Omber and Chego
Hello guys. I was bored and going through old documents and found this little gem. My friend and countryman JPLiem wrote this plot for a graphic art piece he never completed, and allowed me to write a prose version of it. I finished it and then never did anything with it. So now I'm posting it here. I don't think he would mind. Enjoy.
“ Omber and Chego”
The five Vagabonds blocked the path of Chego as he attempted to cross the dilapidated bridge. Chego knew they were going to do so even before they saw him - times were tough, and he was easy prey. The thugs fanned out in a semicircle when he stepped onto the bridge; the three in the center with well-used, but relatively new-on-the-market repeater rifles, the others on the flanks with spears. All of them stood tall with pride and bluster, while Chego meekly - yet with dignity - looked downwards, his hands in his pockets.
“Lookit them ears,” said one of the riflers, his forked tongue flicking in and out with every aspiration. “And those yellow peepers! Show us those hands of yours, fella!”
Not wanting to provoke any swift reaction from the goons, Chego slowly removed both hands from his pockets and held them up to be seen, his human right hand palm out and his pincer-like left hand as open as it would go.
The saurian thief spoke again. “Boys, just like I tell ya: I can sniff out these eight-fingered mutts at five hundred paces! You want to know why?” It was obvious that they already knew, had heard many times, and weren’t interested in reliving the story, but were willing to listen in order to complete the theft. “’Cause before the Revolution, I belonged to one, that’s why! Ten years of my life, shining boots! I never even saw the little mongrel’s face, but my hands still carry his stink!” Such rage passed through him now that he spun around on the ball of his clawed foot and clenched his scaled hands together, cradling the rifle in his arms as he did so, so he wouldn’t accidentally waste a bullet.
“In that case, sir,” spoke Chego evenly, all humility and grace, “I’m glad there was a revolution. Now, if you gentlemen will allow me through….”
At this, the saurian quickly turned back around, retraining the rifle on Chego’s chest. He spoke with well-practiced and almost convincing authority. “Where’s your sword, Magistrate?” The way he said the title reminded one distinctly of someone spitting out rotten fruit.
“I sold it, sir,” eliciting chuckles from the Vagabonds.
“I thought that back in the ‘good old days,’ a Magistrate’s sword was his soul.”
“Yes, sir, they told me that as well. But I’d rather have bread. Speaking of which, I have a very important job on the other side of this bridge, so if you gentlemen-“
“How come you smell like pine-berries, huh?”
“Well, it is pine-berry season, sir, and I….” The mildest hint of shame spread over Chego’s face. “I pick fruit.”
One of the other riflemen, a human, theatrically whispered to a spearman. “Bleh. Remind me not to buy pine-berries anymore.”
“Well, Magistrate,” said the saurian, a wicked smile pulling thin lips from his row of sharpened teeth, “you’re outta luck: there’s no fruit orchards on the other side of my bridge.”
“I… have other business.”
“I’m sure you do, Fruit Picker; I’m sure you do. But, listen; I have business on this bridge. Now, the normal toll for you mongrels to cross is two gold - but I like you, so… one aluminum.”
A pained look swept across Chego’s face, but he dutifully and slowly reached into his pocket. He withdrew a pitiful amount of change: two small dark coins and a single large shiny one. Replacing the two dark coins, he held the shiny one out to the saurian.
“Coin from before the Revolution! Your last token of the good old days, hmm? Heh heh.” He tossed the coin to one of the spearmen, and motioned mock-ceremonially for Chego to proceed over the bridge. The spearman checked the coin with one hand while holding the spear with two more hands and casually scraping his mandibles with a fourth.
But when the spearman inspected the coin more closely, he lowered his spear until the point rested against Chego’s chest, again forcing him to stop. “Boss!” The others turned to see what was the matter, readying their weaponry. The spearman tossed the coin back to the saurian and grabbed Chego’s face. Chego offered no resistance whatsoever. “Look like anyone we know?”
The saurian tough also looked at the coin, and then scrutinized the face before him. “Well, son of a…. Face to face with young ‘Master’ Chego after all these years.” Surprise and delight washed over the gang as they recognized both the name and the significance of it. The saurian bowed before Chego with theatrical irony. “Hmm - how much did those boots sell for? A lot, right?” The anger in his voice grew more and more apparent, even as he bowed lower. “’Cause they were soooo shiny!”
“Ya know, boss,” chimed in the insectoid, “he still owes you thirteen years of back pay. We can’t let him pass without giving you some kind of….”
“Satisfaction!” completed the human rifler.
The saurian thought of this for a few seconds, rose, and then spoke. “Well, my Little Prince, as you can see, I don’t wear boots. But underneath my talons is real itchy with rainy-season fungus. So, I’ll allow you the honor of cleaning ‘em out.”
The malicious laughter of the Vagabonds made no impression on Chego as he weighed his options. With grim determination totally devoid of weakness, he spoke. “Yes, sir.”
“He’s really going to do it!”
“Aw, man, one day I’m gonna tell my grandlarvae about this!”
Chego lowered himself to the ground and leaned forward with a corner of his moth-eaten vest in his hand to clean under the saurian’s claws. As Chego was about to get to work, however, his eyes lit up at the sight of a dusty, shredded white overcoat that appeared behind the other thugs.
“Oh, say, did you look at the other side of that coin?” Chego said to the saurian.
On the coin is depicted the profile of a skinny, spiky-haired young Magistrate. “Who the hell is this? Looks like Omber. ‘The Magnificent’. Feh!”
Chego looked over the shoulder of the saurian at this moment and saw the older and more worn face of Omber, who, glancing at Chego, winked.
Several sharp cracking noises left the back of each of the villains’ heads as Omber struck them with a pair of sheathed swords, instantly becoming the eye of a hurricane of descending bodies. Chego grasped the opportunity to reclaim his coin, and then stood up, just in time to see one of the falling riflemen fire point blank into Omber’s chest. The bullet struck Omber directly over the heart, on a thick faded vest he wore over his long coat. After a slight jerk at the impact (and a stunned exclamation of “B-bulletproof?” from the rifleman), Omber turned to the spearmen and swiftly hacked their spears to pieces with his long, curve-bladed sword. Approaching Chego in the midst of this chaos, Omber extended to Chego the other sword, this one having a straight blade.
“My brother Chego, you have misplaced your soul.” A deeper, more resonant and self-assured voice than Chego’s.
“I thank you for retrieving it, my brother Omber.”
Three of the thieves, spearheaded by the saurian, broke up the short relative quiet by attacking Chego at that moment. Chego fended off their ill-organized attacks with his sword still sheathed, breaking the noses of two of his attackers. Then, tapping the toggle on the hilt, he cut a single arc toward the saurian, and the barrel of its rifle fell off, the blade passing mere inches from the bullet chamber. This knocked the “pistol” from the saurian’s hand, and Chego quickly snatched it from the air.
“Try not to kill them!” Chego cried out, turning to see the progress of battle for his friend - just in time to see Omber’s bloodstained sword pass through one of the ruffians before the other’s body hit the ground. Omber simply gave Chego a loaded look, and began walking toward the remaining three combatants, who were now on their knees before Chego.
