-Dark Flame-
(C) Fire Emblem
Original ideas copyrighted to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems
Fan Fiction by Becki
Chapter Seven: The Tournament
Most people would have thought it as a blessed sound. One that marked the happiness and/or amusement of an individual. That melodic flow of the voice, the trills in the air as it happens.
For Rath, it was just another sound that marked his loneliness.
He stared distantly at the band of men sitting by the tavern under the shelter of a tree. Rath could smell the stench of whiskey on their breaths, even from so far away.
They laughed at him. It was no different from the laughs he had received at the Djute camp those years ago. In Bulgar when they'd see his dirty face and wandering soul. It was only strange when there was no ridicule. He stared at them with his hard eyes. They did not meet them. This was a sure sign that they were cowards, afraid to look a ten year old in the eye.
With a composed turn, he clutched the torn bridle of his stallion. The laughter subsided behind him, fading away as he continued down through the streets. He kept his bow and quiver strapped to his shoulder, preferring that they would be close. He didn't trust anybody anymore.
The gray stallion quivered, turning his head from side to side. Blinking once or twice to keep the flies away, he followed behind with no resistance. It was still raining. The rain fell lightly, but it was a mere drizzle.
The two drudged on in the shower, both ignoring the looks they received. It wasn't that awkward, was it? A boy who had not yet reached his teens with a reluctant old horse traveling by themselves with full access to weapons?
Of course not.
Beyond the tops of the houses and the shops he could see Araphen castle. It was in fact very large, it may have covered a fourth of Araphen. As he came beyond the grove of trees, he looked to see what seemed to be a festival being set up, even through the rain.
Banners rippled like thin ribbons in the wind upon high poles, strung across. A booth was being constructed by the wall of the castle. Rings were drawn in the grass with white, and fences had been propped up. Unsure of the occasion, a curious Rath pulled on the bridle and bribed the horse forward.
Ahead he saw men in colorful costume dragging out horses by the reins. Many horses with suits of armor and gear. A group of women waited under the gates of the castle to stay dry from the rain. They held bouquets of flowers and streamers had been plaited into their hair.
One man sat upon a black horse surveying the work. His posture on the saddle easily seen from away. His armor was just as dark as his horse, and his hair and eyes followed suit. In his hand was a long lance, gleaming both mischievously and dangerously.
"Yer not t'join the tournament, are ye lad?" Rath turned and rested his eyes on an elderly man with a basket of parchment. The stallion either took no notice of the man, or chose to ignore him. The stranger smiled a kind smile under the white jungle of a beard. Rath raised an eyebrow.
"Tournament?" He said almost inaudibly. The man smiled again, and reached into his basket, withdrawing a rolled up paper.
"Aye, the competition held fer the men of a warrior's prowess held e'vry year." He pointed a thick finger at the quiver and bow on Rath's back. "There's an archery segment, if ye be interested." He held the rolled out paper to the boy, who paused, but then took it.
He frowned as he could make no sense out of the figures which danced upon the rough surface of the parchment. The handwriting was neat and curvy, but it meant nothing to him. As the man studied Rath's frown and puzzled face, he understood almost immediately.
"Ah, forgive me please, humble sir." He took it back from him and began to read it.
'In the tenth year of our Lord, in our fair town Araphen comes the Tournament held every autumn. To the victors will go high respected titles under the service and high rewards. All competitors are responsible for their own equipment and salves. Slots are limited, if there are more competitors than the limit allows, a lot will be drawn. The Tournament begins before sunset. '
"..." Rath wasn't exactly interested. The criticism he had received by Calen hit him hard, and he knew competition must be fierce in such a large city as this.
"No?" The man asked. Rath shook his head doubtfully. The man shook his own head sorrowfully. "Then good day t'ye." He slowly walked towards the stands and the place where the tournament was being set up. Rath turned and looked to his steed. The gray stallion snorted in rebuke, as if taunting the youth to participate in the tournament just for the fun of it.
Rath turned away, ignoring the horse's obvious distaste.
"You!" This was the name he was most often used to. His horse was at the fountain, drinking while he waited by the basin. At first he ignored the call until a soldier from the castle approached him.
"Is your name Rath?" He asked, a lance at hand.
"...and if it is?" The youth said with uncertainty. It seemed all of Elibe was after him in one way or another. The soldier scowled.
"It is dishonorable to sign up for a tournament and not show up." He said with authority in his tone. "The lot fell on your name, you are to report to the archery wing of the court immediately." And without even allowing the nomad to respond or ask a question, the man bowed stiffly, turned around and rejoined his group of soldiers.
Rath stared dumbly, and the horse snickered. Closing his eyes and crossing his arms, Rath let out a long, stressed breath. It figured that something like this would happen. It was most unlikely that the man thought to have had the wrong person. How popular of a name could Rath be?
So he made his decision with no effort.
Looking at his quiver from over his shoulder, he estimated that the number of arrows he had would be enough. The horse looked surprised as Rath mounted the saddle.
