| Purchased
from Suma bint Nayn the Librarian in Zaikhal - 13.8N, 0.1E This story is from a parchment
that was found in Dereth:
There
came a time, in the reign of the Malik Taraj al-Saum, when the call went out for warriors.
This was a strange thing, for the land had known peace for many years, and no foe yet
loomed upon the horizons. The Gharu'ndim were a prosperous people, and the smiths forged
many more plowshares than swords. But still, even in the quietest of days, the need for
fighters sometimes arose.
It was a minor noble, the Mu'allim Fasair ibn
Jambuz, who sent out the call. From his manor in the hills of Qush, a dozen runners went
out, bearing missives scribed on the finest vellum. They traveled across the land, to the
cities and towns and also the camps amid the dunes, bearing his words to anyone who would
take up their blades and follow. Men from all over answered the call. Most were
youngsters, barely able to grow proper beards and eager to prove their mettle, but there
were older men as well, who had been fine swordsmen in their youth and had grown restless
for days of action.
By the time the messengers returned to
Fasair's manor, each led a score or more of the land's finest warriors - more than two
hundred and fifty in all.
Among these warriors came Ibriya bint Raglan.
This was some time ago, when the sight of women wearing armor and bearing swords was still
strange. In fact, Ibriya was unique within the host that descended upon Fasair's manor.
When she first presented herself to the Mu'allim's messenger, the other warriors responded
with jeers and mockery. The messenger himself tried to dissuade her from joining the
company, but she was adamant.
She went along, though the other warriors
scorned and avoided her, calling her a wanton girl who did not know her own station. Even
so, Ibriya was in the front of the throng when it assembled before the silver gates of
Fasair's manor.
The Mu'allim appeared on a balcony on the
topmost floor of his home, resplendent in golden tunic and snow-white turban. He gazed
down upon the mob, who stared back anxiously, awaiting his word. He did not see Ibriya -
if he had, he would have turned her away, and this story's ending might have been much
different.
Instead, he raised his hands, each festooned
with rings of gold and turquoise, and bellowed for silence.
"I have called you here," Fasair
declared, "because I seek the strongest arms and the quickest blades."
The warriors who had gathered murmured and
glanced importantly at one another, their chests swelling with pride, none more haughty
than when they glared at Ibriya.
"You may have heard of the death of the
swordsman, Ulyush al-Nadur," continued the Mu'allim. Most of the warriors nodded
knowingly: Ulyush, one of the most renowned fighters in the kingdom, had perished barely a
month ago, in the jaws of the Beast of Hawwun - which is itself a tale of note, but not
for the telling now.
"When he died, Ulyush was betrothed to
my daughter, Lashanda," said Fasair. "The ceremony of marriage was to take place
three days hence. Though Ulyush lies cold in his tomb, I am determined that the wedding go
ahead. I have called all of you here to vie for my daughter's hand."
The messengers had said nothing of this, and
there was some consternation among the ranks. Many of the warriors already had wives, and
a number were already promised. And while it was true, in those days as in these, that a
man was not limited to one wife, nor a woman to one husband, it was not fitting for a
Mu'allim's daughter to be anything but a man's First Wife. Of the scores who had come to
Qush, more than a hundred had made the journey in vain.
"Why did you not tell us this?"
asked one of the older men, a grizzled veteran who already had three wives and a small
host of children. "I have come a hundred leagues from my home, and for nothing!"
Other warriors shouted in agreement, but the
Mu'allim raised his hands. "Please, my friends!" Fasair shouted. "Be at
peace. If it were common knowledge that I sought a husband for Lashanda, my manor would
have been swamped with would-be suitors, most of them unacceptable. That is why I hid the
truth, even from my own messengers.
I understand that many of you cannot compete,
and I am sure that others will not wish to do so. I will make recompense for your
inconvenience: half a hundred pieces of gold to each man who does not enter the
tournament, and my hospitality from now until the tournament is done."
Fasair was a shrewd man. By promising gold to
those who did not fight, he not only placated those who could not enter, but also kept the
greediest knaves from entering the tournament.