Chego aimed the gun at the saurian’s head, who wilted, muttering, “I-it cannot be!”
Omber, still walking toward the kneeling criminals, spoke, his voice loud and full of wrath.
“Tell everyone-“
“Omber, calm down!” Chego hung his sword from his belt.
“Tell everyone,” Omber continued, “that your ‘long-guns’ couldn’t save you today. The sword will rule you all again…. One fateful day.” He stalked away, leaving those he didn’t kill completely stunned, still kneeling. Chego remained standing over them imposingly, holding the gun in his right hand and the coin in his left.
Speaking softly, so Omber would not overhear, Chego said, “I still owe you a pedicure, mister. I’ll be here again in a few days… if I haven’t starved to death.” Chego began walking after Omber, and the kneeling bandits watched him go. Quietly. Bleeding.
* * * * *
“Hey, Omber!”
Omber, angry and still seething from the fight, strode silently along the raised, dirt-paved road. Chego ran to catch up with him, while workers in the rice paddies on either side of the road pretended to ignore the two former Magistrates.
Chego fell into step beside Omber. “How’ve you been doing the last thirteen years?”
Omber continued to walk in silence.
“You look like something from an antiques shop,” said Chego, looking for something that would gain a response. Omber still ignored him.
“Thanks again for the sword. How did you get it?”
At this, Omber’s composure exploded. “Have you forgotten that we Magistrates are gods? That you and I once ruled this planet? What kind of god sells his own soul? Or works on a fruit orchard? Or…” and here he stopped, overwhelmed with disgust. When he had again gained control of his emotions, he continued, speaking slowly and softly. “Or stoops to clean the feet of a mere mortal?”
“Well, you remember what Teacher always said: ‘All things change. Victory goes to the one who adapts to the new situation.’”
“Teacher was referring only to combat. You know that.”
“Speaking of Teacher…” Chego segued, “I’m guessing she sent for you?”
“Yes.”
“To meet her at the Great Tombs outside Bekkisburg?”
“Yes.” And here his eyes flashed. “She told me that we’d finally settle which of us would inherit her sword!”
During the pause in the conversation as both of them dwelt on this, Chego’s memory flashed quick images through his mind: Omber rushing at him in ceremonial armor with a sheathed sword, framed by a gothic stone archway behind him; Teacher sitting, with legs crossed, on a dais with the Black Sunrise Sword before her.
“Our skills in the Grand Duel were perfectly matched! It would have ended in a double fatality if we’d been using bared blades.” Omber’s eyes blazed with the memory of that duel. “So: the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword remains unresolved, and how can history proceed under such a state of affairs?”
“Right. Of course. But,” said Chego, “didn’t Teacher’s message say she would give us a chance to earn some money?”
Omber ignored the question. “Surely you won’t present yourself to Teacher in those… rags - or have you sold your uniform, too?” Chego nodded. “My brother,” said Omber, in a tutorial tone, “it hurts me to see you bending in the wind of these evil times.”
“But if I don’t bend, I’ll break.” And if you don’t bend, you will break, too, Chego thought.
“Humph. Better that our race just disappear into the legends instead of living on in shame; maybe then they’ll see….”
As Omber drifted back into his solitary introspection, they approached an ancient road sign: “BEKKISBERG - 10 KM”, with a broken-down, unlicensed, and three-wheeled truck rusting just behind it. Further down the road, and on the opposite side from the sign, the scenery shifted from rice paddies in flood to the tall, weed-covered burial mounds of the Magistrates, hidden behind a thick, stone wall, with an iron gate where the wall met the road. A shrunken geriatric in a worn yet impressive uniform and bearing a tri-cornered hat pulled low over the eyes was leaning against this gate. When he recognized the elderly woman, Omber rushed toward her, his face lit up like a child who had just found his lost mother. Chego remained reservedly suspicious, but polite as he moved toward her more slowly.
“Teacher!”
“Ha ha! There are my boys, and not a day too soon!” She stepped away from the gate and opened wide her arms to embrace them. When Omber reached her, he dropped to his knees and kissed her hand; Chego merely bowed.
Omber, looking up into her face, said, “Teacher looks well. These thirteen years have been kind to her.”
The Teacher’s face showed concern rather than amusement, however. “Omber, do you walk around in that getup all the time? You look like a mannequin from an antique store!”
Omber was completely abashed, but recovered quickly. “I- I have remained true to all of Teacher’s instructions. I have lived these thirteen years as a mercenary soldier, faithful to the Way of the Sword, and I keep ready at all times to restore our divine race…”
The Teacher had already turned her attention to Chego, and spoke to him as Omber, still kneeling, continued to ramble. “Chego, can that really be you? And is that a scent of…. Have you been working on a pine-berry orchard?”
Chego smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Yes, well, I can’t keep a regular job. I’m sort of a migrant worker.” At this, the Teacher herself smiled, but with pride.
“Ha ha! ‘Victory goes to the one who adapts to the new situation.’ Here is a fellow with a future….” And again she smiled. “If he survives the Grand Duel! Ha ha!” She glanced at a miniature analog clock built into the armor on her wrist, and then addressed both of them. “I’ll tell you boys all about it over supper.”
* * * * *
The three ex-Magistrates sat around the low table of a slightly refurbished (meaning cleared of rubble and containing a low table) room of a ruined temple. After they all had begun eating their canned dinner, the Teacher began her explanation.
“I’ve decided to arrange a rematch between you boys so we can decide once and for all who gets my old sword-“
Omber, bowing, smiled between bites. “Very good!”
“-and to charge admission - five silver pieces for adults, two for children. We split the earnings three ways.”
Chego, who had been somewhat forlorn, perked up. “Very good!” he said, causing Omber to start fuming silently.
The Teacher continued. “Down in Bekkisburg, they’ll be celebrating the fourteenth anniversary of the, ah, Revolution the day after tomorrow. You boys can camp out here and ready yourselves. I will go into town tomorrow and begin advertising.”
A mouthful of low-grade meat muffled Chego words. “It’ll just be a sparring match, like before, won’t it? I mean, we won’t be using bared blades?”
“Ha ha! Don’t worry yourself. It’ll be a nice, safe chance to get some nice, hard cash. I mean, I’d pay to see you two finish your Grand Duel! Wouldn’t you?”
Omber looked tense, and yet his voice was properly controlled and deferent. “I humbly beg Teacher’s forgiveness for speaking so harshly, but I respectfully suggest that reducing a Grand Duel to entertainment for the rabble is like… like… like inviting peasants to a great feast!” After a mild pause, Omber’s eyes turned downward to the disgusting can of food, and they suddenly welled up with tears. “A great feast… like the ones we used to have…” He stared off into space for a few seconds, remembering the good times of old.
“Eh?” The Teacher turned to Chego. “Did he say something? Your teacher is going deaf in her old age, ha ha!”
