Kalrin knew it was almost his turn to step out onto the battlefield.
It would be his tribe’s last chance to return home, to avoid the utter shame of defeat. It wasn’t that time was running out. On the battlefield, time was not measured. Every event, every movement, every dance, operated on its own time. The battle could not possibly be concluded by the arbitrary tick tock of a clock. It was done when it was done, when men were either neutralized, or brought home. It did not matter how much time was wasted. Time was a construct of the outside world, with its machines and its clocks. There were no clocks or mention of clocks on the field.
But while time itself was not a concern, Kalrin knew that opportunities were running out. In this outing alone two men had already been neutralized. In all likelihood, they would not return to the battle. Of all the warriors, he had been selected to be next. He wasn’t chosen by his tribe. The rules of the battle, decided on by the ancestors many generations ago, dictated that the warriors must be lined up in order before the battle can begin. Now, in the last outing of the final battle, fate had it that he was next in line.
He donned his helmet and shin guards, grabbed his staff, and stepped out of the cave. As was custom, he did a practice dance and twirled his staff around. The roars, hisses, and cheers of the villagers in the distance did not escape him, but did not concern him either. His focus was entirely on what was before him, aided by the juice of the cocotba leaves flowing through his gums and into the rest of his body.
He knew what he was up against. Just moments earlier, he had watched from the cave as, far in the distance, the wolf den opened, and out came an enemy warrior that Kalrin knew well, walking slowly to the middle of the field, stopping atop a small hill covered in a perfect, dark brown circle. He was answering the call after the one who had come before him, the one chosen to start, had withstood many stages of intense battle, had neutralized dozens of men, but had finally proven himself too tired to go on.
Kalrin approached the field and stopped about 20 yards away from where he knew his opponent would be standing. He did not look up at him quite yet. First, he danced. Breathing deeply, he held his staff before his face and peered at it intently before swinging it around. He then stepped forward, planted his right boot firmly into the ground, pedaling the dirt with his left. He bent his knees and then finally brought his eyes up to his opponent and pointed the staff at him.
Even though Kalrin had dueled with him before, his heart constricted with a jolt of fear as he looked into the bearded face of the mage before him. Verira, he was called, and known throughout the land as the most deadly of all wizards in the empire. Like a giant, he towered over the small hill upon which he stood, staffless, squarely facing Kalrin with one gauntlet held up in front of his face, eyes barely visible from beneath the brim of his hat, staring him down. Undeterred by his intimidating stance, Kalrin held firm in his own position and stared back. He kept his staff aimed at Verira for a moment, then pulled it back over his shoulder, gently waving it back and forth and awaiting the mage’s dance.
In an almost indiscernible gesture, the mage shook his head twice as the rest of his body remained squarely facing Kalrin. Then suddenly, he kicked his leg up, stomped on the ground, and hurled a fireball directly at Kalrin. As he threw it, warriors from both tribes all across the field crouched into a position of expectation.
Kalrin sucked in his belly and lifted his arms to narrowly escape being torched. The warriors in the field exhaled, straightened their legs and relaxed. Kalrin waited, and hearing nothing from the black-robed shaman behind him, stepped back to dance once again.
There were some who, because they did not understand, scoffed at the tedious observance of the dance; who called it superstitious, unproductive, a waste of time. The warriors themselves, of course, never questioned the rituals. To an outside observer, much of the battle itself would appear to be ornamental, overly elaborate or even showy, but every warrior of every tribe understood that all of the ceremony of battle, including the dance, was integrally linked to the battle itself. It was a way to summon the energies of the Gods into the very center of one’s being; to be fully present, conscious, undistracted. The dance was one of many of the cycles and rhythms of the battle. To put an end to it would be to succumb.
There were those who no longer even honored the battle itself, and had given up on it. Too slow, they complained. A bore. His elders had always explained that such people simply do not understand the patterns. “They have been led astray and deluded, believing that there is no value in being, but only in doing; believing that the mind must always be filled, diverted, entertained. The victims of the empire and its depravity are many.”