He also kept out those who were given to too
much drink: there was a feast that night at the manor, with much boasting and freely
flowing wine, and when the seneschal came around at dawn the next day, calling for those
who wished to enter to gather in the courtyard, the men who had drunk too much were in no
shape to do so. Thus, the scribes' lists of those who were to enter the tourney bore only
seventy-three names.
One of those was Ibriya bint Raglan.
The seneschal was surprised to see her come
forward. "How can you enter the tournament?" he asked. "It is not
proper."
"It is not forbidden," she replied
coolly. Which was true.
Still troubled, the seneschal sought out the
Mu'allim. Fasair, however, only laughed. "Seventy men and one woman," he
scoffed. "Those are long odds. Let her join: she will lose in the first bout
anyway."
So Ibriya's name was put on the roster, and
on the first morning of the tournament she dueled with Ghalan al-Tarith, a swordsman of
some repute from the north country. They fought with blunted blades - the tournament was
not meant to bring death upon the defeated - and after several minutes of circling each
other and trading quick flurries of blows, she knocked away his own weapon, sent him
stumbling back with a vicious slash, and ended up straddling his chest, her sword pressed
against his throat. The judge of the fight, who had clearly favored Ghalan throughout the
bout, had no choice in the end but to declare Ibriya the winner.
That afternoon, Ibriya won her second bout
just as handily as she had the first, and in even less time: in only took half a dozen
passes for her to disarm her foe and rap him hard in the chest with the blunted tip of her
weapon. Another clear victory, reluctantly declared by a judge who feared what the
Mu'allim would do when he heard about it. As the tourney's first day closed,
three-quarters of the combatants were out of the running: Ibriya was not one of them.
That night, after the feasting was done, the
Mu'allim summoned her to his private garden. They stood on a terrace overlooking a grove
of almond trees, surrounding a bubbling fountain.
"I will give you five hundred pieces of
gold," Fasair told her, "if you withdraw from the tournament."
"I thought you were sure I would
lose," she replied, sipping the Mu'allim's excellent wine.
He smiled. "I did this morning. Now, I
am not so sure."
She inclined her head politely, then shook
it. "Respectfully, my lord, I cannot withdraw. It would not be honorable, no matter
what compensation I received. Besides, I am but one of twenty. Luck is still against
me."
The next morning, Ibriya was unsurprised to
find herself matched against Dusif ibn Walar. Dusif, who was known simply as the Ox, was a
massive man, capable of lifting any of the other combatants at the tournament above his
head with little effort. His previous opponent had been forced to yield and bow out when
the Ox broke his swordarm. Ibriya knew it was no coincidence that she would be paired with
such a fearsome foe: it was the Mu'allim's message to her, and the message was, Out.
But Ibriya knew something else about the Ox,
for she had watched his earlier fights with the suspicion that she would be made to fight
him before the tourney was done. During the fights, she had seen that, besides being
strong, Dusif had little else going for him. With big came slow, and Dusif moved like an
ogre from the old tales. On top of that, he had been breathing heavily by the end of each
bout, though they had been short and he had moved very little: he had strength, but no
stamina. Seeing this, Ibriya had made a plan.
Now, when the war drums sounded the beginning
of the fight, Ibriya carried out that strategy. As the Ox was charging toward her, howling
in battle rage, his massive sword raised high, she turned and ran.
At first the onlookers jeered, calling her a
coward; she paid them no mind at all. Ibriya did not mean to flee; she simply meant always
to be moving, never staying in one place long enough for the Ox to catch her. He lumbered
after her, but she always kept just out of his weapon's reach.
The Ox began to tire. After a few minutes he
was breathing with his mouth open; he chased her for a few more, and soon was covered in
sweat. It became harder and harder for him to keep pace with her, even though she slowed
her pace to keep tempting him onward. At last his weapon drooped, and he doubled over,
hands on knees, wheezing. She finished him with two quick strokes, the second of which
struck the side of his head and would have shorn it in two if her sword had been real. He
crumpled to the ground, senseless.