Omber’s face somehow became even more crestfallen, and the can fell from his hand, spilling a bit of food. Chego, with years of instinct driving him, snatched the fallen can off the floor and began eating out of it; Omber just stared at him, dumbstruck.
“Oh, uh, you weren’t going to eat this, were you?”
Omber scowled and ignored him, turned to the Teacher, and bowed. “Teacher, by your leave,” and he rose from the bow and headed toward the door.
“NO!”
Such was Omber’s shock at her volume that he nearly leapt off the moldy stone floor as he spun back around to face the Teacher. Chego, too, was surprised, and actually paused in his dining, the spoon halfway between the can and his mouth, a bit of meat paste about to fall.
The Teacher spoke with utmost gravity. “Before you leave, Omber XXIII of the Sunrise School, you must answer me: are you in, or out?”
Unable to maintain eye contact with her, Omber looked downward and to the side as his fists clenched and his teeth ground against each other. Chego simply watched, as if it were merely an especially tense spectator sport.
“Will you leave the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword undecided? Will you displease your old Teacher?”
“I shall obey Teacher to my last breath,” said Omber without unclenching his teeth.
“Then swear that you will participate in the Grand Duel.”
Without pause, and with well-practiced precision and grace, Omber drew and formally presented his curved sword in a single fluid motion, and began to speak the words that would bind his honor to the task. “I swear, by my sword, by my soul, by my blood-“
“Oh, that is the old way!” and at that point the Teacher produced a folded contract and an ink pen. “This is the new way. Sign it.”
Frowning, “As Teacher wishes.” And he signed the contract, curtly bowed, and left.
After a brief pause, it seemed as if the Teacher remembered that Chego was still in the room. “And you, Chego VI of the Sunrise School?” she asked half-mockingly.
Chego waited to reply until he could choke down the last couple bites of his dinner. “You mean, do I think it’s too humiliating to perform as a paid entertainer for our former subjects?”
“Something like that.”
Chego took both the pen and the contract from the Teacher’s hand. “Nope. I don’t like having to choose between pride and money, but,” he said, signing the contract, “pride I can live without. Heck,” he added sardonically, “I’ve been living without it for the last thirteen years.”
“Ha ha! You and me both, my boy.” But now she sighed. “You learned your lesson well. ‘Those who don’t adapt to the new situation-‘” and she glanced significantly toward the door through which Omber left a minute earlier, “’-will be defeated.’” She sighed again. “Sleep well tonight. You’ll need it, ha ha!”
* * * * *
As the sun rose over the ill-kept tombs of the Magistrates of a day long past, Chego cheerfully walked out of the dilapidated hovel to check on Omber, who never came back inside during the night. Chego found him prostrate before one of the tombs, presenting his tightly clutched sword to a deceased ancestor, until sleep caught him in the night. And a sore battle it seemed to have been, thought Chego, judging by his looks. He leaned down and put his hand on Omber’s shoulder.
“Good morning! Omber, hey! Teacher’s already gone into town. Omber, open your eyes! It’s a new day!”
Omber mumbled drowsily: “Mmm… open… my eyes?” He then leapt straight up, landing on his feet. His eyes flashed with sudden rage.
“Open my eyes?” “It’s a new day?!” NO! We are the gods!” While toggling the button on its hilt, he whipped out his curved sword, pointing it threateningly at Chego’s face once the blade finished integrating. “I don’t give a damn what those peasants are saying! Peasants!” he scoffed. “Peasants - and their long-guns! And you, fruit-picker!”
Facial features twisted with anger, Omber lunged at Chego, who barely drew and toggled his own blade before Omber could run him through. Omber’s vicious and highly skilled attacks forced Chego to retreat, desperately trying to remember his long-ill-used skills. Omber yelled between the crashing of the blades, “Don’t say I’m living in the past!” Crash! “I saw you kneeling to a slave!” Crash! “You have no pride!” Crash! “You…” Crash! “would sell…” Crash! “your soul!”
Chego was eventually pushed against an imposing, black aragonite sarcophagus, and Omber pressed his advantage with a nasty thrust straight towards Chego’s gut. The blade passed through the front of his shirt, which had billowed out before him as he turned to his right and dodged backwards. While this happened, Chego reached behind his own back with his free hand for the chopped-down rifle, tucked into his belt, yet unnoticed by Omber.
But Omber had stopped moving, shocked by the sight of his sword stabbing deeply into the sarcophagus. He released his grip on the sword, which remained stuck in the sarcophagus, and fell to his knees, drawing huge gulps of air while his face turned from battle-rage vermilion to incredulous violet.
Chego tried to calm him between equally large breaths. “No. No. Calm down. It’s empty.” And, pushing the lid of the sarcophagus off the top, he revealed that his statement was true: it was completely empty.
Veins pulsating in his forehead, Omber spat, “I thought-. All night-. Venerating the remains of-.”
“Since you hadn’t heard,” said Chego, with growing annoyance, “I didn’t want to be the first to tell you, but the Revolutionaries dumped everything into the Bekkisburg sewer ten years ago. So, you can go pray to sewage, or you can help yourself to some breakfast, which is why I came to wake you up in the first place.”
With effort, he pulled the sword from the sarcophagus and offered it to Omber. “Hey,” he said, still breathing heavily, “nothing like a good early-morning workout, right?”
Omber sullenly and lethargically rose and accepted the sword from Chego, his eyes vacant.
* * * * *
Breakfast was an odd repeat of the scene the night before: the two seated on the floor of a dilapidated room cleared of rubble, eating similar meat paste out of similar cans. Chego hungrily devouring his meal; Omber sulking in his own melancholy world. His food sat untouched in an opened can before him.
Suddenly, Omber came out of his trance. “What will you do with the Black Sunrise…? I mean, if you were to win it?”
“You really have to ask?”
Omber’s sigh spoke volumes about his anger and sadness. “Well, what would you do with the money you’d get from“ - and here, he almost choked on the word - “selling it?”
“Well,” Chego said, slowing down his meal so that he could be understood, “it’d go a long way toward paying for an orchard - a small one, but still…. I could finally get married… anything left over, I’d set aside for the kids.”
Omber resumed his sulk, and began mumbling audibly to himself: “You want to do something for the kids? How about sparing them from coming into this filthy, upside-down world, so they won’t have to slave their whole lives for a few moldy crumbs from the tables of those their ancestors once ruled…?”
Chego put down his empty can and turned toward Omber. “I know how you feel sometimes - ‘born too late’?”
Omber nodded his confession.
“But,” continued Chego, “didn’t you ever wonder what kept the slaves at the bottom from killing themselves? I see this as our chance to find out. And things will get better over time, too. You’ll see.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of their Teacher. “Boys, some bad news.” Both Magistrates’ attention shifted to her.
“Folks just weren’t interested in seeing a sparring match, even if it is the Grand Duel. But your ol’ Teacher made ‘em interested, and now half of Bekkisburg can hardly wait, ha ha!”
“Just what did you tell them?” said Chego.
“Uhh, ha ha!” the Teacher’s embarrassment showed plainly. “Ah, your old Teacher’s grown forgetful in her old age, ha ha! I told them - ha ha! - that it’s going to be a duel to the, ah, to the death.”
