His Own Harshest Judge

‘He’s late.’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘Oh this is not good.’
‘Well, you know how he likes to make an entrance.’

The two young men stood by the stream nervously as the townspeople moved about them. One was far too small for his age, the other too large. Side by side they looked positively absurd. Despite this, nobody paid them any mind; it was not them the people had come to see. Unable to contain his unease, the smaller one spoke again.

‘You’ve seen how useless a fighter I am, and you’re not much better. Without him, we don’t stand a chance.’
‘Just wait,’ said the larger with all the optimism of a man about to be put to death, ‘he’ll be here.’

More people began to arrive for the fight. To the village elders, this tournament was a time-tested method for determining who best to lead the town militia in the even of an attack. To everyone else it was stick-fighting, an entertaining—and on the side, quite lucrative—sport in which two men with sticks try to knock each other off a log. Said log was suspended over a stream that ran right through the village and out to sea. While the current was never strong enough to carry off even a small child, spectators delighted in seeing the defeated being sent toppling down into the water.

‘What if something’s happened to him?’ asked the smaller one.
‘You just worry about what’s going to happen to us if he doesn’t arrive soon. Look.’

By now the crowd had swelled to include over half the village, and a few had started to notice these two were missing their third. Worse still, the opposing team of fighters had arrived, as had the mayor, whose responsibility it was to oversee the tournament. With all the relevant parties present—barring one obvious exception—the fight would begin in mere minutes.

‘Come on, Tor. Where are you?’

They were out of time. With a strong push from his oversized teammate, the small-framed fighter collected a stick and stepped up onto the log, visibly petrified. The crowd erupted with noise, half of them bemoaning their star’s absence, the rest laughing themselves silly at the small one’s misfortune. He started to tremble uncontrollably.

‘I’ll take that,’ a voice suddenly said in his ear.

The small one started so hard that he nearly slipped and fell off the log. He turned around to see a familiar face.

‘Tor!’ he screamed with unconcealed joy, and threw his arms around him.
‘Steady on, little Twiglet,’ laughed the young man as he tried to prise the tiny frame off his body, ‘Why don’t you sit this one out?’

The appropriately nicknamed Twiglet gratefully scrambled away to safety, before sheepishly running back to hand Tor the stick. Tor nodded to the larger one, who appeared rather cross.

‘All right there, Chubb?’

The large one folded his arms at his own rather unendearing nickname.

‘What took you so long?’ he demanded with a mix of irritation and relief. Tor shrugged.
‘I like to be well rested for a fight.’

Seeing their hero had finally arrived, the crowd rose up in a cheer. Appreciating the attention, Tor did a lazy cartwheel across the log, finishing with a sharp back flip. As always, his balance was perfect. The din grew enormous as everyone who had placed bets against the meek Twiglet tried to have them rescinded in exchange for much larger wagers on Tor. He glanced back at his teammates, who gave him positive smiles. He smiled back, relishing how he had made them squirm by pretending to be late. In reality he had been perched high up in a tree of the nearby forest’s edge since before any of them had even arrived, just to see what would happen if he didn’t appear. It had turned out roughly as he expected; Twiglet and Chubb had balked at the mere thought of having to fight for themselves. Cowards, he thought. The only reason they were even on his team at all was because the rules of these tournaments forbid him from fighting alone.

Tor turned away from his teammates and smiled to himself as he watched the townspeople throw their coins around in his name. And so they should; he was the only combatant who hadn’t lost a single bout since the tournaments started at the New Year. But more than that, Tor had been the champion of the Clearwater sparring matches for almost as long as he could swing a stick. In fact, he reminded himself with smirk, Tor tended to be the best at all things competitive, be it fighting, hunting, fishing… he made a point of being the best. He maintained that he didn’t do it for the admiration of his peers and he certainly didn’t do it for the meagre rewards the mayor offered the winner. No, Tor was the best because he had to be. It was as simple as that. Annoyingly, there were few in town as dedicated to winning as he, and those that were had none of his talent, so he found retaining his crown to be a little too easy. Nevertheless, he practised a harsh training regime every day, until he found it impossible to improve himself in the activity any longer. And it was for that reason that the punters kept investing their gold in his fighting prowess.

‘Takin’ all bets!’ bellowed a voice from the crowd, ‘I’ve got good odds on the Maroon Marauder!’

This was his latest moniker. Every little thing about Tor’s appearance was geared for battle. There was nothing aesthetic about his clothing; his sleeveless maroon robe and dark undershirt provided maximum freedom of movement, although they left his arms exposed. The black leather belt he wore was as unrestricting to his maroon pants as possible, and his cloth shoes were both comfortable and easy to manoeuvre in. As for modifications, arching over each shoulder were five flat metal plates woven into the fabric of his robe, and dark padded braces, which also contained metal attachments, covered his forearms. He kept his dark blonde hair cut short, so as not to get in his eyes.

The mayor emerged from the crowd and raised his arms for silence. Tor immediately stopped showboating and returned to his side of the log. Once certain that all eyes were on him, the mayor began his usual speech.

