THE APOSTATE SAINT

Swordplay may have been Alaric's forte, but it was not his passion. Sure, it was good exercise and he was good at it, but to him it was just a distraction from the finest thing in life – music. His father wasn’t fond of Alaric's obsession with playing the handheld lyre "as a woman does", but it was the first instrument he mastered and still his favorite. He had his mother to thank for that, as she was responsible for his introduction to the instrument, and to music and poetry in general, for that matter. His father apparently always thought it would be a mere passing interest for Alaric, like most things were for children growing up. When Alaric and his mother began spending every free moment they had together playing music, it finally dawned on Alaric's father that the love for music wasn't going to phase out of his life.

Alaric always did everything that his father asked of him, of course. He learned early on that his father's distaste for his playing could be soothed if he just did whatever his father asked of him immediately. He would ask his father if there was anything more. When he came up with nothing, Alaric was free to go back to his room and start going through his ever-growing collection of compositions. Even though he made a point to be obedient to a fault, it was always clear to Alaric that nothing would make his father accept him for who he really was. This led to more and more duties being put upon Alaric's shoulders, and less and less time for him to do what he really wanted to do. His father wanted a son who was "all man, all the time", and Alaric was slowly realizing that his father would never stop trying to kill off the part of Alaric that he held closest to his heart. Winning the tournament and leaving the City with his lyre packed away was beginning to look like the only way that he would be able to satisfy both his father and himself.

At least for now it seemed that his father had something other than Alaric's manliness to worry about. After the event that played out in the Temple Square, an emergency Senate hearing was called. Alaric could only theorize about the kinds of words that were said in the meeting, but if the stranger was truly who he claimed to be, then the people in power in the Senate were probably in full-on crisis mode. If the man was truly the heir to the Toriad, then it wouldn't take long for Him to see how bloated and top-heavy the City's political infrastructure had become. None of their jobs nor their status in the City would be secure now. It must have been pride alone, then, that let Alaric's father and the other lords of the City allow their sons to participate in the tournament. Alaric doubted that any of them really wanted to allow their children to go off with someone so dangerous, but he figured it most likely came down to a stalling tactic. They were blindsided by the man's entrance. If the stranger really did want to leave the City, then it would be in the Senate's interest to let that play out. All of this was just conjecture, of course, but Alaric did know a thing or two about the inner-workings of the Senate, thanks to his father.

The hour of the tournament was now at hand. Alaric and all of the other contenders, including his friends and other sparring partners were there, along with some of the trainers. To Alaric's surprise, even fully grown patriarchs of lesser families were there to claim glory. The raw ambition from all of the contenders was about to be publicly displayed for the whole City to see, in a grand symphony unlike anything anyone alive had experienced. Alaric was a performer at heart, so he imagined what it might be like if instead of combat, he were to perform a concert for all ears to hear.

There hadn’t been an honest need for men to train for combat since the City gates closed, simply for the fact that everyone always thought it would be impossible for an invader to breach the City. Without wars to be fought and little chance of desperate men to own weapons, most of the men who wore swords these days were no more than pretenders. With their flamouyant costumes and impracticably ornate swords, they were about to undergo a rude awakening. All of them gathered in one place painted a scene that was very much like a historical reenactment. None of them seemed to understand the danger they were in by entering the arena. They all seemed so confident. Confident and over-dressed.

At the opening ceremony, each swordsman was formally and individually announced to the crowd. It was absolutely excruciating to endure, primarily because so many of the contenders insisted on using all of the names and titles they had somehow collected despite never once doing anything worthy of such accolades. There were somewhere between sixty and eighty swordsmen lined up with him in the arena. Alaric had lost count somewhere along the way, so that was his best estimate. It felt like there were a thousand, though, with how long it took to get through all the names.

Despite the ridiculousness of the opening ceremony, Alaric reminded himself that he still needed to be ready for anything. If everyone there was as well-trained and disciplined as Alaric, then at least they would fight with honor. The rest of this lot would undoubtedly be far more unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Alaric wore his padded armor, so his vitals, at least, were somewhat protected, but that did little to reassure him that he would be walking out of this battle in one piece.

