Despite the reasoning, the week of bereavement was a blessing. Tammer had never suffered losses quite like the ones he had in the last few days, but wrestling others to the ground and knocking them senseless with wooden swords was certainly cathartic. He had done other things to help ease the ache in his heart and soul; he wrote a letter to Gentren’s family expressing his condolences and shared grief, and he wrote to his mother thanking her for telling him that Kata belonged to someone else. At the time, those letters had stung afresh, but given the space of a few days, he felt lighter and calmer.
Still, his pain welcomed the release of the sword.
Cynically, Tammer appreciated the timing. Had he still been on duty, he wouldn’t have had such a perfect opportunity to train for the upcoming games. He was certain that he still would have done fine, but now he could only do that much better. Thankfully, there were a plethora of opponents to be had. Athletes from all over Alfreyad travelled to Darluth to compete in the games. Those from the Far End, Back End, and Northern and Southern Wilds arrived earlier than those more local, and they were always happy to spar with Tammer. It was a fine line he tread. Yes, he wanted to be sharp and practiced, but he didn’t want to reveal any of his cleverer tricks to his potential opponents.
He would see Abel practicing as well every once in a while. She’d be at the archery range, standing straight and stiff, angling her bow just right, and then she’d release. More often than not, she hit the bullseye or very near to it; occasionally, it was a little more off. Tammer wondered if this was to throw off her competition; she never seemed too bothered when she missed.
His newfound “friend” confounded him, probably because he felt somewhat conned into the friendship to begin with. At the pub she was so animated, staggering, uncouth, but when the bow was in her hands she was calm and still as a pool in a mountain cave. He didn’t know much about archery himself, but watching how she held herself as she drew the bowstring, so sure and steady, he felt a twinge of fear, as if he was her prey.
Then she saw him watching her, and she smiled like a fox before retrieving her arrows and sauntering off with a wave. It sent a chill up his spine.
“Oy!” WHACK.
“Ouch!” Tammer cried, grabbing his head. His sparring partner glared at him, hefting the large wooden broadsword onto his shoulder. He was a broad, burly man from a small village in the Wilds, shirtless and pink and sweating.
“Eyes back here, broyo!” the man said. Tammer hadn’t asked for his name, nor had the man given it. “You can gander at the lasses when we’re done.”
“I wasn’t gandering,” Tammer said, setting his feet and pointing the tip of his sword at his partner.
“Aye, sure, and I’m the sweet and darling Princess Halia,” he said, dipping into a curtsey so unrefined, it looked more like he needed to relieve himself. “You wanna spar? Let’s spar. I didn’t walk a week through the blasting rain and mud to ogle.”
“I’m waiting on you, friend,” Tammer said with a half smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you have plenty of time to ogle.”
The man let out a roaring belly laugh then took his place. “Sure, sure, whate’er you say, broyo.”
“Ready?” The man nodded. “Fence.”
They each started cautiously, circling each other before offering a salvo. They’d already done a couple of practice bouts, so each man had an idea as to the other’s style; Tammer sported a few fresh bruises for the lesson. What Tammer had in speed, the man made up in brute strength. Though both held back on the ferocity of their strikes for the sake of practice, Tammer hoped he would not have to face this man on the bracket; the steel would be dull, but it could still break bones, and no one would have any qualms about doing so, not with a boon on the line.
Tammer lunged forward, looking to poke the man with the tip of his sword. The man swung his blade in an arc and parried it away, then countered with a slash to the legs. Tammer easily sidestepped, but he put in so much distance he couldn’t immediately respond. They circled once again.
This time the man opened, dancing in on light feet and bringing his sword up and over to crash on Tammer’s head. Neither of them wore helms - if it landed, Tammer would surely have a concussion, even with the relatively light blows they were trading. He snapped his sword up, catching the blade which slid down into Tammer’s guard. He pulled back and angled the tip of his blade at his opponent, keeping his weapon locked on the guard. Tammer went for another thrust, but the man pulled back with it, and then they were pressing into each other, blades caught in a tangled mess between them. So far, no points had been scored.
“You’re ruthless,” Tammer said through clenched teeth.
“Ha ha! Just wait until the games!” he said, a glint in his eye. Then he gave an almighty shove and Tammer stumbled away.
The man didn’t wait - he darted forward and before Tammer could get his feet planted under him, WHACK. The man gave him a quick smack on the collarbone. In real combat, a fatal hit. Immediate victory, and plus five points.
“Damn,” Tammer said, taking a knee and rubbing the spot. He grinned up at his sparring partner and saluted him. “Well played, my friend. That was short.”
“You must be rusty, broyo,” the man teased, winking. He offered a hand and pulled Tammer to his feet. “Never close distance with a man that’s more muscle than skill. Skill gets you far, but no amount of skill beats the most ancient of rules.” He puffed out his chest and flexed. “Big man push small man down.”
