Quest for the Sun (15 page)

A few minutes later we were standing in a ragged line, each with one of the wooden swords. Jamie held his as if it was red-hot, eyeing it distrustfully. ‘I don't know if this is really my kind of thing …' he began, casting Blade a doubtful glance.

‘Well, don't look at me,' she said. ‘Any problems should be addressed to the sword-master.'

‘But aren't
you
the sword-master?'

She gave a snort of laughter. ‘Me? I'm only a humble gladiator. Lyulf's the sword-master.'

‘But he's just a kid!' Rich objected. ‘I'd rather be trained by someone with a bit more experience — no offence, Lyulf.'

Blade had been walking away, but now she turned, her eyes flashing. ‘And no offence to
you
, Richard, when I tell you to speak only of what you know. Of lesser years Lyulf may be, but he has the skills of a swordsman five times his age and more, coupled with the speed and stamina of youth. He is expert at assessing fighters — and at training them. If ignorance leaps from your mouth when you open it, I'd counsel you to keep
it shut.' She turned on her heel and stalked off. Rich, who'd turned bright red, stared at the ground.

Without comment, Lyulf tossed the last wooden sword to the Masked Man, who caught it easily by the hilt. ‘Very well,' he said, ‘let us see what lies beneath that mask, my friend.'

The two of them circled warily, looking for an opening. The Masked Man was twice the size of Lyulf, and I was glad the swords weren't real. I had a hunch the mysterious stranger might turn out to be better at swordsmanship than any of us expected — and I was right.

He took a slow half-shuffle forward with one foot and suddenly the air was cracking with the clash of wood on wood. In and out the two figures wove, left and right, one fluid movement blending in with the next as if they were partners in some kind of intricate dance, their swords no more than a blur. Then there was a snap and a grunt and something was cartwheeling through the air towards me; I ducked instinctively as one of the swords spun over our heads and clattered to the ground behind us.

Jamie gave a snuffle of dismay, and beside me Richard whistled softly between his teeth. The two combatants faced each other, neither of them even breathing hard. Lyulf still held his sword, but the Masked Man's hand was empty.

‘Good enough.' Lyulf's face was expressionless, but it was clear he was pleased. ‘We have one competent fighter at least. Who's next?' We shuffled our feet and tried to avoid his eye. ‘No volunteers? Come then — you. Up here with me.' To no one's surprise he pointed at Richard, who shambled sheepishly into the makeshift arena. The hang-dog look on his face showed he knew what he was in for — it was the perfect chance for Lyulf get his own back and teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget.

But Rich wasn't going down without a fight. He gripped his sword in both hands like a baseball bat, raised it to chest height and narrowed his eyes. I closed mine, hoping that at least Lyulf would make it quick and painless.

Nothing happened.

I opened them a crack … and there was Lyulf, his sword beside him on the ground, painstakingly re-arranging Richard's hand on his sword-hilt.

It seemed one look had told Lyulf all he needed to know — or confirmed what I realised he'd suspected all along: we all knew less than nothing. The Masked Man settled himself on a log and watched with undisguised interest as Lyulf coached us through the basics — grip, stance and footwork — using Rich to demonstrate. I soon forgot we were being taught by someone our own age — there was no hint of showing off or arrogance, just patient matter-of-factness tinged with dry touches of humour that soon put us all at ease. ‘The footwork is as simple and direct as walking,' he explained. ‘Step forward and back, left and right, pivot on one leg to circle your opponent — and remember, balance and timing are everything. Your footwork keeps you at a safe distance, then brings you into the attack. Now, get into pairs and try it …'

It seemed we'd only been practising a few minutes when Lyulf glanced at the sun and said it was time to stop. Even Jamie objected. ‘Already? But we've only just begun!'

‘You have done enough for the first day. As it is, your sword arm will be stiff tomorrow. You have all made a good beginning. The way of the body is the foundation of our craft; the way of the sword will follow. As for the third part of the art of the circus … the way of the mind will come to you in time, without you realising it. And now it is time for the midday meal.'

