Blades of Wolfsbane - episode eleven

A story in the Ravenglass Universe.

Ragnar awoke, his mind groggy, his head aching. How long had he slept? He squinted at the unfamiliar woollen blankets. Where was he?

He yawned and winced with the pain along his face and side. He slumped back and stared up at the ceiling, his head throbbing. He reached up to his cheek and prodded swollen bruises.

He wanted to moan, to cry out like a child, but he remained silent. There was no way he would give his father the satisfaction.

“Ah, Ragnar,” a muffled voice came. “You’re awake.”

Ragnar squinted at the healer standing over Ragnar. He wore a leather cloak and wyvern mask, the whites of his eyes just visible.

“How long have I been here?” Ragnar’s words croaked through parched lips. “Where is everyone?”

“You came in early yesterday morning. Your father said I should keep you here. Everyone has gone to watch the tournament.” A sigh whistled through his mask. “But I have to stay here and watch you.”

Ragnar swung his legs from the bed, feeling the icy bite of stone against his bare feet. “Where are my clothes?” He looked down at his naked body, his chest peppered with scabs and bruises.

“Where are you going?” the healer asked.

“To the tourney.”

“You are not healed. You must stay here.”

“Did my father put you up to this?”

“I am a healer. You are injured.”

Ragnar ignored him and stood, his stomach and back aching, his nose throbbing.

He pushed the pain away and searched around for his clothing.

“The trunk.” The healer gestured along the far wall. “But you are not well enough.”

Flipping open the lid, Ragnar dragged out his leggings and blood-spattered tunic.

He dragged the clothes on and pulled on his boots. “I’ll return when I win.”

Ignoring the healer’s protests, Ragnar stepped outside and made his way into the inner bailey.

He followed the noise of pipes and drums towards the training grounds.

Men and women crowded around the fighting ring.

Merchants hawked their wares from many-hued carts while women served ale from behind a long makeshift bar. Children cheered at jugglers and acrobats as the older boys gathered in groups around tents next to the fighting ring.

Slipping through the crowds, Ragnar spotted Kest, and pulled him aside.

“Shit me,” Kest said. “What happened to you?”

“My father.”

“Shit me.”

Ragnar shrugged. “But I’m still going to enter.”

“You’re not going to use—”

“I am.”

“They’ll never allow it.”

“There’s nothing in the rules saying I can’t. I asked Olaf.”

“Did you ask if it was specifically permitted?”

“Well, no. But he said there were no restrictions on the weapons you can use. I just need help getting them.”

Kest rubbed the back of his neck and gave a half-smile.

“What is it?”

“Your father warned me against training with you.”

“He said the same to me.”

“And you’re not going to let that stop you, are you?”

Ragnar grinned then winced at the pain in his nose.

“Fine. I’ll get your weapons.” He raised a finger. “But if your father gives me shit, I’m blaming you.”

“You always do.”

Ragnar waited outside the tent for Kest.

His friend returned with a shortsword and dagger, and handed them to Ragnar. “You didn’t get these from me.”

Ragnar checked the sword’s balance and moved through some dagger drills as Kest watched.

“It’s time.”

Ragnar glanced up at the passing boys making their way to the ring.

Taking a breath, he followed Kest into the fighting circle and fell into line with the other boys.

His father glared at him from a high-backed seat at the other side of the ring.

“I’ll show you,” Ragnar muttered.

His uncle halted before the line of boys and raised a hand.

The crowd fell silent.

“First bout.” Olaf’s voice echoed across the grounds. “Sven and Bjorn.”

The boys marched out to cheers from the crowd, both with their chests bare. They stopped ten paces apart and bowed to their chieftain and then to each other.

Olaf dropped his hand. “Fight!”

Sven charged forward, his sword raised, and let out a guttural war cry.

He slammed aside Bjorn’s sword thrust with his shield and sliced a gash into the smaller boy’s forearm.

Olaf pointed at Sven. “First blood, Sven!”

Men and women cheered as Bjorn hobbled away, clutching his wound.

Sven bowed to Ragnar the Elder and swaggered from the ring.

Two more bouts took place before an errand boy arrived to let Ragnar know he was up next.