The warrior tasted blood from his cough, but he swallowed it, ignoring his burning throat for he would not give Burulgi the satisfaction of seeing him spit blood. The worn muscles of his marked back, shredded by splinters of the shattered render-post, bulged and paraded in a swelter of a champion's bloodsweat and a forgotten son's defiance against the afternoon heat.
Winter was coming to an end, but in the barren lands of Neredun, it was never not hot. The sun beat down on all through the entire year, and especially now, nearly naked and strung on a pole, the sun was oppressive.
None of the chieftains in the crowd dared utter a sound, even if they thought the king was as treating Sarengerel unfairly. He was the people’s Song Lord, after all, the highest ranking military officer in the king’s armies. His near naked body was on display for all to see, with tattoos telling stories of the battles he had fought, and by surviving, how he had won. No one…in the crowd or as competitors in other rending-posts, had nearly half the number of tattoos Sarengerel had. For the Neredun measure one another through song and battle, and in both Serengerel stood alone.
"Why do you press, child?" the Sheath asked as she rose from the King's side. She had the traditional peacock feathered headdress of the King’s concubine. "The gentle chiefs grow weary of your stubborn spirit, your foolish ideas of claiming a noble title. You are no noble. You are nobility twice-removed; or perhaps thrice if your true father was known."
Sarengerel saw a chain of shaking and grumbling heads. As the days wore on in the contests, he had stayed quiet and true to his purpose. "Our supposed nephew has suffered much today, alas the last several days," she continued. "He endured the jousts in the deep waters, the slaying of the beast. And now he suffers from the endless fiery glare of the Field God. But what is a day of fire and needles compared to a life muted from meaning, or any chance of a glorious destiny, when that chance was cleft from his blood-tree when his mother, the Sword's own true sister, returned home to the Field God two migrations ago."
The grumbling heads fell silent. The Sheath rode the silence like a cresting sunrise against the dunes. "The Sword, out of respect for his sister, asked you not to come to partake in this tourney. Yet half-blooded and arrogant you still rode to us. There is no bond for you here, child. No inheritance. No glory. You are a bastard, and by all the noble bloodnames here as witness, you shall die a bastard!"
The Sheath's accusation cracked the silence as the jeers slowly at first and then with great momentum filled the empty crevices of the arena. The jeers became chants, and the chants fed into a stomping of tribal staves. So quickly did such a champion fall out of favor. Just a week ago they were chanting his name. If he were to fall today, which tribe should call upon one of their warriors to take his place?
"Silence!" she cried as the heavy king rose. "The Sword of the Sunrise speaks!"
King Burulgi stared at the famed warrior, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He stroked his thick beard and raised his hand until it was quiet. "I am the Sword of the Sunrise. My Sheath speaks the truth before you.” He motioned to his concubine, who knelt before him.
“You are worthy of your battle-hardened reputation,” King Burulgi continued. “A finer warrior our peoples in this time have never seen. Though you deny it, you are Rootless, bound to no blood-tree. Still, for being Rootless I still have you lead my armies and will let you continue, even if the ancient hordes of Arkromenyon passed through our borders and stormed the riverlands. Yet as a Rootless I cannot have you by my side, sitting with the elders. There is no title-rug for you here. Your claim is forfeit. Why do you not relent, nephew? Why do you not abandon this dream?”
Sarengerel opened his mouth to speak, blood staining his lips. His eyes strained to see the King as he felt himself drift into darkness.
"Your daughter…because I will have your daughter…as my wife," he mustered before the world turned black.
He was there again, in the black hours before morning, when the hundred camp embers had smoldered into grey silence, the voices of men becoming muffled by the lyric of the night's stillness. Two days remained before King Burulgi's armies marched out to war against the invading Berenmen and yet Sarengerel, the king's boy nephew and youngest of his soldiers, laid wide awake listening to the quiet song of the night. When morning came, the men would march and leave him behind. He would not be among the warriors tattooing their bodies with the impending battle.
Should he die alone somewhere far from battle, would the men that found him try to read the stories of war written on his body but find no mention of the Berenmen? Would they brand him coward? When he ascended to the chambers of the Field God to be judged by all the Fathers, would they banish him from their side for not fighting in the battle? The king commanded that Sarengerel not join the fighting, out of respect for his mother. No, he would have to find a way to disobey the king's command and join the fighting. The Field God needed to be appeased.
Sarengerel shook his head. It was a good thing he did not believe in the nonsense of his fellow Neredunians, for while the country slept, Sarengerel smiled because even at his age he knew the truth of the gods and the world. He knew that the world began with a simple song. He stood up in the darkness and looked around. Everyone was fast asleep and he stood alone. He looked at his arms. They were thin, and without markings of war. He was a boy with a boy’s hands. Something didn't feel right. He wasn't a boy. He was a man. He wasn’t kept from war. He was a general of the King’s army.
Sarengerel shuddered back to consciousness. He hung from his bound hands and his feet were limp. He looked at his long arms with veins that ran like rivers through dozens of war markings. He was no longer a boy. He thought of that simple song that created the world and sang it to himself to keep awake and to tune out the jeers. He brought himself back to his feet and stood tall, though his arms and legs burned from standing. He looked at the sun; it was already late into the afternoon.
How long did he drift into unconsciousness? How long did he dangle from the chains, drooling and bleeding while the crowd laughed? He turned and looked at the other render-posts to see if the others were conscious. The sweat and blood in his eyes did not allow him a clear sight, so he had to assume they were all awake, and he was the weak one.
There were four events in the tournament. When the king could not father a son, the law demanded that he hold a tournament to determine the strongest to marry his daughter. While hundreds gathered for the tournament, the events had eliminated most of them. The jousting at sea had swept many into the deep. The pit fighting with fanged beasts resulted in many being eaten, and others forfeiting. And now, the day spent hanging from the render-post caused many bodies to fail in the heat without water. Those whose bodies did not fail often succumbed to madness. Sarengerel reminded himself why he was doing this. While others were looking to gain the princess’ hand in marriage and create a footing for their family lines, Sarengerel knew there were greater stakes that impacted the realm. And he knew he had to get past the stamina test of the rending-post, and then the stick fighting game before it was all over.
He continued singing for two more hours, his limbs feeling as if they were about to fall off. When they finally lit the torches as the sun began to descend, it gave Sarengerel a bit of hope that the test was ending. Guards untied him and he fell to the ground, a dust cloud billowing around him. He breathed in the dust and coughed. The sunburnt skin on his bald scalp stung with each cough. He rose to his feet and was met with a man with two wicker baskets with sticks. He reached into each basket and drew a stick that was painted red on one end, and another that was black on one end. He raised the sticks to the crowd to a combination of cheers and jeers.
A horn sounded and he knelt. He tried to survey the field at the other challengers to find the other who had red and black sticks. One random person in the field was his partner. Blue and red, yellow and blue, blue and black...he couldn't find red and black. He would have to fend for himself. With whatever energy he had left, he stood in a defensive stance. The other competitors uttered war cries. They were coming for him.