Then she was one of ten, with the final round
to come that evening. The Mu'allim's seneschal sought her out at the midday meal, and
doubled his master's offer. She sent him away, but not before striking him across the face
for trying to bribe her.
The second-to-last round was different from
the first three: instead of a man-on-man duel, it was to be an open melee. All the
remaining combatants gathered at the fighting grounds, armed with sword and shield. The
seneschal himself took the judge's place, and Ibriya's spirit sank: not only were the nine
men who would fight with her eyeing her with disdain, but she knew the seneschal would not
ignore what had passed between them earlier.
"The fighting will continue until all
but two are defeated," the seneschal proclaimed, and smiled venomously at her.
The fight was fast and brutal. The men
battled Ibriya in twos and threes. She fought back like a madwoman, and emerged bloody,
bruised and exhausted... but still standing. Of the ten who had fought in the melee, the
only two who remained were Zaqim al-Farabad, a young lord from the eastern mountains, and
Ibriya bint Raglan. The seneschal decreed them victors - though he looked as though he had
bitten into a lemon when he spoke Ibriya's name - and declared that they were to fight in
the final bout an hour after dusk, with the Mu'allim himself to judge.
Some say Fasair exiled the seneschal from his
lands after that melee; others say he had him killed. Whatever the case, none of the
combatants saw him again.
The sun set, and a great crowd formed about
the fighting grounds. Every warrior who remained at Qush came to watch the final duel, as
did many folk from the nearby town: word had spread that the Mu'allim was on the verge of
losing his daughter to a woman, of all things.
To the people's surprise, Fasair arrived at
the grounds in a good mood, and was even smiling as he took the judge's seat. Folk looked
at one another, amazed: wasn't he worried that the warrior who won the tournament might be
the one least suitable to become his daughter's husband? Would that not be a scandal?
Their only answer was that mysterious grin, which seemed to broaden as Zaqim and Ibriya
strode forward to stand before him.
"You know the rules," he told them.
"You will fight until one remains, and that one shall earn Lashanda's hand." His
gaze swept past Ibriya and rested firmly upon Zaqim. Then he rose from his chair,
motioning to his servants, three of whom came forward with a bearing wine goblets: one
carved of green malachite, one of blue lapis, and one of white onyx. "But first a
toast," the Mu'allim continued, "to she for whom so many have fought and fallen.
To my daughter."
He took the onyx goblet from the nearest
servant. Zaqim took the malachite, and Ibriya the lapis. They raised the cups in salute,
and drank - all save Ibriya. "I'm afraid I do not drink wine before battle," she
told the Mu'allim, bowing, then poured it upon the ground. "Instead I offer it as a
libation, in tribute to your daughter's grace, my lord."
Those who were present that night say the
grin on Fasair's face seemed to freeze then, but only for a moment. Then, with a nod to
Ibriya, he resumed his seat, and the servants collected the goblets. To this day, no one
is certain what was in the lapis cup, but many are sure they know nonetheless.
"Begin," the Mu'allim said, no
longer smiling at all.
Ibriya and Zaqim touched swords in salute,
then began to trade blows. It went slowly at first, more a careful dance than a fight -
especially strange after the vicious melee, earlier that day . They delved the depth of
each other's skill, striking and parrying, noting strengths and seeking weaknesses. After
a while of this they parted, weapons quivering in their hands, and began to circle each
other, looking for the right opening. An unspoken signal passed between them, and they
rushed at each other, blades awhirl.
Then the unthinkable happened. Zaqim
al-Farabad tripped.
A great cry rose from the crowd as he fell,
his sword flying from his hand. Ibriya stood above him, her own weapon ready... and did
nothing. "Stand," she said. "I will not win this tournament because of bad
luck."
The crowd murmured, and the Mu'allim shifted
in his seat as Zaqim rose. Ibriya stood by, waiting patiently, while he retrieved his
sword. Only when he was armed again did the fight resume. Zaqim was humbled, however, and
before long Ibriya's puissance drove him to his knees. He struggled to rise, and could
not.