‘Citizens of Clearwater, the final of our staff combat tournament is about to begin. Combatants, step forward.’

Tor immediately obliged. He would, as always, be fighting first for his team. While it might have been more prudent to throw Twiglet and Chubb to the wolves in order to gauge their opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, Tor never could deny himself the satisfaction that came from single-handedly crushing his foes.

At the far end of the log, a boy slightly younger than Tor pushed his way out of the crowd and stepped up as well. It seemed this was to be his first opponent. Tor frowned in thought. Clearwater housed a hundred and thirty-two people, not counting travelling merchants, and Tor knew them all. Perhaps not each of them by name, but well enough to know he had never seen this boy before in his life. He hadn’t fought anyone new in months, and looked forward to seeing who he would face next. It mattered little; stranger or not, everyone fell to Tor.

The mayor called for their names. Tor didn’t even hear the boy’s voice; they all sounded the same to him.

‘Toren of Midor,’ he announced, as though there was a single person in town who didn’t know who he was. Midor was not his family name, but rather the name of the nearby forest, where he trained.

‘Weapons at the ready.’ The two combatants raised their wooden staffs chest-high, in the standard ready position.

‘Begin!’

Tor decided on the spur of the moment to take the offensive. In but three strikes he had knocked the amateur into the water—a new personal best and of course, town record. He turned and waved to the happy punters, who by now were already placing some more last-minute bets. Tor swelled as he heard his name countless times in the clamour. He felt quite good about his performance thus far, considering he had only been using these staffs for a few weeks. In every prior match he and his opponents had used the standard two-foot sticks, which were to represent the standard longsword. Well, if the mayor thought switching weapons for the last fight was going slow him down, he was wrong.

The mayor hushed the crowd as he began to introduce round two. The second fighter stepped up, and Tor smiled as he noticed his opponent stumble slightly as he found his balance. Once more the mayor called for their names, then began the fight. This opponent was a little better than the first one. A whole fifteen seconds of furious combat followed before the second opponent landed beside the first, who had only just come to his senses. Victory was all but Tor’s. Two rounds in and he hadn’t broken a sweat.

The third and final member of the opposing team emerged from behind a tree and immediately people started to whisper. Tor himself was quite taken aback. The figure before him bore an intimidating array of facial tattoos, most notably four thick lines emanating up from the brow like two large Vs, as well as a swirling pattern that trailed off from the corner of one eye. But after a few moments, someone laughed. Several more joined in and a closer look at this odd figure revealed to Tor why. His mysterious, frightening opponent… was a girl.

He smirked to himself and twirled the staff in his hand. This was going to be too easy. For what Tor was sure would be the final time in that tournament, the mayor stepped up and introduced them.

‘Toren of Midor,’ Tor said offhandedly, for what must have been the hundredth time. He wondered briefly how he would spend his prize money…

‘Vyachiles!’ Her voice rang so clear and confidently that it snapped Tor back to the real world. He eyed the girl opposite him, who to his surprise met his gaze with a steely grimace. Nobody had ever faced the Maroon Marauder without some measure of fear, but this… Vy-a-ki-le, it had sounded like, was looking to be the first. This irritated Tor. After all, his reputation had surely preceded him—he simply never lost. Yet his opponent remained remarkably unperturbed. No matter, she would know fear soon enough.

Tor was not the only one put off; the mayor had lost his place at hearing the strange name. He struggled to pronounce it, falling silent as the girl met him with a scowl.

‘Vya,’ she grudgingly allowed, hacking short her name for their convenience.
‘Vya,’ the mayor gratefully agreed. He then cleared his throat and gave them each one last look before he cried, ‘Begin!’

The very second that word left the mayor’s lips, Tor rushed his opponent in a bid to score a surprise hit. He opened with a vicious swinging shot from the right, strong enough to seriously unbalance a person even if blocked. Vya seemed to realise this, for she ducked back a few steps, neatly avoiding the attack. Tor had encountered this before and saw it as an advantage, as he would have more room to manoeuvre than his opponent. However, just as Tor prepared for a similarly crushing backhand, Vya jumped forward with an unexpected thrust. Tor only just avoided this strike by bending to the side, but now he had a staff along his back and it would only take a slight nudge to knock him into the water below. Instinctively he batted Vya’s weapon away and stepped back to get some room to think. Vya was not willing to give him such room; this time she was the one to charge forward, and for once Tor had some idea of what it must be like to face himself. Vya was fast, brutal and most of all, clever. Clearly she had been training with the staff for much longer than Tor’s three weeks.