Just when Alaric had reached his limit of waiting, the herald called for everyone to find a place. Alaric happily moved into a position he had picked out which would help keep as many of the other contenders in front of him as possible. He excelled at predicting when and how a combatant would strike, but he didn’t have eyes on the back of his head.

He stretched one last time and focused on his breathing as he started imagining the onslaught that he was about to have to endure. So many eyes were upon him, from the other challengers to the masses gathered in the amphitheater stands. In the corner of his eye, Alaric saw somebody pointing to him while talking to the Gifted Man who had taken a place in the Toriad's box. For a fleeting moment, Alaric thought he met the stranger's eyes. His heartbeat rang through his ears, louder, even, than the crowds cheering for the game to begin. Counting down in eight-four time, his mind quickly snapped back to tempo while the contenders all found their places.

Alaric's thoughts went to one of the songs he loved to sing in preparation for a particularly challenging day of training. The song was “Heroes of the City,” the ode to the great heroes of the civil war of the Second Age.

Flames glowing in the depth of the dark night

A constellation of the peril that surrounds them

Ready to pounce in a heartbeat, to take flight

Drums beating, dread creeping, the night hounds them

The tired warriors with broken ranks

Shut down at every opportunity

Unprotected from further flanks

As the enemy continues to kill with impunity

Lie waiting in their bed rolls covered with sweat

Broken and beaten a hundred times before

Wounds throbbing so they never can forget

They’re living in the middle of a war

But who are these men

Who remain when so many others were defeated?

I ask again, who are these men

Whose hardened will has never been depleted?

Who are these men

Who withstood every arrow dropping like rain?

Who are these men?

They are heroes of the City and we will honor their names.

Trumpets blasted. The battle had begun.

Immediately, Alaric was assaulted by four lesser nobles who came in swinging wildly while the entire arena became a cacophonous clash of steel on steel. Alaric deftly dodged the first swing, shifting to his left in an attempt to draw all of the men into a tighter line. Knowing that he couldn’t allow them to surround him, he did what he could to limit their movement. Alaric was an excellent duelist, but this was no duel. He needed to find any opportunity he could to limit his active foes.

Alaric feinted toward the furthest assailant to bring him in line. It worked, but the closest combatant was now within successful striking distance again. Alaric met his blade directly with his own, deflecting it. He followed up with a swift movement that pierced the man’s shoulder just enough to disable his offense.

Next opponent.

Alaric wasted no time and clashed hard against the next man’s half-hearted swing. Alaric shifted back and dropped the angle of his blade far enough to slice the man’s side, making sure to leave a gash in his skin just below his padding. The attacker reeled back, leaving room for the third attacker to attempt his gambit. Alaric put his weight behind the hilt of his sword, crashing it hard against the top of the man’s head. Judging by the man's reaction, that was all it took to send that one crying to his mother.

The last of the four attackers managed to hit Alaric, but the force he used only left a surface cut in Alaric’s padding. It hurt, but instead of reacting to the pain from the blow, Alaric spun around in the direction of the hit to mitigate the force of the man’s swing. Alaric came back and deftly disarmed the man, sending his sword flying. Alaric pointed his gladius at the man’s face, signaling only once before raising his sword into the air.

“Yield!” The man went to collect his sword and whatever was left of his pride.

The rest of the attackers were still live targets and needed addressed, but Alaric had already sized them up in his head. He had broken the first assault and managed to gain some ground as they regrouped. The man Alaric had stabbed in the shoulder let out a cry as he aimed to bring down his sword upon Alaric’s head. Alaric moved out of the way just fast enough to avoid the blow that certainly would have taken him out of competition. The third man whom Alaric had struck in the head swung upon him directly after that. The man had blood trailing from his nose but the look of desperation he gave was all Alaric needed to know about his mental state. Alaric parried twice, three times and then swept the man’s legs as the sacrificed his footing for another wild swing. Pressing the tip of his sword against the man’s neck, Alaric forced him yield.

The man who had his side cut by Alaric apparently wanted to tend to his wound rather than press the attack. That gave Alaric the opportunity to combat the shoulder wounded man alone. Alaric feinted a strike to the man’s other shoulder, and when he overreacted in order to protect himself, Alaric brought his blade across the man’s under-protected thigh. He yelped in pain and shortly found the tip of Alaric’s blade pointed at his nose. He grunted a yield.