Tammer threw his head back and laughed. “You got me there,” he said, voice shaking. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” He was still chuckling as he dusted himself off. “What’s your name?”
“Garth,” the man said, extending his hand. “From Lee’s Way.”
Tammer shook it heartily. “Tammer. Where is Lee’s Way? I think I’ve heard of the place in passing, but can’t recall ever seeing it on a map.”
“Aye, you’re Captain Tammer, then,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t have heard of it; it’s just a pinprick of a town in the Wilds, closer to the Far End and near the South Wilds. It’s a rare thing for us to make it on maps; most cartographers pass us right on by.”
The two of them headed towards the temporary shed that held practice weapons for the participants. “I’ve been hearing about you all over,” Garth said. “You’re supposed to be the favorite to win.”
“In Darluth, maybe,” Tammer said with a wince. “Given today, I’m not sure how likely that is.”
“Come now, you and I both were holding back. You were not so reckless in our first bouts. I can tell, there’s more to you than you’re letting on.”
Tammer scratched his beard. They put their weapons on the racks for the squire to inspect and clean. In truth, Tammer was holding back. He was holding back quite a lot. He had spent years training with broadswords, short swords, hand-and-a-half swords, falchions, whatever blade the armsmaster kept in his possession, Tammer had touched it at some time. Though Garth was strong, it was possible to best him - but not without taking a beating on the way. Tammer had thrown the last bout, in part to avoid getting too battered before the games, but also because he just wanted to have time to himself.
“Swordsmanship is only half the battle,” Tammer said. “I still have to beat in hand-to-hand; or beat the monster that beats you.”
“Don’t worry,” Garth said, waving a hand. “I’m not entering that.”
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“Why not? You have a really strong chance.”
Garth patted his hip. “Ornery bones,” he said, shaking his head. “Darn thing pops out if I’m too rough on it, and it’s almost ratting season. The wife can’t afford to have me bedded up for weeks, and I can’t afford to have the wife nursing me in the meantime.”
Tammer smiled. “Well, I hope ratting season goes well for you,” he said. “But if you don’t mind me asking, if you don’t intend to win, why did you come to participate in the games?”
“A bet,” he said. “My brother-in-law Tarf is a little gremlin. Thinks he’s the best ratter, the best noodler, the best horseman. You name it, he’s the best at it. I wouldn’t put it past him to claim he’s the best at child birthing, to be honest. Well, Tarf tells me he’s the best swordsman, but the only sword the bastard’s ever seen is , so I tell him he’s full of it. He tells me that he
a sword back before I met my wife. Which, mind you, Lee’s Way is the size of a coin, so telling me something happened before I met anyone must be referring to happenings . But no, Tarf says to me that he and Sera and their parents used to live somewhere for a time, and that’s where he learned the ways of the sword. That their neighbor in some godsforsaken town in the Back End was some master of the blade and he taught the king himself the art, and that the old man saw Tarf - little skin-and-bones Tarf, blow away in a breeze Tarf - and thinks he’ll be some great warrior one day and decides to teach him.”
Garth barked out a laugh and dunked his head in a barrel full of water. Tammer waited for him to resurface, shaking his head in a cascade of droplets. “All of that is codswallop,” he said, wringing out his beard. “They didn’t leave at all at any time. We all would have noticed and said something, and I was young, but I wasn’t . Of course, Sera doesn’t want to get involved. I asked her to call him on it, and she just rolled her eyes and called us damn fools. So I says to Tarf, ‘Alright, if you’re such a , then prove it to me in the games. We’ll go to Darluth, best man wins.’”
“So he’s here with you?” Tammer said, looking around.
“Aye, he is, broyo,” Garth said. “He’s been hiding in our room at the inn since we arrived. To , he says.” He spat. “I’m lucky my Sera’s such a good woman. No idea what went wrong with Tarf, but at least it’s given us a reason to see the wider world. Never been to Darluth before.”
“What do you get if you win the bet?”
“He has to reap my fields in the fall. Before his own,” Garth said. “The terms were ‘whoever bests the stronger man.’ And, frankly, if by some miracle he does better than me the day of, there’s no way he could beat you. And I’ve already beaten you today, so he’ll be working twice as hard come harvest.”
“But it’s not the tournament,” Tammer said, frowning.
Garth tapped his temple with a meaty finger. “Tarf never said nothing about the tournament. Just whoever beats the stronger man.” Garth winked and grinned. “So, just to make sure I’m safe, be sure to win, eh? Save my ornery bones some strife.”
“I’ll certainly do my best.” They had come to the edge of the training grounds. The sun had almost set entirely, and his room was calling him. “This is where I leave you, my friend,” Tammer said, extending his hand. “I wish you the best of luck in the games.”
“You as well,” Garth said, taking it. “I’ll be watching. And if you happen to face Tarf, make sure to go for his left knee. It’s always been a bit shaky. Good night!”