The morning couldn't have passed so quickly — yet it had. Reluctantly we replaced the swords in the box and joined Blade at our campfire, where a cauldron of stew was simmering.

‘This is well-earned,' she said, ladling out hearty helpings. ‘The first lesson's something to celebrate — and you're all doing well.' We grinned at one another. The phrase we'd read on the placard flashed into my mind
— the brotherhood of the arena.
Suddenly it made sense.

‘You'll need to be thinking of stage names,' Blade told us between mouthfuls. ‘A name that says something about you is best — that is true to your inner core. A name is far more than just a word in our business.'

‘Is that what Blade is?' asked Kenta. ‘Your stage name?'

Blade shrugged. ‘I can't remember being called anything else. I was born to this.'

‘What about you, Lyulf?' asked Jamie. ‘Is Lyulf your stage name?'

Blade snorted. ‘I should think not! You have the honour of being taught by none other than the great Wolf Flame — the finest gladiator the Borderlands have even known.'

Lyulf frowned and carried on eating.

‘Wolf Flame!' echoed Rich enviously. ‘How cool is that! How did you choose it?'

For a moment I thought Lyulf wasn't going to answer. But then he finished chewing, swallowed, and said briefly, ‘It is the meaning of the name Lyulf in the old tongue — or Lyulf is its meaning, whichever you prefer.'

‘What
old tongue
?' asked Gen. ‘Have you always been a gladiator, like Blade?'

Again, he chewed unhurriedly and swallowed; but this time he took another mouthful without answering. Blade laughed. ‘Persuading Lyulf to talk about himself is like getting rainwater from desert sand,' she said. ‘In all the time I've known him, he's told me no more than that.'

‘How long have you known each other?' asked Kenta curiously.

‘Too long,' grunted Lyulf.

‘Long enough,' she amended with a smile. ‘Lyulf was sword-master of the troupe I joined before this one. I'd been in the arena all my life and thought I knew it all.' She pulled a wry face, glancing over at Lyulf with a look I couldn't interpret. He didn't return it. ‘I soon learned differently. I couldn't believe my good fortune when I realised who he was. I'd heard, of course,
of the legendary Wolf Flame who springs up wherever he is least expected, never staying in one place longer than —'

She broke off. Lyulf had pushed his bowl aside and risen to his feet, and was walking away.

‘Oh, by the twin moons …' Blade muttered. ‘Lyulf, come back and finish your meal!' But he was gone. She shrugged, her expression a mixture of impatience and remorse. ‘My tongue runs away with my words — I know he hates to be spoken of.

‘Now: we were discussing stage names.'

‘I've already chosen mine,' said Gen. Everyone stared at her. ‘I thought … Crystal.'

Blade nodded. ‘That is like you,' she said. ‘Outwardly fragile, with an inner strength; beautiful, and clear and transparent as water.'

By the end of lunch all the names had been decided except mine. Rich was calling himself Tornado, and Kenta decided on Shadow — ‘Not the scary sort,' she'd explained shyly; ‘the dappled, shifting shadows leaves make in sunshine.'

Jamie had opted for Blunderbuss. ‘It may sound comical,' he'd told us when we'd laughed, ‘but it's not. A Blunderbuss was an old-fashioned gun, and a lot more lethal than it sounds — just like I'll be once I'm all trained up. So there!'

But — as usual — I couldn't come up with a single idea. The others drifted away, Blue-bum lolloping behind them; I leaned against a tree and took out my larigot to help me think. I'd played it in the stillness of the previous evening; more and more I was finding refuge and strength in its music. It seemed to bridge the gap between past and future, in my imagination at least: to draw my father, my mother and my lost brother closer, into a magical circle of silver …

A shadow fell over me and I broke off, startled. It was the Masked Man. As always, his face was obscured by his leather hood, but I could feel the intensity of his gaze behind the narrow slits. ‘Whistler,' he said. His voice was muffled and
indistinct, but the single word was unmistakable.

I nearly dropped my larigot. ‘What? Who …'

‘Sometimes we choose our own name, and sometimes it is chosen for us. And sometimes the name chooses itself …
Whistler
.' He watched me a moment more, then turned and walked away.