The remaining man just shook his head and continued to hold his side, clearly unhappy with the injury he had already sustained. He held his hand up, lowered his eyes and walked away from the battlefield. He didn’t say a word as he left.

Now that Alaric had won his initial fight, he could properly assess the field. Several bodies were strewn across the grounds. Some of them, bloodied and gasping for air, were being dragged away by their feet. Others had actually met their end. It wasn't until he saw the look on the dead men's faces that he understood the danger he was in. Up until now, swordplay was a sport. Now, the game was changed, and for the worse.

As Alaric surveyed the fighters, he was glad to see that, apart from a large group off in the distance, most of the remaining fighters were engaged in more honorable one-on-one duels – as he felt it should have always been. Alaric searched for an opportunity to meet with another fighter for a proper duel, and it didn't take long to find one. He was excited to see that his friend Geilamir Aurumantian remained in the fight. Alaric felt much more comfortable in man-to-man combat than heaped up in conflict with a mindless horde with death on their minds.

“Surprised to see you're still in one piece,” Geilamir said. “I saw you being swarmed over there and I thought you were a goner. How'd you do it?” Geilamir stretched his sword arm and started to circle Alaric, in the same way he always had done when they were squaring off.

“Just did what I felt was right at the time,” Alaric said. “What about you? How many have you beaten?”

Geilamir gave a shaky half-smile that Alaric couldn’t quite place. “Five, but thankfully not all at once.” He shifted his eyes at the ground behind Alaric but shook it off quickly and focused again. “Shall we?” Geilamir said. The two tapped the tips of their blades together and began their exercise.

They clashed, as they had many times before. Alaric usually came out on top, but Geilamir always gave him a good contest. This time, however, Alaric sensed a lot more desperation in Geilamir’s strikes. It made sense – there was a lot more at stake this time than bragging rights.

There was so much of their training exhibited in each of their strikes that Alaric found himself getting comfortable despite Geilamir’s added effort. In his mind, the refrain of the battle chant began playing. Songs were, after all, Alaric's secret weapon. Music was what he used to change his fighting style so easily. It was his greatest weapon.

But who are these men

Who remain when so many others were defeated?

Clang! Their swords bounced off of each other, each of them regaining perfect control of their weapons after each strike.

I ask again, who are these men

Whose hardened will has never been depleted?

“Ha!” Geilamir let out a nervous laugh as he kept up with Alaric perfectly.

Who are these men

Who withstood every arrow dropping like rain?

“Hold!” Geilamir said, backing away and motioning behind Alaric. "You seeing this?" Alaric put room between himself and Geilamir to see what had caused him to pause the fight. A Solumian man with thinning black hair and a big bushy beard walked toward the two young nobles carrying a bloodied sword. Every other combatant in the arena had been defeated, and the only one who remained from the large group of fighters was this wild beast of a man. Geilamir turned back to Alaric. “Let me handle this one, then we can get back to it.”

Geilamir approached the muscled Solumian with little regard for his muscled appearance or apparent skill, even though this man had just emerged victorious from an enormous group of fighters unscathed. Alaric caught his breath as Geilamir began to circle the outsider. Geilamir feinted once to see if he could get the man to make a mistake, but the man didn’t fall for it. Geilamir laughed as he feinted again, this time more convincingly. Still, the man stood unfazed, his eyes trained on Geilamir’s. This time, Geilamir went in for a true strike, but, to Alaric’s shock and amazement, the man riposted the blow and pressed in. The Solumian threw the full weight of his body into his attack. Geilamir’s eyes looked down in disbelief at the blade pressed directly against his throat, his sword cast onto the ground.

Who are these men?

Geilamir yielded, his pride torn asunder.

Suddenly it was down to only two. Alaric didn’t know this man, although he looked somewhat familiar. The Solumian stalked Alaric, determination on his face. Just who was this man? How could a random Solumian have so quickly and fairly bested Geilamir, who, like Alaric, had been trained by the City's best instructors from the moment he could hold a sword in his hand? This man was unlike any foe Alaric had seen before, a mysterious song sung in a foreign tongue – alien to Alaric but still somewhat beautiful in its own way. Alaric put up his guard and watched to see what the man would do.