Clicking his tongue, he ordered the horse back towards the festival area. It had stopped raining, which had been of fortune, it seemed. But something told him that even it had not ceased, the tournament would still go on. Crowds began to swell at the sidelines, and Rath could hear the distant cracking of bones and the sickening thud of a lance against armor.
There were cavaliers balanced on their horses in the large rings prepared for combat. Fighters and mercenaries snarled at each other and mages cast their flames and bolts of lightning. Bards traveled to and fro. From afar, Rath could even see pegasi tied to the pens, their large feathery wings spanning four or five meters. The horse grunted as Rath's fascination in the winged stallions seemed almost admirable.
Vendors waited by their stalls. The leather flasks against blue bottles. Rath thought of the small amount of gold he had and decided that he wouldn't need the vulneries. He was certain the archery was for targets and not another person.
And he was correct. There were nine long rows set up with the circular targets. They were about quarter of a bowshot away for the first round. Rath saw different people, men and women, dark skinned and light, various hair colors and clothing. But he saw no Sacaens.
All of the archers were on foot except he. A few even had the large bows and proud stances signifying their higher status as a sniper. But nobody was as young as he was. Nobody. And that was expected, he supposed. The only people he saw his age were in the crowds, eager faces ready to observe.
He dismounted and looked around sheepishly, not knowing what to do or where to start. There was a tent at the side of the archery field where a woman clothed in brown was writing with a plume. Best place to start, apparently. With his hand on the reins, he practically dragged the horse over to snap the beast out of the curious eagerness to see everyone and everything.
As he came close, the woman didn't even look up. She said with a nasal-sounding voice.
"Name?"
"..Rath." He said with some confidence. The woman scratched something out with her pen and ripped off a piece of paper, marked with more figures.
"You are competitor number two, tie your beast to the pen over there," she pointed with her pen behind the tent without moving her head. "and line up. We will start shortly." Rath took the number and backed away, guiding the stallion down to the small pen already filled with horses. Opening the gate's latch, he swung open the gate and directed the horse in. He trusted the stallion, but felt it better if the horse was not so free to roam the tournament grounds.
After shutting the gate the whole way, he reported back to the archery field.
All nine rows were occupied except one, the second one. Supposing that this was his alley, he took his spot between one and three. Spectators had already arrived, flocking around the field, outside of the large fence. He could feel the weight of every one of their stares on his back.
Rath looked over at the suspended platform he saw earlier by the castle. On it was a proud looking noble. He looked slightly bored, his fingers rubbing his temples. He sat by himself with a few minstrels nearby with their flutes and lyres.
"Archers! Prepare your bows!" There was a call from that woman at the tent. She was outside leaning against the stake and called for all the contestants to hear. The archers took an arrow from their quivers and strung it with one motion. Rath's bow looked so small compared to theirs. His short bow that had been given to him by a friend.
"Eye your targets! Infiltration on a target besides your own is an instant disqualification!" Rath closed one eye and focused at the red spot on the center of his target. The point of his arrow glittered in the setting sun.
"Release!"
At the command, nine arrows flew from the hands and followed the string. With a sloppy sound of wood against wood, the arrows took their place embedded in the target. Rath surveyed his marksmanship with satisfaction. His arrow was two thumb's widths inside the red spot. He turned his gaze upon the eight other targets. To his surprise, the other archers had all made it inside the red with an exception of two. They were escorted back out.
"Second round!" That woman called. The men in colorful garb ran to take a target. They picked each one up and pulled them back to a white line on the ground. It was now at half a bowshot of length.
"Prepare your bows!" The woman said, like a machine.
As Rath reached over his shoulder for another arrow, he sneaked another look at the Lord. The Lord had easily seen blonde hair combed and neat behind a high forehead. His nose was pointed and similar to an eagle's. The noble turned his head and looked straight at the nomad, and for that split second, Rath could see resent in those eyes.
"Eye your targets!"
Back to the competition. He raised his bow and aimed the projectile. His fingers bristled against the ruffled feather at the arrow's backing.
"Release!"
This time his arrow just grazed the side of the red, just barely making it in. One of the judges had to see for themselves that the arrow had indeed made it in the center before being satisfied and returning to their table.
By this time it was hard not to notice that the noble (Rath assumed it was Marquess Araphen) had his complete attention on the young nomad. Rath pretended not to notice, but felt uncomfortable under the gaze. When he looked around the rows again, there were still eight people left in competition.
"Prepare your bows!"
The final round. Rath was surprised to see he had made it. Five archers were left. An older man with a patch over his eye spit into the grass, awaiting the orders. A female archer polished her steel bow with a clean white cloth. The last two were snipers, keen eyes picking out the small dot of red at the distance.
Rath began to accept the constant glances Marquess Araphen gave him. But what bothered him most was the last set of targets had been placed so far. Rath was unsure whether his bow would even make it so far.
The shaft of his bow was warm from the palm of his wet hand. Rath took his arrow, carefully choosing the best constructed one. When he found it, he pulled it from the quiver and placed it against the bow's arc.
"Eye your target!"