I stared after him, then down at my larigot. It felt cool, smooth, familiar between my fingers … part of me, like it always had.

Yes, that was it. Whistler.

Sometimes the name chooses itself
. But it hadn't. He had chosen it for me … whoever he was.

I lost track of time in the days that followed.

Between travelling, eating and sleeping, we did almost nothing but train. Our only free time was in the evenings, when Borg joined the circle of men passing a wineskin round their campfire and the Masked Man disappeared who knew where. The rest of us relaxed by the fire: I'd play my larigot, or Gen would make up a story; we'd talk, sing songs or play blow-sticks.

Lyulf had whittled us each our own pipe from a bamboo-like plant with a hollow centre; Blade would rig the target — rather gruesomely a human body, arms raised and legs spread, the heart and other vital organs marked in red and scoring highest — on a convenient tree, and it would be game on. We'd take turns to aim and fire with lethal-looking feathered darts that smacked into the target with a grisly
thwack
. At first Blade and Lyulf beat us easily, but we soon became more expert, till even Jamie — who was worst — was clamouring to play as soon as the dinner things were cleared away.

As for Blue-bum … at first he watched, looking lonely and left out. And then one night Lyulf handed him his own little mini-pipe. ‘The fellowship of the arena includes us all,' he said solemnly, a twinkle in his eye, ‘even you, Blue-bum.' Who'd have guessed what a tiger would be unleashed? Blue-bum spent every spare moment practising, and was soon better than us all. He showed a fierce and not always sporting spirit, once snapping his blow-stick in half and going off to sulk at the top of a tree when Blade beat him by a whisker — a reminder that the old Weevil was still in there somewhere, I told myself with a smile.

During the day we lived and breathed training. At first Lyulf kept us together to learn the basics: cuts, thrusts, attack and counterattack, grappling, disarming, and, ‘most important of all', as Jamie said — avoidance.

‘I'm hopeless!' Jamie wailed miserably on the third day, after he'd tripped over his own sword and fallen flat on his face at Lyulf's feet.

‘Not so,' replied Lyulf, while the rest of us looked hurriedly away to hide our smiles. ‘In a circus troupe there are many different roles. It is time you all began to specialise.'

From then on, training switched to one-on-one. For Kenta and Gen, out came tall tridents that reminded me with a shudder of the Mauler, and nets weighted at the edges with iron balls. ‘You girls are swift and agile,' Lyulf told them. ‘We will work on developing those abilities, together with your stamina.'

To Rich's initial disgust, most of his training took place with no weapon. ‘You will never make a swordsman, Tornado,' Lyulf told him bluntly; ‘you do not have the subtlety. Your strength lies in your physical power. I will teach you a few simple strategies for disarming your opponent; once the weapons are out of the way you will come into your own.' Despite himself, Richard soon began to relish the hand-to-hand combat techniques Lyulf schooled him in: the throws, rolls, kicks, punches, locks, and close-quarter knife-work.

‘And for you, Blunderbuss,' said Lyulf gravely, ‘something rather different is called for — and for that, Blade must be your teacher.' Off they went together day after day to practice whatever it was in private. They'd return hours later, Jamie grubby, dishevelled and looking very pleased with himself; Blade uncharacteristically mysterious, a brighter-than-usual sparkle in her eyes. It was clear the two of them had some kind of secret, and Gen for one didn't seem to like it, though she didn't say so.

It was only me who didn't seem to have any special role. I longed to ask what my strength was, what my speciality was going to be … but I couldn't find the courage. It wasn't that I was worried Lyulf would growl at me: we'd all come to know him well enough to trust him completely, despite — or maybe because of — his characteristic grimness. I was afraid he'd have to admit I didn't have one — that in each of the others he could see talent of some kind, while with me he was floundering in the dark.

For days I plugged on with the wooden sword I'd started with, but it felt as clumsy and unresponsive as a log of wood in my hand; Lyulf, watching me, scowled and shook his head.

