K Parker - Pattern

Then he saw his chance. Boarci swung a feint at Poldarn's face, intending to draw up his guard so as to open him for a crack across the left knee. Instead of parrying, however, Poldarn deliberately held still and took the blow-it was torture fighting down his instincts, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the pole to smack into his cheekbone. Then, as the blow landed, he stepped forward into it and pushed rather than lunged, catching Boarci just below the navel. It was a weak contact, inflicting no pain, scoring no points; but Boarci was already on the move, stepping into a parry that hadn't happened but too late to adjust his strategy-he was thinking four moves ahead, and didn't have time to revise his plans on the fly. Just at that moment, his balance was a smidgeon too far forward, and Poldarn eased him off the plank with a gentle prod. Boarci disappeared, and a furious yell of pain suggested that he'd made an awkward landing on something hard, sharp or both. Poldarn smiled.

Nobody else seemed inclined to play, so Poldarn walked slowly to the end of the plank and jumped, like a little bird hopping off a twig. As he touched ground, his ankle gave way and he staggered, lost his feet and dropped down hard on his knees, just on the edge of the carpet of rocks. Something jagged bit into his left kneecap and he howled. For some reason the spectators seemed to find that unbearably amusing, as if he'd deliberately done something witty and clever.

He managed to get up again by planting the pole firmly in the ground and pulling himself up hand over hand, but that was about as far as he felt competent to go; so he clung to the top of the pole and remained there, swaying slightly, until Asburn and Eyvind trotted up and helped him over to a tree stump, where he could sit down and concentrate on feeling really sorry for himself without the distraction of having to maintain his balance.

'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' Eyvind whispered noisily in his ear. Are you out of your mind, or do you just enjoy hurting people?'

Poldarn looked up sharply. 'What?'

Eyvind stared at him; incomprehension staring at incomprehension, an optical effect like the well-known juxtaposition of two facing mirrors. Then he sighed. 'Right,' he said, 'I guess it's probably my fault, somebody's fault, anyhow. You weren't to know-you can't see things unless people tell you out loud. The point is, it's not meant to be serious. It's a game. The idea is, you let everybody beat you at sports, to show what a good sort you are, and in return they go easy on you in the fighting events; nobody gets beaten up, and we all have a nice drink afterwards. You're treating it like it's a battle to the death.'

'But that's not fair,' Poldarn objected, trying to keep his cool but failing. 'They weren't going easy on me, far from it. And I've got the bruises to prove it.'

'Yes, they were.'

And, now that Poldarn thought about it, yes, they had been, until he'd lost his rag and made a fight of it in the wrestling. His first few opponents in that event had bruised his pride but not his bones; they'd taken extreme care to throw him gently, which he'd taken for a patronising display of superior skill rather than a logical reluctance to incapacitate a member of the workforce. It was only when he'd taken to throwing them in return-not to mention kicking and elbow-slamming and various other over-effective techniques-that they'd hurt him at all, and that was purely self-defence on their part, though as it turned out his skill had been superior to theirs and their moves hadn't worked terribly well. By the time they'd got to the quarterstaff, they'd got wise to the change in rules and objectives, but all the same they'd only fought seriously because he'd started it and they didn't want to get hurt. Once again, it had so happened that he was better at bashing with a long pole than they were; and now here he was feeling all smug because he'd contrived to turn a cheerful burlesque into a ferocious battle. Magnificent, he thought, and me all over. But none of this would've happened if only they'd filled me in on the plot beforehand…

'So what should I do now?' Poldarn asked plaintively. 'Should I back off and let them beat me?'

Eyvind shook his head. 'Not if you want to come out of this alive,' he replied. 'For better or worse you've turned this into a real contest-also, you've shown them you're unnaturally good at anything to do with weapons and fighting. You can bet that they'll all be wanting to be the one to teach you a lesson, so you'd better watch yourself. Bloody hell,' he added, sighing deeply, 'you couldn't have made a worse mess of it if you'd tried. If you want my opinion, the only thing you can do is make absolutely sure you win; it'll be a sort of statement of intent that you mean to be-well, a different sort of head of house, leading from the front, the strong man, that sort of thing. It's not what they're used to, but at least they'll be able to understand what you're trying to do, instead of just standing there wondering why the hell you're beating shit out of your friends.'

'All right,' Poldarn replied. 'I'll give it a try-at least, that's assuming I can. What's left?'

'Single-stick and the home game,' Eyvind replied.

Poldarn shook his head. 'I don't know what that means,' he said.

Eyvind muttered something under his breath. 'Fine,' he said. 'Look, single-stick is like sword-fighting, but instead of a sword you've got a wooden rod, thick as your thumb, and the object is to land a blow that draws blood-just a little, mind, so for crying out loud don't go killing anybody. No hitting below the waist, no thrusting, and if the other man says "Hold", you stop. You got that?'

'I think so,' Poldarn replied. 'Put like that, it doesn't sound a bit like real swordfighting. I suppose you're all terribly good at it and practise all the time?'

Eyvind nodded. 'It's a very popular game,' he replied. 'Why do you think it's saved till the end of the show? Well, almost the end. And you're right, it's not in the least like real fighting with swords, it's all in the wrist and fingers. Oh God,' he added, glancing over his shoulder, 'they're ready for you. Just try and remember, this isn't a battle-don't go raving mad.'

'Right.'

'And make bloody sure you win,' Eyvind added, as Poldarn dragged himself unwillingly to his feet, 'or else they'll flay you alive. Got that?'

Poldarn's ankle was a little better, but he was painfully aware that he was limping, dragging his feet, and that anything like proper footwork was out of the question. A pity, that, because his instincts told him that mock swordfighting with bits of stick was probably more about footwork than anything else. As for Eyvind's parting advice, it seemed to boil down to beat them to a pulp but don't hurt anybody. And that, as Asburn would say, was all there was to it.

Piece of cake.

In the event, it came surprisingly easily to him, probably because his movements were so limited. As a result he was effectively limited to a solid but hostile defence; block three times, then counter just enough to drive his opponents back out of his space, his circle. (Now that was a familiar concept, something Poldarn knew he'd known a lot about once upon a time; he could remember having committed it to memory, but he couldn't remember it now.) Since there was no need for a proper attack, for moves that would give him scope to swing his arm hard and fast enough to slice meat and smash bone, there was nothing to be gained from taking the offensive; smart, stinging little backfoot ripostes, elegantly timed, were more likely to achieve the desired effect than big scything cuts and wraps, even if he'd been in any fit state to attempt them. Furthermore, his opponents were working on a new and to them unfamiliar agenda; they were more interested in hurting him than they were in winning, in a discipline where the techniques for causing real injury and those designed to produce formal victory were not only different but largely incompatible. The result was that they ended up fighting like they were expecting him to fight, while he quite effectively reinvented the gentle art of singlestick and performed it both elegantly and effectively. Accordingly he won all seven bouts quickly and without inflicting any damage beyond the required slight graze. Crazy, Poldarn thought; they're trying to be me and I'm succeeding at being them, making a rather better job of it than they are.