Ferals

Alissia's POV

The sun beats down mercilessly on the sandy arena floor. The sound of steel clashing against steel rings out over the din of the hundreds gathered to watch and participate in today’s events.

Sweat trickles down my spine as I stretch and rub the sore muscles of my shoulders, neck and arms. Today is Proving Day and I have spent the last four hours in a brutal competition, know as the Trials, consisting of archery, knife throwing, and several bouts of one on one combat using daggers, spears, short swords, and shields. There is only one event left and that is the Grand Melee.

The rules of the melee are simple. No killing, no weapons. Fight until your opponent submits or is rendered unconscious. The men attending are divided into groups of fifty and enter the arena to do battle. The last ten men standing of each group will move to the next round. At the end of the second round, the last ten men will move on to battle each other in the final round. The last three standing of the final ten will be rewarded automatic acceptance and a higher rank at entry into the King’s service.

The Proving is held once every four years and every able bodied man between the ages of eighteen and twenty one in the kingdom are required to attend. During the Trials, the men are observed and graded by the Officers. The ones that are good with weapons, or show potential are then allowed to participate in the melee. The ones that are weak and show no promise are dismissed. Everyone that makes it to the second round of the melee are usually accepted into the King’s service, however, all candidates must be approved by the General. This year there are two hundred forty nine men that have proven themselves worthy of the melee, and one woman, Alessia Stone… me.

I blow out a nervous breath and wipe the beading sweat from my brow. I pull my long, snowy white hair back and plait it into a severe braid, wrap it around itself into a knot at the base of my neck and secure it tightly. My one vanity that I refuse to cut. That said, it only took one time for my hair to be used against me. Five years ago, as I was alone in the training room late at night, practicing maneuvers with a stave, a drunk recruit snuck up behind me, grabbed me by the hair and attempted to drag me into the locker room. Fortunately, one of the Officers happened to be walking by and over heard my screams. He intervened before anything tragic could happen. After he took the recruit to the holding cells, he turned and grabbed my arm and shoved a small stiletto dagger up my sleeve. He then gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever received. “If someone grabs you by the hair, don’t fight, don’t pull away, get close, and shove this between their ribs.” Never again will I let my hair serve as a weak point for someone to use against me during combat.

After securing my hair and adjusting my combat leathers, I jostle my way through the throng of recruits to refill my flask of water. I survey the lot of them, looking for tells and weaknesses as they practice maneuvers and tactics. Most are farmers and sons of craftsmen and merchants, they do not pose much concern. I still watch them vigilantly though, as I learned at an early age not to underestimate my opponent, a lesson I will teach to many men as well. The ones I need to be concerned about are lounging about and resting just as I am. They are the sons of the men who are already in the forces. They also know not to practice in public.

I finally make it to the water pump, fill my flask and take a long drink to quench my parched throat. A cold shiver, that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water, runs down my spine. Searching the crowd, I drop my flask back into the leather belt around my waist, and lightly trace the scar that runs down through my left eye. As I lift my gaze up to the mezzanine, I can feel his steely gray eyes boring into me, the General. He scowls down at me as he leans over to whisper into King Henry’s ear. The feeling of his eyes on me sends shivers up and down my spine, and makes my scar tingle.

“Get up! Do it again, you will not leave here until you defeat your opponent.”  The General snarls.  I grind my teeth against the sting of tears welling behind my eyes, and spit a glob of blood onto the worn rubber mat of the training center floor.  Willing myself not to cry, I rise on shaky legs and raise the wooden training sword into a fighting stance.  My arms shake at the weight of the heavy wooden sword.  The soldier standing before me looks down at me with a tormented expression on his face. He mouths “ I’m sorry.” As his eyes silently beg for forgiveness.

“Sir, she’s only eight years old, maybe we should…” he is cut off as the General jerks the soldiers training sword from his grip and backhands him, then slings the sword across the room. 

“ I gave you an order, are you refusing an order private?” The General roars into the poor mans face.

“No, Sir, I’m sorry Sir.” The soldier stammers. The General shoves the soldier to the ground and draws his own steel sword.

Blood pounds in my ears as he lunges at me. Spittle flies from his lips as he bellows, "She’s. MY. Daughter…” He lunges and I block his lunge and spin away from the attack.  “And. I. Say…” he thrusts and slashes,  grunting I barely parry in time. “Showing. Her. Mercy...” I jump and roll away from a low swing then scramble to my feet. “Will. Make. Her. WEAK!” He screams as I raise my training sword to block his heavy, downward blow, my wooden training sword splinters as the steel broadsword cleaves through it.  The razor sharp tip catches me above my left eye and slices through my brow to my cheek.

The soldier’s face pales and he trembles.  I drop to my knees screaming, clutching my face as ribbons of crimson flow between my fingers.

“Pathetic, weak, useless girl.”  I hear my father rumbles as he stalks from the room and everything fades to black.