NaNoWriMo-vel Chapter 9

Chapter Nine - Hit That

Blank sank to his seat in relief once the battle was over. “That was far too intense for me.” He panted, “I believe I’ll be more content in writing down these sorts of skirmishes as opposed to witnessing them for myself.”

Narche just laughed, “You spend your days surrounded by books, I wager.”

“Truth be told I’m usually found at a client’s house. Most scribes are summoned to a home in order to record all sorts of lore, made up or real. But I have heard of enough tales, I’ve pictured them in my head but I never thought I’d actually get to see the real thing. It is a different experience altogether for me.” He admitted. “I wish I had a little more spine, apart from my work there’s little excitement in my life. It must be nice to be able to take part in battles. If I ever find myself in such a situation, I fear I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“If you manage to live through your first taste of combat, you learn from it. You grow from it. You need to. Otherwise the only things you’ll have to show for it in the end are a few new mouths that will never shut.” Narche spoke solemnly.

“Why did you become the healer of your group? I mean, you seem built for the fray.” Blank asked.

The man with sky-colored hair looked thoughtful for a moment, “I guess it was when I saw Surge. But I don’t think it’s really any of my business to tell you the whole thing. Then again you can’t very well ask Surge himself since he was facedown when I met him.” Rubbing the back of his head, Narche seemed torn. “The others were all in the infirmary and Surge’s opponent can’t speak anymore. His throat never healed right, though I did do my best to fix him until the best healers got to him.”

Blank was now officially curious but he could read the reluctance in Narche’s eyes to share more. It didn’t seem fair for him to prod the bright tressed unofficial healer further, nor was it safe. Still, he kept the idea in the back of his mind to ask and promptly remembered his earlier note to ask the Edelbertons of what would befall any poor soul who had the misfortune of listening to Feste. To make certain he wouldn’t forget this time, he quickly jotted this down on his hand. It wouldn’t do to have him writing personal things on the tome Raoul had given him. That would be highly unprofessional.

The arena was filled with a hum of idle murmurs, but the scribe heard them only as white noise, static. You could easily lose yourself in them without ever realizing you were listening to something until silence falls. Narche had lost all desire to converse with the scribe.

Then again, Blank thought the azure-haired man had simply forgotten he was there. Though he hoped that Narche’s warrior instincts would not permit him to commit such a careless thing. Certainly Blank posed no threat to anyone, not even to former clients for the scribe prided himself far too much in his work and professionalism to allow him to divulge any secrets. Unless bewitched with a spell or some sort of potion. Even then, Blank would like to believe his will was made of sterner stuff that would not bend to such cheap tactics.

He neither tried nor wanted to strike up a conversation with Narche, knowing that his curiosity might surface once again and he’d risk offending (or worse angering) Surge’s friend. But warriors did not always deal with discomfort with violence, it would be foolish and insulting to assume so. Still, there was something that kept Blank’s tongue in check, though he assured himself that it had nothing to do with the constant clenching and unclenching of Narche’s fists.

The scribe’s thoughts seemed focused on his own assumptions regarding the matter. Plucking snippets of past recollections and passages from old recorded exploits from the recesses of his mind (as one would when choosing an attire for a very special occasion) Blank tried his best to muse over this curiosity.

It must have something to do with Surge’s berserker state, most definitely. Two people have confirmed this, Miss Sharel and Narche and neither seem to benefit from lying. Narche admitted that he had chosen to take on the role of bone setter and flesh mender when he met Surge. But what could such a friendly fellow have done, have shown Narche to cause him to give up the warrior’s path? For all Blank pondered, he was left dejectedly to decide that he would have to ask Surge himself. Imagination was never really Blank’s strong point. Perhaps if he had more of it he’d have been able to stand out more and people would have taken notice.

Rather than be passed over not out of spite or ill feelings but simply because no one realized he was there. Blank didn’t know which was worse, the malicious intention of being ignored or the mere fact he wasn’t important enough to be remembered? His thoughts were interrupted when the reassuring buzz of the arena panned into a dead silence. Curiously, he glanced at the ring but found it to be empty.

Turning his attention back to Narche, Blank felt slightly delighted that the amber-eyed man had not forgotten his presence but had merely been in deep thought. Though the cold sweat that had broken over the bright-haired man’s brow seemed to indicate his musings were not as scholarly or as pleasant as the scribe’s had been.

“The last fight’s about to start. Vrin’s too banged up to continue, that and he seems not to wish to face his would-be opponent.” Narche smirked a sympathetic smirk, or at least as sympathetic as smirks went.

“Oh? Who was he supposed to face?”

“Do you only listen when people are telling you to write stuff?” Narche snorted, “It’s Surge naturally. Though that means he wins his match against Vrin by default and is automatically going to face the last man remaining. Let’s hope Surge doesn’t get struck by fancy tonight. For his opponent’s sake.”

“I shouldn’t think Surge will need to tap into his berserker abilities as you described earlier.” Blank seemed confident.

Narche looked as if he wished he could say the same, “He’s used it on far weaker people.”

“Well, Kairhn should have set up some safety measures, unless he wants an excuse to kill his own cousin. But you’ve run in their circles far longer than I have, so you’d have more right and reason to judge so.” Blank half shuddered and half shrugged at the possibility. Chills ran up his spine when Narche nodded in accordance at his suggestion.

“I trust Kairhn as much as a wolf can deny his urge to howl.”