While Omber continued to sulk, Chego reacted with great alarm. “But, you were fudging, right? I mean to say, no one’s actually getting killed? Right?”
“Of course not, ha ha!” When Chego’s brow furrowed with lack of comprehension, she went on. “All you have to do is pretend to fight with live blades, give ‘em a good show, then Omber, I mean - ha ha! - one of you pretends to die. I announce the winner, who drags the loser offstage, we hightail it out of town with the money and split it three ways ASAP. And if these old eyes saw the excitement they thought they saw in Bekkisburg just now, there’ll be a lot for each of us.”
Chego spoke first, after thinking for several moments. “It’s a little dishonest. Otherwise, it sounds good to me. Oh,” in sudden remembrance, “what about the Black Sunrise?”
“Oh, that old thing?”
The gloom in his voice knifing through the conversation, Omber said, “Chego. He can have it.”
The Teacher and Chego simultaneously said, “What?!”
“He already has plans for it. I don’t really care.”
Chego sheepishly responded, “Wouldn’t you rather settle it with a proper sparring match?”
“D’you wanna flip a coin? Ha ha!”
In a flurry of motion, Omber flew through the air, drawing his sword, and defeated the unsuspecting Chego in two moves. “I win the Black Sunrise. I give it to you.”
Looking down at the sheathed blade resting on his throat, Chego stammered, “Th-thank you.”
The sound of the Teacher slapping her own forehead broke the tension between the two swordsmen. “Dag-blast it, boys, your ol’ Teacher’s done it again! I forgot to tell you: I rescheduled the fight. It’s in one hour, ha ha!”
“One hour?”
“From now?”
The Teacher, nodding, dashed through the door while motioning for them to follow. She approached the driver’s side door of a rusted ancient van, saying, “High noon today! I was afraid that we might lose their interest if we waited till tomorrow. Gotta strike while the iron’s hot!”
* * * * *
The van approached the main gate of Bekkisburg - the Teacher at the wheel and Omber and Chego huddled in the near-empty back, bouncing around with the carefully wrapped Black Sunrise sword, a heavy safe with a coin-sized slot in the top, and about a half-dozen cans of meat paste.
Nearly yelling over the commotion, Chego said, “You’ve beaten me already. Would you like to ‘win’ this match?”
“No, you go ahead. I can play dead.”
Chego was so obviously surprised and not understanding Omber’s intent that Omber felt the need to explain himself. He went on in a very relaxed tone. “You’re going to be an established fruit farmer, remember? If I fake my death today, I can just move on - and,” a smile spreading across his face, “I don’t plan on having any kids to deal with my bad name.”
As they grew deeper into the city, Omber began inspecting Chego up and down, and then began to run his hand over his thick vest. He yelled to the Teacher, “The match is in forty-five minutes, yes?”
“Yes. High noon at our old castle.” She indicated a once-mighty fortress situated on a hill in the center of the city, visible from almost anywhere in the city. The crenelated towers were crumbling and the façade was covered with choking ivy and weeds.
“Understood. I’ll see you there.” And then Omber vaulted to the back of the van, threw open the rear door, and leapt out, slamming the door shut as he did it.
“Teacher! Omber just - “
“Eh, let him; he’ll be there in time. His mind probably can’t even contemplate disobeying his old Teacher. Like an obedient mongrel dog, ha ha!”
Chego thought about that for a few seconds and then began to stare out the windows at the city. All over were big advertisement banners reading, “Grand Duel”. Some of them had faded with great exposure to the weather, and some had a line reading, “In __ Weeks!!!” with several corrections pasted in the blank.
Chego, somewhat unnerved at his Teacher’s abject lies, said, “Teacher, you didn’t put up all of these posters just this morning.”
“Ha ha! ‘Least one of my boys has enough wits to think for himself.” But her expression was more menacing than matronly. “Yes, you found me out. I’ve been stringing these people along for a month and a half now - promised ‘em a duel as soon as you two answered my call. They’ve been getting mighty impatient, ha ha! I couldn’t keep them waiting a day longer.”
“So you -“
“I know what you’re thinking,” she snapped coldly, “and yes, the contract is still binding. That means if you chicken out, I will hunt you down! Is that perfectly clear?”
“Painfully, I’m afraid.”
They continued the ride in silence until they reached the dilapidated castle. Shooting through the first gate (on which there was a large red sign reading “CONDEMNED - SCHEDULED FOR DEMOLITION”), they entered a spacious, rubble-strewn courtyard. A single great statue, the likeness of Chego, stood in the center, surrounded by the remains of what once were similar statues of Omber and the Teacher.
The Teacher cautiously steered the van through the rubble and parked the van in the right side of the doorway into the main chamber - a now ceilingless and weed-filled coliseum, but with a fairly open space in the center, surrounded by stone bleachers. Turning off the engine, the Teacher hopped out of the cab and opened the rear door. “Give me a hand,” she said to Chego, and began pulling on the heavy safe before he could respond.
With Chego’s help, the Teacher guided the safe just to the edge of the van. “Here’s our box office. Five silvers for adults, two for kids. I’ll take care of the crowd; you just wait in the meditation cell until I call you in” checking her watch “forty minutes. You do remember where the meditation cell is, don’t you?”
“Of course; it was my favorite spot when we played hide-and-seek.”
* * * * *
In a dimly lit chamber inside the castle, Chego practiced forms. He had rearranged his hair into the traditional triple ponytail, and slowly moved about the ruined cell. He could feel the fatigue flowing from his body, and he closed his eyes in relaxation. I remember this being home, he thought. How odd, to have a sensation of ‘home’ again. He didn’t notice the entrance of Omber behind him, carrying a bundle under his arm.
Omber watched for a few seconds, then spoke, “Ollie ollie oxen free.”
“Oh… hey. Ready?”
“I am ready,” he said, nodding, “but the same cannot be said of you. A Magistrate without his uniform - it’s disgraceful. So….” And, rather than let his words speak for him, he unfurled the bundle. Chego gasped as he recognized the long, black Magistrate uniform overcoat. He took it from Omber, and put it on over his other clothes, taking a moment to keep it from catching on the butt of the cut-down repeater rifle he still carried. While admiring its quality - for it was in much better condition than Omber’s coat - he felt something in the pocket: a pair of sunglasses.
Chego was finally able to find words. “H-how were you able to afford this? Oh. Did you trade in your armored vest?”
“It was becoming too loose anyway.”
“Omber…. You really shouldn’t have….” He trailed off, and then recovered. “Thank you.”
Omber responded by picking up Chego’s dropped sword. He handed it to Chego. “Your soul, brother.”
“Thanks again.” He attached it to the fixture on the coat. “You never did tell me where you found it.”
With a dark smile, Omber said, “You sold it to a short, husky human male with a large aluminum ring in his left ear, yes?”
Chego nodded. Omber showed Chego his left hand, on which is an aluminum ring. He took it off and flipped it to Chego, who caught it. “My employer declared war on his employer. I met him in battle.”