"Hold," he told her. "I am
done. I yield - you are the victor of this match, and the tournament besides."
A silence settled over the field, and once
again Ibriya helped Zaqim rise. When he was on his feet, she went to stand before the
Mu'allim, and dropped to one knee. She said nothing.
Fasair looked down upon her, at a loss.
"This cannot be," he said. "I will not have it. You cannot wed my daughter,
girl."
"I do not wish to wed her," said
Ibriya. "But you did offer me her hand, and I would take it - not for myself, but for
her. She is her own woman now, not yours to give like chattel. I have won her in fair
combat, and so give her freedom. She, and no one else, shall choose her husband."
There was great uproar at this, and the
Mu'allim's face turned as dark as wine. "This is unthinkable!" he thundered.
"You have won this tournament through deceit and trickery, Ibriya bint Raglan! I
disqualify you! Come forward, Zaqim al-Farabad."
But Zaqim shook his head. "No, my
lord," he said. "She defeated me fairly - you saw how, even when I fell, she did
not strike me down. Ibriya is the victor, and I will not take her place."
At this, the other warriors began to clash
their swords against their shields and shout their approval. Fasair had eliminated the
most dishonorable suitors before the games began, and none of those who had fought in the
tournament wanted to sully their names by taking Lashanda to wife after meeting defeat.
"What I want of you is not so difficult,
my lord," Ibriya declared. "I only ask that you trust your daughter to make her
own choice."
"And if she chooses poorly?" the
Mu'allim contended. "She is my only child. What will become of my name?"
"What would become of your name if it
were learned you did not give the victor of this tournament her due?" Ibriya
returned. "There are many people here, my lord. Word of such things has a habit of
spreading."
Fasair thought on this, and knew he was
beaten. His shoulders slumped. "Very well," he relented. "Lashanda shall
marry the man of her choosing. But know this - if the husband she picks does not satisfy
me, I will sire another heir, and grant my title and holdings to him."
"Your judgment is fair, my lord,"
Ibriya said, and bowed.
During the feast after the final battle,
Lashanda bint Fasair appeared before the combatants, her head covered with a turban, as
was custom for unwed ladies at the time. It was the first time most of them had seen her,
and they were breathtaken by her grace and beauty. "If I had known," many a man
said to nodding comrades, "I would have fought all the harder."
Lashanda sat at her father's right side
throughout the feast; on his left sat Ibriya, for it was her right as victor to dine in
that place of honor. The Mu'allim did not speak to her, or to anyone else: he only sat in
stony silence and picked restlessly at his food. At last, when the servants cleared the
last dishes away, he rose and turned to his daughter. "My child," he told her,
"a victor has emerged from the field of battle to claim your hand."
When Ibriya rose from her seat, Lashanda
looked at her in pure, open-mouthed surprise, which turned to joy as Ibriya explained her
wishes. Tearfully, the two women embraced.
"Now, my child," the Mu'allim
pronounced, "I ask you to choose: who will you wed?"
Every man in the room leaned forward
expectantly: warriors, courtiers, even the servants. Lashanda's lips parted in a radiant
smile.
"I choose no one," she said.
The noise that rose shook the rafters of the
great dining hall. Men shouted and pounded their fists upon tables. Fasair himself shook
with rage. "What!" he bellowed.
"I choose no one," Lashanda
repeated, unperturbed. "I am still in mourning for Ulyush, and will not take a
husband simply because a wedding is planned. In time, I will choose one - I have no
intention of becoming a spinster, Father. But not while my love's body is still fresh in
its tomb."
And so, in the end, there was no wedding that
summer. The next year, however, she did choose a husband - Zaqim al-Farabad, as it turned
out - and the celebrations lasted for days. The Mu'allim even invited Ibriya bint Raglan
to stand upon the dais at the ceremony, for the tale of her triumph at the games had
traveled the length of the land.
His messengers could not find her, however,
though they wandered afar, for she had vanished that winter, delving deep into the ruins
of al-Shaghra, the City Which Rises. But that tale is for another day. |