As they fought, Tor struggled to make contact, his every strike blocked and immediately counterattacked. It dawned on him that Vya had done what his ego had prevented him: send in the fodder first to gauge the enemy’s ability. He had shown his tells in the first two rounds, and now she knew exactly how he would come at her. He would have to come up with something new to take her off guard.
Just as Tor thought he might have an opportunity to attack, Vya thrust again directly at his face. Tor leaned back to avoid it, but he realised far too late that Vya had been feinting. As punishment for Tor’s shortsightedness, Vya directed her real attack to the stomach. Tor reeled backwards, slightly winded but still standing. However, her follow-through attack would see to that. Only glimpsing his opponent’s approach, Tor hastily put up his guard, but it didn’t do him any good. Vya ducked in and gave a vicious kick to Tor’s staff, which splintered and cracked in two, allowing the boot to meet his gut in exactly the same place as the last attack. This time Tor fell hard on his back, but somehow managed to remain on the log. He had however, lost half of his staff over the edge. Gasping for breath, he wondered if all of this was really happening. But then the pain was suddenly gone as he realised what a huge favour Vya had done him. His lip curled with replenished confidence, he got to his feet and pointed the now-sword length stick at his adversary.

And like that he had his second wind. He was quick, he was strong and he was precise, and now using a weapon with which he was far more capable. Yet no matter how viciously he fought, Vya never looked that concerned. Tor was striking so hard and fast that the constant clacking of wood on wood was practically music. He raised the tempo even higher but still Vya did not waver. Tor felt an incredible fury rising in his chest. How dare this nobody act as though this fight were nothing but a training session, he thought. And the angrier he got, the sloppier his strikes became. Before he knew what was happening Vya had him almost at the end of the log, with nowhere left to retreat. Tor tried to concentrate, but skilled though he may be, Vya had the advantage of range—Tor had never had to win an unfair fight before. All thought was abandoned as instinct took over, and at that moment all Tor lived for was avoiding that damn staff. Vya thrust high; Tor ducked low. Vya swung the staff low; Tor jumped over it. Vya followed up with another high attack before Tor was prepared, so he let his legs fall out from under him to escape the strike—he landed hard on his tailbone with one leg either side of the log. Vya swung low again and Tor found himself on his back, still uninjured but acutely aware of how far his advantage had been whittled away. Vya raised the staff up in preparation for the final blow. At that moment the crowd gasped and Tor realised with shock that they believed him to lose. He wasn’t going to take that lying down; if he couldn’t beat this girl, Twiglet and Chubb wouldn’t have a chance, and he was not about to go down as the one who only made second place. As the staff came crashing down Tor wrapped his legs around the log and swung over the edge. Upside-down, his hair grazing the water level, Tor knew he only had a few seconds as he felt Vya trying to prise his ankles apart. Somehow bending his body upward, Tor shoved the stick between his opponent’s feet and twisted. Vya fell, hitting the log hard and glancing off into the water below.

Immediately Tor’s senses returned to him and he noticed the cheering crowd only metres away on the higher ground. His teammates were bellowing like lunatics, probably more so at their own fortune of not having to face Vya than as congratulations for his victory. Tor pulled himself back onto the log and raises his arms triumphantly. But something nagged at him inside. A quiet, gnawing voice of discontent. And as he, Twiglet and Chubb collected their winnings from the mayor—a pittance, really—the voice began to grow louder. Tor knew what he had to do.

As quickly as he could without arousing suspicion, Tor pulled away from the cluster of winning punters patting him on the back and left the village centre. Once out of the public eye he broke in to a run, heading for the northern tree line. It was much darker and cooler here, though the persistent summer sun did manage to weave a few pillars of light through the dense canopy. He slowed down as he became certain the thick trunks shielded him from prying eyes, then turned and headed east until he came to his personal training area. He had furnished this small clearing well, for several straw dummies were erected, all of which showed signs of abuse. The nearby trees were completely stripped of their lower branches; Tor had used these to carve out primitive weapons. Several of these lay in a simple rack on the northeastern edge of the clearing. Though it was only about twenty metres from the edge of the forest, nobody had ever stumbled across this place in the six years Tor had called it home. For this was not just where he trained; this was also where he lived.

By now the voice was screaming, and he could ignore its words no longer. He should have been better. He was strong, fast and skilled enough to decimate anything in his path, or so he had thought. He had been overconfident and careless, and it had almost cost him everything he had worked for. He had won only by the villagers’ low standards; by his own he had failed miserably. He must redouble his training; he would not be caught off guard ever again. But first… he had to learn his lesson.

Tor removed his braces and glared down at his hands, as though they were solely responsible for his near-defeat. He paused for a moment to caress the scarring that ran along his knuckles. Then suddenly he turned and punched the nearest tree trunk as hard as he could. He cried out in anguish, but feeling his hand was not broken, he punched again. Over and over, his jaw set and eyes ablaze, until his knuckles went numb. He fell on the grass, not bothering to tend to his wounds. Let them bleed, he thought.

His one comfort in this wave of self-loathing was that nobody would see him like this. In a few minutes he would pick himself up and start training. He had enough food stored that by the time he had to head into town, he would be healed enough that nobody would notice his hands. This routine had always worked in the past, he thought bitterly, there was no reason for it to fail now.
But then a rustling of leaves behind him—a footfall, perhaps—woke him from his grim stupor. He turned his head to try to see what had caused the noise. Against the trunk of a great oak tree, mostly concealed by the shadow of its foliage, leant a man. And even out of the corner of his eye at this distance, Tor could see this was not a social visit.