Reluctance, guilt, and disgust swirled through Chego’s mind, and he put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and looked at Omber, who was still smiling.
Suddenly, the booming amplified voice of the Teacher echoed through the castle: “Citizens of Bekkisburg, are you ready for some carnage?” After an appropriately long pause for applause, she continued. “Well, you’re going to get your money’s worth!”
Chego flipped the ring back to Omber and said, “See you inside!” They then exited the room through opposing doors.
* * * * *
“This Grand Duel began fourteen years ago; it ends today. One contestant will become the Master of the Black Sunrise Sword! The other contestant will become… souvenirs!!!”
The crowd erupted, the intense noise channeled downward into the center by the accidental acoustics of the collapsed ceiling.
Once they had calmed down somewhat, the Teacher continued. “Ladies and gentlemen of all species, I present two ‘gods’ of swordsmanship…” causing the crowd to bubble with derisive laughter, “…the scions of the Sunrise School, your former Lords and Magistrates.”
“In the white coat,” indicating the door on her left, from which a white clad figure had emerged, “Omber XXIII! And in the black coat,” turning back to her right, “Chego VI!”
Chego stepped out into the sunlight and faced Omber across the room. Both of them were wearing sunglasses. Chego then surveyed his surroundings. The Teacher was standing on a makeshift throne atop the van, which she had moved inside for that purpose. The Black Sunrise Sword was positioned in a place of honor beside her. The crowd was a motley bunch, pushing and jockeying each other for a better view.
They waited a few seconds, allowing the noise to wash over them before they slowly and dramatically walked toward each other. The Teacher deftly hopped down from the van and met them in the center.
“Magistrates, touch blades!”
Each of them ceremoniously drew their swords and made a show of toggling the blades bare in mid-swing, creating a resounding clang! on contact. They then stepped back and waited for the go-ahead from the Teacher.
“Begin!” The crowd roared, attaining an even higher decibel level than before.
Chego and Omber leapt at each other, bellowing. They passed each other in the air, their swords ringing once, twice, thrice. When they landed, they turned and smiled at each other through their broken sunglasses. As they discarded them, the crowd again roared, and the sounds of bet taking redoubled. Again they charged at each other, their moves chosen for minimum effectiveness and maximum drama.
During a pause in the fighting, Chego glanced in the direction of the Teacher, who sat on the throne atop the van with a wicked grin on her face. Chego was reminded of ancient depictions of evil goddesses observing the world from a distance and contemplating something about which the puny mortals know nothing. Deflecting an attack from Omber brought him out of his reverie, and again the two combatants paused opposite each other.
“Prepare to die!” Chego yelled, while simultaneously winking. Omber’s face told Chego he understood, and Chego took advantage of the opening Omber left for him. His sword plunged into Omber’s white coat just as Omber twisted his body slightly - the sword came out of the other side of the coat, missing Omber’s body completely while giving the illusion that he had been run through. Omber gave a fairly convincing impression of a dying scream and fell at Chego’s feet. Most of the crowd began screaming, but many remained dissatisfied and wanted to make sure he was dead before giving up their money.
Chego made a show of pulling his sword from Omber’s body and stood over him, mock-triumphantly. When the cheering faded, Chego cried out, “Teacher! The fate of the Black Sunrise Sword is settled!”
After a collective roar and exchanging of lost bet money, the Teacher chuckled and icily spoke to Chego: “Excellent, my disciple. Now… present me with the loser’s head!”
Shocked, Chego’s gaze snapped down to the face of the fallen Omber, whose own surprise was revealed only by a twitching cheek muscle as he continued to maintain the illusion of his own death.
Chego looked back up at the Teacher, desperately looking for a solution. “Uh, this disciple begs his Teacher’s pardon, but respectfully suggests that the, uh, venerable remains of the defeated be, ah, allowed to remain in, uh, an… an intact, uh, state….”
“No! He may be feigning death. Bring me his head, that we may know he is not!”
“Teacher! You can’t-“
Slowly, the Teacher withdrew from an inner pocket of her Magistrate’s coat the contract signed both by Chego and Omber. She was triumphant in her attitude and clearly in command. “Didn’t you read this? I can change the rules at any time! Ha ha!”
The crowd began to chatter, having little-to-no idea what was going on. The Teacher went on, unconcerned. “Bring me his head, or walk away with nothing, Chego. The choice is yours.”
Chego wallowed in indecision. He bit his lip and looked down at the supine Omber, who made eye contact with Chego.
Whispering, almost imperceptible above the chattering of the crowd, Omber said, “Kill me.”
“No.”
“Do it! Kill me!”
With great resolve and force, Chego yelled, “I! Will! Not!”
The Teacher’s face lost its malicious grin, souring to a look that would cause most to quail. She stepped lightly off the van and began walking toward the combatants. “Then the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword remains… undecided-“
Omber swiftly jumped to his feet, drawing a sharp intake of breath from every member of the crowd. “Wait! Chego, please, go ahead. Think of your children!”
Chego scowled. “Stop it!”
“I…. Look at me! I do look like something from an antiques store….”
Chego was not swayed, and he toggled his sword and turned to walk toward the exit, unconcerned with the boos and rotten cabbage pelting him from the crowd.
“Calm down, people; it’s all part of the show,” said the Teacher, trying to placate the audience.
“Chego!”
Chego turned around to see Omber, his sword raised before him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
“Omber, I won’t do it!”
“Chego!” The words came out as a half-snarl, half-sob. “I… I never learned anything except how to kill people! I… I couldn’t even understand the words in Teacher’s contract! I’m a dead weight on this planet! You have moved on! You’re useful! Please! You need the money. I don’t. You… you can think of it as a gift! I… I’ll probably get shot someday, or starve to death. What kind of death is that for a Magistrate? Please, Chego! Let me die by the sword!”
Tears flowed down Chego’s face as well, but he responded, softly, “No.”
Omber’s expression grew dark, and he furiously wiped the tears from his face. “Then… maybe… you’ll do it… in self-defense!”
Omber ran full speed at Chego, his sword swinging for Chego’s neck. Through the jeering of the crowd could be heard a loud “Ha ha!” from the Teacher.
Chego defended himself from Omber’s berserk assaults, but at every move he could tell he was falling further and further behind Omber. He backed continually across the open-topped chamber, barely able to save each of his limbs in turn. As the fight prolonged, the noise of the crowd faded, each spectator concentrating on the combatants. Finally, Omber chopped downward with such force that, when Chego attempted to block it, his straight-bladed sword shattered, allowing Omber’s blade through with little resistance.
Chego was wounded deeply in his left arm; the blood oozed swiftly down the arm and caused the hilt of his shattered sword to fall from his lifeless hand. He fell back against the side of the rust encrusted van and slid to the ground.
Omber stepped back to prepare to deliver the final blow. He raised his sword above his head to decapitate his fallen foe, but Chego instinctively drew the saurian’s repeater from inside his coat and fired at Omber’s unprotected chest.