“I’ve been waiting for this opportunity my whole life,” the man said. Alaric tried to gauge how this man would fight based upon his stance, but simply didn’t know how to predict his movement – he wasn’t projecting his movements like the others Alaric had just defeated. He was strong, though, so Alaric knew his blows would have a lot of force behind them. They squared off and began to circle one another.

Nobody made the first move for many seconds. Alaric always liked to be reactionary rather than making the first move, as he was less likely to make a mistake that way. That was one of the primary reasons he had been able to beat so many challengers for so many years. So much could be learned about a fighter in the first half-second of their attack, but this man was not giving Alaric what he needed. The crowd’s cheering and jeering grew louder as Alaric saw the remainders of the bodies being carted away from the field out of the corner of his eye.

It was when the crowd’s noise grew most thunderous that Alaric betrayed his own governing strategy and went in for the first strike. Perhaps it was the musician in him that made him do it, finding some kind of poetry in striking as the crowd's cheering crescendoed.

The man parried the strike with ease and immediately counter-attacked. He swung hard and fast, and if it were not for Alaric’s padded armor, he would have been sliced through from top to bottom. It hurt, regardless of the armor, and Alaric was forced to jump back, nearly losing his footing. The man gave no quarter, however, and pressed in for another strike. Alaric just barely managed to dodge the attack and couldn’t even form a counter-attack without sacrificing his footing. Not only was he on the defensive, he was actually losing this fight.

Just as Alaric felt the nagging of failure trying to take root within him, he noticed something that he would be able to use to his advantage. The man’s sword from far away looked slightly different than the gladiuses that Alaric had seen most commonly used by nobility. Upon further inspection, he could see clearly the faults in its make. Right in the middle of the blade, there was a warped weakness that Alaric could potentially exploit.

The man swung down upon Alaric and Alaric met the blade this time with his own, directly in the spot that Alaric had noted. The sword remained intact, which caused Alaric to feel the whole force of the man’s blow. It sent an offensive shock up the entire length of his arm. The man swung again and Alaric again defended with his sword striking the same place on the man’s sword. This time, Alaric was barely able to maintain a grip on his sword as the shockwaves traveled all the way up his back and into his spine. The man took three more paces in a circle around Alaric and brought his sword down one last time upon Alaric.

This time, Alaric’s theory was proven right. The sword shattered in twain from the force of the attack, the lion’s share of the blade deflecting away aimlessly. Alaric actually felt bad for the man as he saw the look of surprise come over his face. Alaric held his sword to the man’s chest immediately. He had beaten him only through exploiting the superior make of his own blade.

The Solumian challenger hung his head and yielded, much to the instantaneous excitement of the audience. Alaric won the melee against all odds and had secured his place upon whatever new path was destined for him.

He allowed the excitement of the victory to pour over him. In all of the chaos that ensued after he was declared winner, Alaric almost didn’t realize that the Gifted One had come down from his place to meet him. He laid a hand on Alaric's shoulder. Something about the man's grip was different than any other hand that had ever touched him. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if there was fire ablaze within his bones. Even more odd to Alaric was the fact that his muscles felt relief coursing outward from the place the man made contact with his skin. He pulled Alaric in so that he could hear over the noise.

“You have fought bravely and have won,” the Son said. "Are you prepared to sacrifice everything for the sake of your people?"

Alaric, still catching his breath, looked around the arena at all of the crowd, still roaring with excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Solumian standing above the broken shards of his sword, his expression solemnly reflecting the hopelessness in his soul.

"Do you accept your charge?"

Alaric's mind flooded with conflicting thoughts that ranged from pride to sorrow for the ones he beat and, most of all, fear. If he was being honest with the man, he really didn't want everything that went along with the win. But, he imagined, if he was the best the City had to offer, then there was no way of backing out now. Not without bringing great shame to his family. He would do it. He would be a good Citizen, like his father had always told him to do. A new song would be sung at the conclusion of the old one.

"I accept."

They are heroes of the City and we will honor their names.