That day was just filled with dread, wasn’t it? Blank hoped to the gods and unseen forces above that the rest of his days were not as ominous as this had been.

* * * * *

Surge and his opponent emerged into the ring, the differences in feature and form even more evident once they stood before each other. The other man was clean shaven, with features that seemed to have been chiseled from stone. His entire body seemed to be made completely out of iron with thick, pulsating veins protruding grotesquely beneath stretched hide. His motions were swift for such hulking proportions, surprising many when made the first move. Heavy, powerful feet with ground devouring strides charged at the Edelberton.

Surge was lanky, awkward, all elbows and knees rather than the sculpted, well-toned muscles one imagines a warrior was supposed to possess. He looked as if even the slightest wind could knock him off his feet, and the beret adorning his head made him look more ridiculous than intimidating. But such was his charm, and his advantage to be underestimated and looked down upon as a lesser fighter. Easily side-stepping any attack the larger man threw.

The better fighters, Narche had told Blank, never made the mistake of underestimating their opponent. Overestimating was not nearly as grave an error, but it helped mentally prepare them for the worst possible outcome. It was the novices, the greenhorns who would judge their opponents based solely on appearance. Surge was strong, contrary to what his thin frame may suggest. His feet were clad in the very gales themselves, though anyone could easily guess that from his spry gait. But what few people ever suspected that behind the boyish smile and the gentle-looking eyes existed a demon.

“Surge has a tendency to think all his foes are superior to him.” Narche seemed more willing to talk, having decided that there was something cathartic about sharing his thoughts and opinions with Blank. “Somehow I think this gives him an excuse to go berserk. It takes so little for him to give in to his urges.”

“Do you ever regret hurting anyone you’ve fought?”

“Hurting? No. Killing? Some.” Narche admitted, “But Surge...” His words died on his lips as he shook his head as if managing to keep himself from committing a grave transgression. “I don’t think it would be wise for me to speak of him in such a way. You should ask his cousin, Sharel about him. They’ve grown rather fond of each other ever since she became a well-known beast tamer.”

Blank found it safe to assume it was about that time she became a consort that Surge and Sharel become fond of each other. The envelope in his jacket started to push and poke at Blank, irritated that the scribe had stopped recording the battles. He excused himself from Narche who was tact enough not to point out the odd stirrings in the non-warrior’s garments.

The scribe plodded towards one of the passages connected the arena to the estate and stood beneath one of the torches that lit the long strip of road. He had barely brought out the envelope when the parchment zoomed out to angrily smack Blank’s nose.

What are you doing getting all chummy with that man rather than writing down my nephew’s exploits? You also forgot to write down that most climactic battle between Rass and Vrin!

“Begging your pardons, sir, but my services is technically restricted to transcribing the issues you were never able to learn when you still breathed.” Blank wrinkled his nose in disdain. “I am not being paid extra for those other bouts I have written down, and I would not even have managed that were it not for the man whom I was getting chummy with.”

The roar of the crowd reached Blank’s ears, as it did Raoul’s it seemed for the parchment gave the scribe a swift, stinging paper-cut across the bridge of his nose.

What are you doing standing around here for?! Go! Go! I can’t see what’s going on if the envelope isn’t present at the location!

Blank was not one for thinking profanity, let alone muttering it. But his patience had been tried the entire day and he felt himself entitled to a choice expletive or two. Stuffing the envelope back into his jacket, Blank hurried back to see what had caused such a reaction.

Surge with his beret now buried beneath rubble, was straddling his opponent while his fists mercilessly pounding into the larger man’s face. Blank wasn’t certain if you could even call the bloody mess of flesh and muscle becoming even more bloodied and messy by the second the remnants of a face. Over and over again he heard Kairhn’s voice yelling: “No fatalities Surge! What are you doing?!”

The worbles ventured as close as they could to Surge without risking their own lives and they projected throughout the entire arena the maddened delight that twisted the young Edelberton’s features into a beast. His mouth was curled in a wicked snarl, his eyes ablaze from the sight of blood. Were it not for such cruel conditions, the scribe would have sympathized with the sheer joy Surge emanated.

Blank shuddered, visibly, unashamed and unconcerned whether it made him look less of a man. Some of the weak-hearted guests had fainted, while the rowdier ones cheered Surge on.

It was then the scribe spotted Narche grabbing Kairhn by the collar, the azure-haired man was shaking the latter roughly while yelling. Blank was not a lip-reader but as he rushed towards the two (along with a slew of guards) he used his talents to drown out the rest of the noise and focused on what Narche said.

“-You idiot! You knew Surge would have gone berserk and you let him join all the same!”

“Do you have so little faith in your comrade? And you call yourself his friend.” Kairhn sneered, unaffected by the rough handling. Narche was suddenly gripped in a choke-hold as several guards pulled him away from Kairhn.

“He’s going to kill that man unless you do something!” the azure-haired man yelled.

“Fine, fine, I meant to give him a few more minutes to try to snap back to his senses but since you insist so passionately,” Kairhn merely adjusted his clothing before turning his gaze to his cousin. Speaking directly to a worble, Kairhn’s amplified voice declared “The winner of this battle is Surge! If he ceases his attacks he shall be disqualified!”

And Surge instantly stopped moving. Whatever spell had fallen upon him or trance he had been in, Kairhn’s words managed to calm the young Edelberton back into his friendly, affable state.