Omber stopped short and looked down as the wound began to gush. He looked back up at Chego with pure horror and mouthed a single word: Bul-let? Chego, blinking back tears, looked away and emptied into Omber all of the remaining rounds of the saurian’s chopped-down rifle.
Omber lay dead on the ground, and the crowd vocally approved. Chego dropped the smoking gun and walked over to Omber’s body, stooping to pick up Omber’s sword. The crowd softened again in anticipation, and again erupted as Chego decapitated his friend with a single downward swing.
Chego removed his black Magistrate’s coat, knelt, and slowly and meticulously wrapped Omber’s head in it like a newborn baby. When he finished, he rose and walked grimly to the Teacher, who had been watching it all with a sickening smile, ear hole to ear hole.
As he handed Omber’s head to the Teacher (as per the newly renegotiated contract), he looked her in the eyes. “Why?”
She leaned toward him and spoke disdainfully into his ear. “Oh, Chego. I couldn’t stand to see a third of our profits wasted on that walking anachronism when you and I could actually do some good with it.”
The Teacher took Omber’s head, climbed on top of the van, and held it up for the crowd’s approval with a loud “Ha ha!” Chego grimaced as the crowd cheered for his dead friend’s head. He turned away from the crowd, picked up his shattered soul, and walked weeping out of the chamber. Quietly. Bleeding.
“ Omber and Chego”
The five Vagabonds blocked the path of Chego as he attempted to cross the dilapidated bridge. Chego knew they were going to do so even before they saw him - times were tough, and he was easy prey. The thugs fanned out in a semicircle when he stepped onto the bridge; the three in the center with well-used, but relatively new-on-the-market repeater rifles, the others on the flanks with spears. All of them stood tall with pride and bluster, while Chego meekly - yet with dignity - looked downwards, his hands in his pockets.
“Lookit them ears,” said one of the riflers, his forked tongue flicking in and out with every aspiration. “And those yellow peepers! Show us those hands of yours, fella!”
Not wanting to provoke any swift reaction from the goons, Chego slowly removed both hands from his pockets and held them up to be seen, his human right hand palm out and his pincer-like left hand as open as it would go.
The saurian thief spoke again. “Boys, just like I tell ya: I can sniff out these eight-fingered mutts at five hundred paces! You want to know why?” It was obvious that they already knew, had heard many times, and weren’t interested in reliving the story, but were willing to listen in order to complete the theft. “’Cause before the Revolution, I belonged to one, that’s why! Ten years of my life, shining boots! I never even saw the little mongrel’s face, but my hands still carry his stink!” Such rage passed through him now that he spun around on the ball of his clawed foot and clenched his scaled hands together, cradling the rifle in his arms as he did so, so he wouldn’t accidentally waste a bullet.
“In that case, sir,” spoke Chego evenly, all humility and grace, “I’m glad there was a revolution. Now, if you gentlemen will allow me through….”
At this, the saurian quickly turned back around, retraining the rifle on Chego’s chest. He spoke with well-practiced and almost convincing authority. “Where’s your sword, Magistrate?” The way he said the title reminded one distinctly of someone spitting out rotten fruit.
“I sold it, sir,” eliciting chuckles from the Vagabonds.
“I thought that back in the ‘good old days,’ a Magistrate’s sword was his soul.”
“Yes, sir, they told me that as well. But I’d rather have bread. Speaking of which, I have a very important job on the other side of this bridge, so if you gentlemen-“
“How come you smell like pine-berries, huh?”
“Well, it is pine-berry season, sir, and I….” The mildest hint of shame spread over Chego’s face. “I pick fruit.”
One of the other riflemen, a human, theatrically whispered to a spearman. “Bleh. Remind me not to buy pine-berries anymore.”
“Well, Magistrate,” said the saurian, a wicked smile pulling thin lips from his row of sharpened teeth, “you’re outta luck: there’s no fruit orchards on the other side of my bridge.”
“I… have other business.”
“I’m sure you do, Fruit Picker; I’m sure you do. But, listen; I have business on this bridge. Now, the normal toll for you mongrels to cross is two gold - but I like you, so… one aluminum.”
A pained look swept across Chego’s face, but he dutifully and slowly reached into his pocket. He withdrew a pitiful amount of change: two small dark coins and a single large shiny one. Replacing the two dark coins, he held the shiny one out to the saurian.
“Coin from before the Revolution! Your last token of the good old days, hmm? Heh heh.” He tossed the coin to one of the spearmen, and motioned mock-ceremonially for Chego to proceed over the bridge. The spearman checked the coin with one hand while holding the spear with two more hands and casually scraping his mandibles with a fourth.
But when the spearman inspected the coin more closely, he lowered his spear until the point rested against Chego’s chest, again forcing him to stop. “Boss!” The others turned to see what was the matter, readying their weaponry. The spearman tossed the coin back to the saurian and grabbed Chego’s face. Chego offered no resistance whatsoever. “Look like anyone we know?”
The saurian tough also looked at the coin, and then scrutinized the face before him. “Well, son of a…. Face to face with young ‘Master’ Chego after all these years.” Surprise and delight washed over the gang as they recognized both the name and the significance of it. The saurian bowed before Chego with theatrical irony. “Hmm - how much did those boots sell for? A lot, right?” The anger in his voice grew more and more apparent, even as he bowed lower. “’Cause they were soooo shiny!”
“Ya know, boss,” chimed in the insectoid, “he still owes you thirteen years of back pay. We can’t let him pass without giving you some kind of….”
“Satisfaction!” completed the human rifler.
The saurian thought of this for a few seconds, rose, and then spoke. “Well, my Little Prince, as you can see, I don’t wear boots. But underneath my talons is real itchy with rainy-season fungus. So, I’ll allow you the honor of cleaning ‘em out.”
The malicious laughter of the Vagabonds made no impression on Chego as he weighed his options. With grim determination totally devoid of weakness, he spoke. “Yes, sir.”
“He’s really going to do it!”
“Aw, man, one day I’m gonna tell my grandlarvae about this!”
Chego lowered himself to the ground and leaned forward with a corner of his moth-eaten vest in his hand to clean under the saurian’s claws. As Chego was about to get to work, however, his eyes lit up at the sight of a dusty, shredded white overcoat that appeared behind the other thugs.
“Oh, say, did you look at the other side of that coin?” Chego said to the saurian.
On the coin is depicted the profile of a skinny, spiky-haired young Magistrate. “Who the hell is this? Looks like Omber. ‘The Magnificent’. Feh!”
Chego looked over the shoulder of the saurian at this moment and saw the older and more worn face of Omber, who, glancing at Chego, winked.
Several sharp cracking noises left the back of each of the villains’ heads as Omber struck them with a pair of sheathed swords, instantly becoming the eye of a hurricane of descending bodies. Chego grasped the opportunity to reclaim his coin, and then stood up, just in time to see one of the falling riflemen fire point blank into Omber’s chest. The bullet struck Omber directly over the heart, on a thick faded vest he wore over his long coat. After a slight jerk at the impact (and a stunned exclamation of “B-bulletproof?” from the rifleman), Omber turned to the spearmen and swiftly hacked their spears to pieces with his long, curve-bladed sword. Approaching Chego in the midst of this chaos, Omber extended to Chego the other sword, this one having a straight blade.
