Trial of the Champion

By Christopher Proffitt

In days of old, dishonored soldiers and warriors who knew no other trade could choose to become rogue mercenaries that did little more than act as thugs and murderers or they could choose the path of the champion who would stand in for others during Trial by Combat. Hardly better than a serf or slave, a champion could hold no lands or titles, receive no charity, and sometimes faced the sentence of the accused upon defeat.

This is a tale of one such champion and his son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Proffitt
• Release date: Mar 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301724277

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Copyright

Published by Christopher L. Proffitt at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Christopher L. Proffitt

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Trial of the Champion

Saul! She yelled, Saul, I need you!

I’m right here, Mother, The young man turned toward her from where he sat on the edge of the straw bed. The length of the room barely separated them, but that short distance could have well been a league at this time of the day, What do you need?

She continued to stare out of the window, the shutters which were opened despite the wind and rain, that window that she had returned to over and over again to stare out of while pretending to wash the same set of wooden dishes one more time, Saul?

The young man raised his voice, "Mother, what is it?

She suddenly turned her head toward him, There you are.

I’ve always been here, Saul replied, What do you need?

You’ve chores, she said softly, sucking on the end of a slender pipe, the bulb glowing brightly to puff out what escaped being a small tendril of blue smoke curling up twirling into the air. The pungent smell of, she claimed, soothed her nerves. She blew out a lungful and then added, Get to them. Now.

Saul turned, holding up a slender length of blade with a simple leather-bound handle in one hand and a whetstone in the other, I am, Mother. I’m sharpening father’s swords right now.

She seemed confused for a moment, But the rain.

Saul shook his head, I’ve already carried the buckets from the creek. The clay is packed on the side of our home. The water won’t get in; I promise.

It’ll be your room that floods first, she chided, Be sure that the clay is packed well.

It is, Saul replied, It will hold until this storm passes.

Then continue with your chores for your father.

I am, Mother.

Saul hesitated but turned to watch his mother a little longer with a slight frown. The Lugh Grass that she burned in her slender pipe had been having a greater effect on her lately it seemed. That or she had been begun to use more than he’d witnessed. The latter he hoped, which might explain her obsession.

Dutifully, Saul turned back to his task, reaching forward to hang the newly sharpened sword onto the square-beaten iron nails sunk into the planks of seasoned wood that made up their house wall. It clattered noisily against the other weapons hanging there.

Leaning back, a deep breath puffing out his cheeks, Saul took in the wall that he could see. Beaten rusty square nails with beaten flat heads, many of which were set in pairs had been driven into the wall there, each pair held weapons of every type and style, instruments of his father’s craft. Defensively, most notably: His shields, helmets, vests, bracers with all sorts of armor pieces with varying degrees of articulated joints.

In two chests at the base of that wall were various suits of chain and heavy-woven cotton and wool to be worn underneath to prevent chafing and pinching.

Saul had attended to each and every item visible. Sharpening, cleaning, and otherwise polishing each piece with what had become expert hands. The heavy swords needed a rounded edge for carrying the weight of each stroke through flesh and bone alike while the light ones required a razor’s edge to slice through flesh to if not through the bone. The hammers and maces needed their points etched and angled for focusing the force through armor with bone-breaking precision.

The wooden shields and bucklers that could be saved despite their beatings had bosses and studs removed to be replaced the next day. The heavy metallic shields used in only certain events needed dents had beaten out or patched with squares of more metal until they simply needed to be replaced.

For his father’s style of battle, each pair of bracers stayed in a constant state of severe beating and wear.

The rest of the wall remained covered with the bunched, thick, and colorless drape cross-stitched throughout with copper wire. Held there by a strong iron bar above and below with a copper cable below, both lubricated by fat and wax for easy gliding for sliding. A poor man’s secured weapons cache, smartly prepared, as a cache could be in a house of planks and clay.

Saul often considered how much easier it would be to get to those weapons from the outside of the house than it would be from the inside. As if anyone would want the wares of a champion. There was nothing of any true worth in the entire lot. Nothing of any beauty or design.

It all had to do with utility. Any champion would know the wares of another champion: Cheap, efficient, and ready to do the job like none other.

Respect for his father’s pride prevented him from saying such things.

Instead, Saul focused himself on the tasks at hand. Secured behind the drape were two of three sets of armor: Light, Medium, and Heavy sets with similarly reinforced helmets.

Parting the rest of the drape, Saul expected to find the Light armor missing for his father’s duties this day. He’d been at the creek bank gathering clay when his father left and hadn’t noticed the Heavy armor’s absence until then.

Mother? He called, Why did Father wear the heavy armor?

She didn’t answer, back to staring out of the window. Saul looked back to the empty spot on the wall. He knew that his father preferred the agility and maneuverability of the lighter suits in his duties for the simple fact that he could win those fights. The heavy armor he wore only when he anticipated getting struck multiple times, as if on the field of battle where attacks could not be avoided.

Mother?

Her head snapped to and turned toward the young man, Hmm? What?

Are you worried about Father?

She smiled wistfully, "Of course not. Your father will be fine.