The final battle always came in autumn, before the last leaves fell. He was reminded of this when he felt a biting gust of cold wind against his face. Still, he danced, and as he did so, he looked into the distance. He saw warriors from his tribe in the field, clad in red. Three of his brothers. One to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead, each temporarily safe in the middle of a protected haven of dirt, but surrounded by the enemy on all sides, wearing the same black hats and striped gray robes as their leader Virera.
“I just have to bring them home,” Kalrin muttered to himself. “I can’t leave them stranded out there.” In this final outing of the battle, he wasn’t even worried about whether he would make it home himself.
Again, he stepped back in, dug in his heels, pedaled, bent his knees, pointed his staff directly at Virera, and waited. Again, the warriors in the distance held their breath and crouched in expectation. Again, Virera kicked his leg high, stomped on the ground, and hurled a fireball that Kalrin had to back away from in order to dodge. Again, the silence of the shaman. Kalrin relaxed as he knew he had now gained a slight advantage.
Again the dance. Another ball of flame. This one missed below his knees. Virera reared his head back and cursed the Gods loudly before spitting and preparing his next spell.
Kalrin felt a strange mix of relief and tremendous pressure. One more miss and he would bring one of his brothers home. But one wasn’t enough. And accepting a deal for one would mean he would give up his chance to bring them all home in one fell swoop. He would have to pass up on his own chance and leave his faith with the next warrior in line.
No one knew the exact reasons behind the rhythms and rules of the battlefield. Why a mage could cast only a certain amount of spells before letting a warrior walk and facing the next, or why the battle was waged in nine stages, as opposed to ten. But the ancestors had determined these things, and everyone knew there must be good reason for them. No one questioned the rhythms and rules any more than they questioned the four seasons, or the waxing and waning of the moon.
Kalrin looked to an elder to the left of the field for a sign, knowing what he would receive.
Again he danced, and stepped forward. Again Virera’s fireball. As the elder had instructed, he refrained from moving his staff. It was custom to make a mage prove himself after throwing three wayward balls, so he watched this one pass directly in front of him. From behind him he heard the shaman yell “Aiiiiiieee!” and felt his chest constrict.
Two more chances. He danced, peering at his staff and summoning his concentration once more. He looked out beyond the field and saw the villagers looking on. So many gazes filled with both hope and apprehension. They clung to their bread and sausage to calm their stomachs, guzzled erbe to calm their nerves. This final battle was being held in his tribe’s home town of Ycnic, and he recognized his compatriot villagers by their red garb. They were the ones he was here for.
Scattered between them in smaller numbers were those clad in gray and black stripes, who had presumably made the journey here all the way from the enemy’s city of Yern Wok.
For far too long the people of Ycnic and similar villages had suffered at the hands of the empire, whose capital was seated in the hellish, mercantile, mechanistic Yern Wok. Because of the city’s affluence and opulence, they were able to hire their warriors like mercenaries. This luxury was not available to Ycnic and other villages like it, none of which had the riches to recruit the most famous warriors in the empire, but instead had to raise them up directly from their surrounding farms. Kalrin himself was such a farm-bred warrior from the outskirts of Ycnic.
Yes, this battle was about much more than him and the warriors of the tribe. This was about the people of Ycnic, the people of all villages standing up to the most dominant, unforgiving, oppressive tribe of them all, and the greed and avarice that it had come to symbolize. It was about justice for the common man and his kin.
And for that reason, battles had always been a family affair. Villagers came in companies from far and wide, to take respite in the lush green field and witness the dance of the battle. Whether their tribe won or lost, all honored and revered the battle first. Just a few stages earlier, at an opportune break in the action, Kalrin had watched as villagers for both tribes stood up and sang together, of one voice, of one mind, of one accord, a song whose words and tune they had all learned from the elders when they were children; a song that had been passed down from the ancestors generation after generation, even if most did not know its origins. All sang with heartrending nostalgia of being taken out to the battlefield, of never coming home. Kalrin had always admired the brief but profound sense of peace and oneness that the song evoked in the crowd. It was sung ceremoniously before the end of every single battle, without fail.