“My brother Chego, you have misplaced your soul.” A deeper, more resonant and self-assured voice than Chego’s.
“I thank you for retrieving it, my brother Omber.”
Three of the thieves, spearheaded by the saurian, broke up the short relative quiet by attacking Chego at that moment. Chego fended off their ill-organized attacks with his sword still sheathed, breaking the noses of two of his attackers. Then, tapping the toggle on the hilt, he cut a single arc toward the saurian, and the barrel of its rifle fell off, the blade passing mere inches from the bullet chamber. This knocked the “pistol” from the saurian’s hand, and Chego quickly snatched it from the air.
“Try not to kill them!” Chego cried out, turning to see the progress of battle for his friend - just in time to see Omber’s bloodstained sword pass through one of the ruffians before the other’s body hit the ground. Omber simply gave Chego a loaded look, and began walking toward the remaining three combatants, who were now on their knees before Chego.
Chego aimed the gun at the saurian’s head, who wilted, muttering, “I-it cannot be!”
Omber, still walking toward the kneeling criminals, spoke, his voice loud and full of wrath.
“Tell everyone-“
“Omber, calm down!” Chego hung his sword from his belt.
“Tell everyone,” Omber continued, “that your ‘long-guns’ couldn’t save you today. The sword will rule you all again…. One fateful day.” He stalked away, leaving those he didn’t kill completely stunned, still kneeling. Chego remained standing over them imposingly, holding the gun in his right hand and the coin in his left.
Speaking softly, so Omber would not overhear, Chego said, “I still owe you a pedicure, mister. I’ll be here again in a few days… if I haven’t starved to death.” Chego began walking after Omber, and the kneeling bandits watched him go. Quietly. Bleeding.
* * * * *
“Hey, Omber!”
Omber, angry and still seething from the fight, strode silently along the raised, dirt-paved road. Chego ran to catch up with him, while workers in the rice paddies on either side of the road pretended to ignore the two former Magistrates.
Chego fell into step beside Omber. “How’ve you been doing the last thirteen years?”
Omber continued to walk in silence.
“You look like something from an antiques shop,” said Chego, looking for something that would gain a response. Omber still ignored him.
“Thanks again for the sword. How did you get it?”
At this, Omber’s composure exploded. “Have you forgotten that we Magistrates are gods? That you and I once ruled this planet? What kind of god sells his own soul? Or works on a fruit orchard? Or…” and here he stopped, overwhelmed with disgust. When he had again gained control of his emotions, he continued, speaking slowly and softly. “Or stoops to clean the feet of a mere mortal?”
“Well, you remember what Teacher always said: ‘All things change. Victory goes to the one who adapts to the new situation.’”
“Teacher was referring only to combat. You know that.”
“Speaking of Teacher…” Chego segued, “I’m guessing she sent for you?”
“Yes.”
“To meet her at the Great Tombs outside Bekkisburg?”
“Yes.” And here his eyes flashed. “She told me that we’d finally settle which of us would inherit her sword!”
During the pause in the conversation as both of them dwelt on this, Chego’s memory flashed quick images through his mind: Omber rushing at him in ceremonial armor with a sheathed sword, framed by a gothic stone archway behind him; Teacher sitting, with legs crossed, on a dais with the Black Sunrise Sword before her.
“Our skills in the Grand Duel were perfectly matched! It would have ended in a double fatality if we’d been using bared blades.” Omber’s eyes blazed with the memory of that duel. “So: the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword remains unresolved, and how can history proceed under such a state of affairs?”
“Right. Of course. But,” said Chego, “didn’t Teacher’s message say she would give us a chance to earn some money?”
Omber ignored the question. “Surely you won’t present yourself to Teacher in those… rags - or have you sold your uniform, too?” Chego nodded. “My brother,” said Omber, in a tutorial tone, “it hurts me to see you bending in the wind of these evil times.”
“But if I don’t bend, I’ll break.” And if you don’t bend, you will break, too, Chego thought.
“Humph. Better that our race just disappear into the legends instead of living on in shame; maybe then they’ll see….”
As Omber drifted back into his solitary introspection, they approached an ancient road sign: “BEKKISBERG - 10 KM”, with a broken-down, unlicensed, and three-wheeled truck rusting just behind it. Further down the road, and on the opposite side from the sign, the scenery shifted from rice paddies in flood to the tall, weed-covered burial mounds of the Magistrates, hidden behind a thick, stone wall, with an iron gate where the wall met the road. A shrunken geriatric in a worn yet impressive uniform and bearing a tri-cornered hat pulled low over the eyes was leaning against this gate. When he recognized the elderly woman, Omber rushed toward her, his face lit up like a child who had just found his lost mother. Chego remained reservedly suspicious, but polite as he moved toward her more slowly.
“Teacher!”
“Ha ha! There are my boys, and not a day too soon!” She stepped away from the gate and opened wide her arms to embrace them. When Omber reached her, he dropped to his knees and kissed her hand; Chego merely bowed.
Omber, looking up into her face, said, “Teacher looks well. These thirteen years have been kind to her.”
The Teacher’s face showed concern rather than amusement, however. “Omber, do you walk around in that getup all the time? You look like a mannequin from an antique store!”
Omber was completely abashed, but recovered quickly. “I- I have remained true to all of Teacher’s instructions. I have lived these thirteen years as a mercenary soldier, faithful to the Way of the Sword, and I keep ready at all times to restore our divine race…”
The Teacher had already turned her attention to Chego, and spoke to him as Omber, still kneeling, continued to ramble. “Chego, can that really be you? And is that a scent of…. Have you been working on a pine-berry orchard?”
Chego smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Yes, well, I can’t keep a regular job. I’m sort of a migrant worker.” At this, the Teacher herself smiled, but with pride.
“Ha ha! ‘Victory goes to the one who adapts to the new situation.’ Here is a fellow with a future….” And again she smiled. “If he survives the Grand Duel! Ha ha!” She glanced at a miniature analog clock built into the armor on her wrist, and then addressed both of them. “I’ll tell you boys all about it over supper.”
* * * * *
The three ex-Magistrates sat around the low table of a slightly refurbished (meaning cleared of rubble and containing a low table) room of a ruined temple. After they all had begun eating their canned dinner, the Teacher began her explanation.
“I’ve decided to arrange a rematch between you boys so we can decide once and for all who gets my old sword-“
Omber, bowing, smiled between bites. “Very good!”
“-and to charge admission - five silver pieces for adults, two for children. We split the earnings three ways.”
Chego, who had been somewhat forlorn, perked up. “Very good!” he said, causing Omber to start fuming silently.
The Teacher continued. “Down in Bekkisburg, they’ll be celebrating the fourteenth anniversary of the, ah, Revolution the day after tomorrow. You boys can camp out here and ready yourselves. I will go into town tomorrow and begin advertising.”