He put the sword aside and switched me to a wider-bladed broadsword, with one of the padded leather ‘Frisbees' — a miniature shield or ‘buckler' — strapped to my left forearm; but still he didn't seem satisfied. The buckler was exchanged for a long-bladed wooden dagger, the heavy sword for a lighter version with a longer blade. I sparred two-handed with Blade, getting the feel of the new weapons while Lyulf stood and watched, arms folded, face like thunder. ‘What's the matter with me?' I muttered miserably to Blade during a brief break. ‘What am I doing wrong?'

‘Nothing,' she replied with a grin. ‘Don't let it bother you. It's Lyulf. He's never happy till he's found the perfect combination of man — or woman — and weapon. Bear with him and be patient.'

For the next few nights Lyulf didn't join us round the campfire. His absence left an emptiness: though he never said much, his presence was a force that generated heat and energy, like the fire itself … unlike the Masked Man, who prowled in and out of the circle almost unnoticed, now here, now gone, always so silent I wondered if I'd imagined those few muffled words.

Then after breakfast one day Lyulf arrived for my training session carrying a long object wrapped in his cloak, in his eyes a mysterious gleam. ‘Well, Whistler, let us see how you fare with this,' he said, allowing the cloak to fall away. I stared, speechless. Resting on his palms was a perfect replica of my father's sword made of wood. Length and breadth of blade, balance and proportion were identical; even the hilt had been faithfully copied, right down to the leather binding round the grip. But how? When?

Casting my mind back, I realised when it must have been. Blade had asked to see my sword soon after we joined the troupe; I'd unsheathed it and passed it over, and she'd admired it for a minute or so before returning it. I hadn't even realised Lyulf was there. In those few moments he must have memorised every detail, even down to the tracery of leaves on the flat of the blade. For the first time I had an inkling of the extent of Lyulf's mastery. A weapon of any kind, once glimpsed, memorised instantly in minute detail … and now reproduced — for me.

Blood rushed to my face; I didn't know what to say. I glanced up, hoping he wouldn't notice my tears. Our eyes met in an instant of connection so powerful it jolted through me like an electric shock. I blinked, confused and shaken … and the moment was past.

‘No need,' Lyulf was saying gruffly, as if in answer to a ‘thank you' I didn't even know I'd spoken.

From the first moment it was as if the wooden sword was alive in my hand. Now at last I saw a smile in Lyulf's eyes as he lowered the point of his own practice sword and stepped back, wiping his face on his sleeve. Blade, ‘happening' to pass at that moment, threw me an impudent grin and a wink. I couldn't help grinning back, light-headed with relief and a savage kind of joy. I hadn't realised till then how important it seemed to be for me to be good at this … and to see the approval in Lyulf's eyes.

That afternoon he called the Masked Man over. ‘It is time you sparred with a partner other than myself and Blade,' he told me. I put my new sword on guard with a sinking heart. I'd seen how good the hooded stranger was … but I'd rather have died than let Lyulf know how I felt.

The two blades touched, lightly as feathers … and I felt the weirdest sensation. It was as if the wooden blade of my sword was a live conduit, an antenna telegraphing information to my brain. I felt a frown gather behind the leather mask, and my own brain answered with a grin of triumph: so —
he'd felt it too. And he didn't like it.

Slowly, we began to circle. The blades touched, parted, touched again — and each time they touched, the connection was there. Like a cat's whisker in the dark, semaphoring the other blade's intention the instant it was formulated. Now the Masked Man's sword wasn't a blur; I could follow its movements, almost as if they were in slow motion, tracking them, anticipating them, countering them with my own instinctive parries and thrusts.

Strangest of all, for the first time the wooden sword gave me a sense of
knowing
my adversary — not
who
he was, but
what
he was — his inner core, as Blade would say. With Lyulf, it was crackling energy, fierce as a wolf, bright as a flame. But with the Masked Man the touching blades transmitted a darker force, muted and strangely compelling … and with it came an unsettling sense of recognition, almost as if, were the mask removed, the face beneath might be as familiar as my own.