Yes, the battle was much more than just a battle, and the rituals much more than superstition or entertainment.
And here, tonight, Kalrin found himself in the exact situation he had dreamed of ever since he was a child in Ycnic. The final battle of the season. The final outing of the battle. The final chance to bring his brothers home and claim victory.
These thoughts and others all flashed through his mind within seconds as he danced, but he maintained an awesome sense of calm, steadiness, and awareness. He pointed the staff at Virera, who stared at him from beneath the brim of his hat for an extra couple of moments that felt like a lifetime. Once again he kicked his leg up, stomped on the ground, and hurled a fireball.
In a split-second, Kalrin decided that this was the one, and keeping his eye on it, swung the staff with all his might. At the last second, and seemingly defying the odds of physics, the glowing white orb suddenly sank beneath his staff.
Kalrin cursed for having let himself be deceived. Virera’s magic was strong; he should have guessed that such a one was coming.
Last chance. The cheers, hisses, and whistles from the crowd droned in his ears. It defied logic, but somehow, despite the heat and pressure of the moment, Kalrin felt a buzzing in his head, a warmth in his chest and abdomen, and a profound sense of peace in his soul. He took a few extra steps in his dance as he stepped back into the box and faced Virera. As he eyed the bearded mage shaking his head with his eyes barely showing, something happened. He suddenly understood the spell that was to come. He could not have possibly explained it, but he knew. He gripped and ungripped his staff, but something told him not to point it. He simply waited for Virera to kick his leg, stomp, and sling what could end up being the last fireball of the season. In the distance, the warriors all crouched and held their breath.
Kalrin lifted his leg and planted it forward as he swung the staff with all his might. Crack!! For a moment the whole colosseum appeared to stand still. Kalrin watched as the ball sailed high above Virera, who anxiously snapped his neck back to watch it. Filled with an incredible surge of excitement, Kalrin began to sprint out onto the field. This was it. This was their chance. He saw his red-clad fellow warriors running, too, jumping almost, necks craned toward the ball that was still soaring through the air as Kalrin reached the first haven.
Could it be? The stuff from the myths of old?
As the ball reached its crest and began falling, the warrior in the center of the field was sprinting backward toward the wall that divided him and the rest of the warriors from the villagers. Desperately, but with laser focus, he tracked the ball, knowing that the unexpected had just occurred, that the battle may have just turned completely, and that it was up to him and only him to stop the ball from clearing that wall into the crowd of villagers, where it would never be found. The rules had always dictated that any ball that goes over the wall counts as a homecoming for the warrior who hit it and all of his tribe’s warriors on the field. He streaked back, felt himself approaching the wall, took two steps up the wall and stretched his gauntlet up as far as was humanly possible. But the ball sailed just over his reach.
As Kalrin began to register what was happening, he did not even try to contain his joy and excitement. If there were ever a time where it was permissible for a warrior to show emotion, this was it. His arms shot up as he rounded the first haven and touched the bag, catching a glimpse of Virera, head down, walking off the field and back to his cave. The red villagers of Ycnic were beside themselves in jubilation. It was all over, and no one could prevent that, but the rituals still dictated that he had to circle the entire field, touching every base, before returning home. As he rounded the third base and headed for home, he saw pure and utter ecstasy in the faces of the three brothers he had safely sent back home, as well as everyone else from the tribe who had stormed out from the cave and the wolf den to greet him.
He would go down in history and fame, but he was not thinking about that now. He was not thinking at all. His heart, body, and soul were all unflinchingly headed toward the embrace that awaited him as soon as he made it home.
The villagers in the surrounding cottages and taverns of the village of Ycnic, hardened by all the seasons of drought and scarcity, wept tears of joy as they heard a familiar voice booming through the loudspeakers: And this one belongs to the Reds!