Not knowing why he was getting so worked up, he lifted his bow for the last time. He was almost certain now that his bow was not strong enough to reach so far. It seemed so far away now..
But a wind came from almost nowhere.. a cool wind the with scent of dewy grass in the morning. A scent that he had not taken in for years..
"Release!"
He did. The wind guided his arrow, he could see the effects with his own sight. With a sigh, the arrow whistled a triumphant song, the note purer and more vibrant than he had ever heard. With a final shudder, the arrowhead found itself lodged into the dead center of the red.
There was a silence that was only nudged by the vibration of the arrows upon the targets. Rath raised his head and lowered his hand. He saw that woman at the booth with her jaw open. He saw the archers throw their bows down and curse. They cursed the sudden wind that had graced Rath's arrow, but had blundered their own.
But the last sniper looked up with an emotionless mask on his face. His arrow had also made it into the red. Rath looked over at the woman at the tent and she regained control.
"Tiebreaker! The remaining contestants will shoot until one fails to find the target. All others are excused." She called, her eyes leaving Rath's target as she spoke.
Rath's fingers bristled against his bow. He silently thanked Father Sky for his favor and took an arrow. This was a sure sign that he was being guided. The tournament didn't matter anymore.
"Prepare your bows!"
Rath's arrow tensed against the string. The remaining sniper pulled his bow string back, meaningless eyes watching the punctured target ahead.
"Eye your targets!"
His vision was blurry with some unknown reason. His hand slipped, and he tightened it, trying to get a good sight of the target.
An eagle's cry shattered the pensive silence, a piercing cry that throbbed in the air. And immediately following, his laughter echoed in his ears.
"Release!"
A sharp breath escaped his lips as he released the string. Oh, the arrow went far enough, he could already see that the shaft was far from course. It dipped in the windless air and struck the target just narrowly at the outside rim. He brushed the hair from his eyes and pulled his hand back. A disappointed moan floated from the peering crowds.
He had lost.
Rath looked around with a hard frown for the eagle he had heard. But there were only people. People congratulating the victor with cheers and pats, others walking away with disgust or boredom.
Where.. did that cry come from..? Rath frowned, but slipped his bow into his quiver. Silently he slipped into the crowds, disguised in the sea of people.
He sat outside the city, under a grove close to the walls. He sat by the roots of the tree, witling at a long stick. Peeling the thin brown bark, he smoothed the sides. A pouch of feathers from his last fowl waited by his knee along with the gathered pile of tough weeds.
He felt no regret. Never intending to enter the tournament in the first place, it didn't matter to him that he had lost. The knife slide across the smooth shaft, and he laid it down, picking up a feather with two fingers.
The stallion grazed nearby, its ears swiveling. The sky was turning yellow, the clouds shaded with gold. Rath had taken off his cloak and laid it out for him to sit on, the shavings of wood scattered about on the folds. He tied the long feather on the back of the unfinished arrow tightly. Taking up the knife again, he cut the edge to a deep point for a quick arrow.
After he slid the newly constructed arrow into his recovering quiver, he sheathed his knife and brushed the shavings off of his tunic. He took off his boot and unwrapped the bandage, relieved to see that the cut had reduced to a scab. That encounter with the bandit was abrupt and first-experience. But he did not suffer much from it. His boot had been cut, but he crudely closed the ripped side by wrapping bandages along the side.
Whistling brusquely with a wavering pitch, he stood up. The horse raised his head, and came with an unwilling trot. Through the years, the horse had grown fond of the boy, the reluctant obedience something noticeable.
Rath touched the bandage at the horse's side, and when the steed did not deliver a shudder of pain, loosened the binding. As his wound did, the horse's cut was completely covered with a dry scab. As he was tightening the scab, a voice called from the gate.
"Is.. your name Rath? The boy who had participated in the Archery tournament?" He turned to see a girl peer at him. A girl that looked to be younger than he, but had yet called him a 'boy'. She had loose waving hair in the shade of a warm fire, gold flowers plaited into her locks. She carried a basket with rolled up parchment as did the older man earlier. After growing impatient, she demanded an answer. "Well, are you?"
"Yes." He said finally, his eyes in her own violet ones.
"My name is Amy." She pronounced, scrutinizing him. "But that's none of your concern anyway. The lord, Marquess of Araphen wants your presence." She said quickly and precisely. "Now hurry up and follow me, we haven't all day, the tournament is still in progress you know."
She continued towards the gate. Rath completely caught by surprise stood there with an unsure look on his face.
The girl turned when she did not hear him following her, and frowned.
"Can you hear me? Come on! He doesn't like waiting you know!"
And thus starts the fiasco all over again.
Hehe ^^; I seems that things are turning over a bit. And we meet Marquess Araphen! Haha.. I think I'm going to leave him nameless, just like I do in Madelyn's Choice. Anyway, I'm thinking that I'll end Dark Flame at chapter ten or eleven. Sorry about the semi-long chapter, I just couldn't stop writing ^_^ And Rath can't read! ^__^; I was thinking about it, but I don't think he knows how to. So he'll be illiterate for a while ^^;
~Becki