The large man lumbered off into the night, presumably thinking about a tall glass of ale to help relieve the aches of training and of sharing a room with his brother-in-law. Tammer set off in the opposite direction, heading back to his room.
The streets of Darluth were quiet, but the inns, taverns, and homes he passed were glowing and warm, the cheery sounds of conversation, song, and jokes pouring out of them. The games were only a few days away, and the anticipation hung in the air like a haze. It was hard not to get high off of it, but Tammer knew that this was only a kindness the king had given his people. Once the games were over, the fighting would begin. The Abyss had declared war, and though the gears were turning in the background, that could only last so long. When the mask was removed, terror would grip Alfreyad and the entire world.
Darluth was an impressive city. Its taller buildings were made out of a pale limestone quarried in the western mountains, while the roads were laid out in a linear grid of hardened clay bricks. The smaller establishments were whitewashed and evenly thatched, and the lamp posts that lit the night were kept polished and clean. The queen had spent a good bit of her personal funds to commission artisans from all over the kingdom to create stoneworks, murals, and fountains throughout Darluth, including a few open stages in the city where bands of minstrels, actors, or circuses could perform for the ever-changing crowds. Of all the cities of Alfreyad, Darluth was a hub of learning, the arts, and military and spiritual strength. There were a number of pilgrimages from all corners of the country that found their ends, crawling on penitent knees, at the doors of the Grand Cathedral.
If Tammer was honest with himself, he had thought Darluth more his home than Castoon had been ever since he first saw laid eyes on it. In the last few days, though, that sense of belonging had been shaken. For years he’d seen himself as a beacon of strength in the defense of Alfreyad and the royal family. A small one, to be fair, one of a number, but still an essential thread in the greater tapestry. That had been arrogance, he realized. Of course the rest of the world would go on without him; it was doing so right now, while he and the rest of the second section were on leave.
And while they were gone, he had received no condolences, no well-wishes from anyone else in the Kingsguard. Yes, the rest of his platoon was away in other parts for the moment, but he had friends elsewhere in the guard, and no one had reached out to him at all. For the first couple days Tammer had still taken his meals in the dining hall with the rest, and none had approached him. Some stared, many whispered, but most ignored him. It had hurt, but mostly it confused him. Until he realized, they had only ever seen him as Captain Tammer, friendly and approachable, but one of rank. They were uncomfortable with Tammer Farmersson, the man who had seen the most horrible attack in recent history that caused the death of his dearest friend, the man who felt and grieved. Captains did not show weakness, and guards did not anything. They were what was needed, tools to portray a level of strength that had never been tested.
If he had been back in Castoon, his mother would have hugged him even though he was a grown man, and she would have made his favorite dish to try and ease some of his pain. His neighbors would have offered distractions in gifts and requests, and he would have accepted gratefully. He could have had a long talk with his father, if he had still been alive, about how to handle grief and how it was a measure of a man, and he would have a lesson for the future. Tammer regretted his youthful eagerness to leave Castoon behind. Darluth was indeed impressive, but for all it offered, none of it was a soft place to fall. The closest thing he had to that had been crushed beneath a gilded gauntlet, a challenge dropped from the sky.
Back in his cold room, Tammer breathed a sigh of relief and exhaustion. His leave had given him the mental space to relax and think, something he never had time for normally. He hadn’t realized exactly how stressed his body and mind were after the constant strain of the years. Now that he did have the time, the moments where he had to be around other people left him exhausted. Outside the four walls of his bedroom he was Captain Tammer of the Kingsguard, second section. Even on the training field, people knew him or knew of him. It was only in here, in his bed or at his little desk, where he could just be Tammer. That it was so small a place in the world depressed him.
Tammer sat down at his desk, lit the candle, and pulled out all the letters from his box. He kept every letter he’d ever received from home. Over his six years in Darluth, he’d had to rehome many of them into a larger box in his wardrobe. Many of them had faded over time, but under the scents of ink and parchment, they never lost the smell of home - grasses and woodsmoke and goats and tobacco. He held the stack up to his face and breathed it in, thinking back to his childhood.
It was a rare thing for him to be homesick. The only times he could remember the feeling were the days when he especially longed for Kata, but those were gone now.
After a moment, Tammer rifled through the letters and withdrew all the ones from her, placing the ones from his family to the side. She had learned her letters, but her schooling had stopped when she was quite young. That was common for Castoon. Tammer only had as much education as he did because his parents both agreed that their children should be prepared for whatever path they chose.
Kata’s letters were flecked with ink stains, her handwriting large and uncertain. He wondered how much time needed to pass before it stopped being beautiful.
Tammer smiled ruefully. At the time, this letter had bolstered his spirits. Now, he wasn’t sure whether or not it was her struggles with writing that made the words ring hollow.
One by one, Tammer picked up the letters and held them to the flame. , he thought grimmly. The silky soft ashes piled on his desk, turning it to an unlikely hearth.
