours if you want it. I have one request though, that you promise to visit me at least once a month. I’m an old man.  I seldom get visitors anymore. I have no family.  I could use the company.  There are so many people today. It’s too rushed, too noisy. I’m not comfortable going out much anymore.”

I looked at the old man for a second, “I’d look forward to spending time with you, as long as you always have a story.”

“It’s a bargain then. A new story every time you visit.” He grinned. “Let’s shake on it.”

          I examined him closely for the first time that afternoon. His deep blue eyes shone brightly. As I studied his face I noticed his left ear lobe was missing, he had a faded scar that ran across his chin from the left side of his mouth to the lower right side of his chin. I shuddered slightly. He took my and shook it. A cold chill ran down my back when I realized that he was missing the first sections of the last two fingers. He shrugged and smiled as he aggressively pumped my hand.

   “As I told you, my friend, I’m unlike everyone else. My heart is a thousand years old.”