A mouthful of low-grade meat muffled Chego words. “It’ll just be a sparring match, like before, won’t it? I mean, we won’t be using bared blades?”
“Ha ha! Don’t worry yourself. It’ll be a nice, safe chance to get some nice, hard cash. I mean, I’d pay to see you two finish your Grand Duel! Wouldn’t you?”
Omber looked tense, and yet his voice was properly controlled and deferent. “I humbly beg Teacher’s forgiveness for speaking so harshly, but I respectfully suggest that reducing a Grand Duel to entertainment for the rabble is like… like… like inviting peasants to a great feast!” After a mild pause, Omber’s eyes turned downward to the disgusting can of food, and they suddenly welled up with tears. “A great feast… like the ones we used to have…” He stared off into space for a few seconds, remembering the good times of old.
“Eh?” The Teacher turned to Chego. “Did he say something? Your teacher is going deaf in her old age, ha ha!”
Omber’s face somehow became even more crestfallen, and the can fell from his hand, spilling a bit of food. Chego, with years of instinct driving him, snatched the fallen can off the floor and began eating out of it; Omber just stared at him, dumbstruck.
“Oh, uh, you weren’t going to eat this, were you?”
Omber scowled and ignored him, turned to the Teacher, and bowed. “Teacher, by your leave,” and he rose from the bow and headed toward the door.
“NO!”
Such was Omber’s shock at her volume that he nearly leapt off the moldy stone floor as he spun back around to face the Teacher. Chego, too, was surprised, and actually paused in his dining, the spoon halfway between the can and his mouth, a bit of meat paste about to fall.
The Teacher spoke with utmost gravity. “Before you leave, Omber XXIII of the Sunrise School, you must answer me: are you in, or out?”
Unable to maintain eye contact with her, Omber looked downward and to the side as his fists clenched and his teeth ground against each other. Chego simply watched, as if it were merely an especially tense spectator sport.
“Will you leave the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword undecided? Will you displease your old Teacher?”
“I shall obey Teacher to my last breath,” said Omber without unclenching his teeth.
“Then swear that you will participate in the Grand Duel.”
Without pause, and with well-practiced precision and grace, Omber drew and formally presented his curved sword in a single fluid motion, and began to speak the words that would bind his honor to the task. “I swear, by my sword, by my soul, by my blood-“
“Oh, that is the old way!” and at that point the Teacher produced a folded contract and an ink pen. “This is the new way. Sign it.”
Frowning, “As Teacher wishes.” And he signed the contract, curtly bowed, and left.
After a brief pause, it seemed as if the Teacher remembered that Chego was still in the room. “And you, Chego VI of the Sunrise School?” she asked half-mockingly.
Chego waited to reply until he could choke down the last couple bites of his dinner. “You mean, do I think it’s too humiliating to perform as a paid entertainer for our former subjects?”
“Something like that.”
Chego took both the pen and the contract from the Teacher’s hand. “Nope. I don’t like having to choose between pride and money, but,” he said, signing the contract, “pride I can live without. Heck,” he added sardonically, “I’ve been living without it for the last thirteen years.”
“Ha ha! You and me both, my boy.” But now she sighed. “You learned your lesson well. ‘Those who don’t adapt to the new situation-‘” and she glanced significantly toward the door through which Omber left a minute earlier, “’-will be defeated.’” She sighed again. “Sleep well tonight. You’ll need it, ha ha!”
* * * * *
As the sun rose over the ill-kept tombs of the Magistrates of a day long past, Chego cheerfully walked out of the dilapidated hovel to check on Omber, who never came back inside during the night. Chego found him prostrate before one of the tombs, presenting his tightly clutched sword to a deceased ancestor, until sleep caught him in the night. And a sore battle it seemed to have been, thought Chego, judging by his looks. He leaned down and put his hand on Omber’s shoulder.
“Good morning! Omber, hey! Teacher’s already gone into town. Omber, open your eyes! It’s a new day!”
Omber mumbled drowsily: “Mmm… open… my eyes?” He then leapt straight up, landing on his feet. His eyes flashed with sudden rage.
“Open my eyes?” “It’s a new day?!” NO! We are the gods!” While toggling the button on its hilt, he whipped out his curved sword, pointing it threateningly at Chego’s face once the blade finished integrating. “I don’t give a damn what those peasants are saying! Peasants!” he scoffed. “Peasants - and their long-guns! And you, fruit-picker!”
Facial features twisted with anger, Omber lunged at Chego, who barely drew and toggled his own blade before Omber could run him through. Omber’s vicious and highly skilled attacks forced Chego to retreat, desperately trying to remember his long-ill-used skills. Omber yelled between the crashing of the blades, “Don’t say I’m living in the past!” Crash! “I saw you kneeling to a slave!” Crash! “You have no pride!” Crash! “You…” Crash! “would sell…” Crash! “your soul!”
Chego was eventually pushed against an imposing, black aragonite sarcophagus, and Omber pressed his advantage with a nasty thrust straight towards Chego’s gut. The blade passed through the front of his shirt, which had billowed out before him as he turned to his right and dodged backwards. While this happened, Chego reached behind his own back with his free hand for the chopped-down rifle, tucked into his belt, yet unnoticed by Omber.
But Omber had stopped moving, shocked by the sight of his sword stabbing deeply into the sarcophagus. He released his grip on the sword, which remained stuck in the sarcophagus, and fell to his knees, drawing huge gulps of air while his face turned from battle-rage vermilion to incredulous violet.
Chego tried to calm him between equally large breaths. “No. No. Calm down. It’s empty.” And, pushing the lid of the sarcophagus off the top, he revealed that his statement was true: it was completely empty.
Veins pulsating in his forehead, Omber spat, “I thought-. All night-. Venerating the remains of-.”
“Since you hadn’t heard,” said Chego, with growing annoyance, “I didn’t want to be the first to tell you, but the Revolutionaries dumped everything into the Bekkisburg sewer ten years ago. So, you can go pray to sewage, or you can help yourself to some breakfast, which is why I came to wake you up in the first place.”
With effort, he pulled the sword from the sarcophagus and offered it to Omber. “Hey,” he said, still breathing heavily, “nothing like a good early-morning workout, right?”
Omber sullenly and lethargically rose and accepted the sword from Chego, his eyes vacant.
* * * * *
Breakfast was an odd repeat of the scene the night before: the two seated on the floor of a dilapidated room cleared of rubble, eating similar meat paste out of similar cans. Chego hungrily devouring his meal; Omber sulking in his own melancholy world. His food sat untouched in an opened can before him.
Suddenly, Omber came out of his trance. “What will you do with the Black Sunrise…? I mean, if you were to win it?”
“You really have to ask?”
Omber’s sigh spoke volumes about his anger and sadness. “Well, what would you do with the money you’d get from“ - and here, he almost choked on the word - “selling it?”
“Well,” Chego said, slowing down his meal so that he could be understood, “it’d go a long way toward paying for an orchard - a small one, but still…. I could finally get married… anything left over, I’d set aside for the kids.”
Omber resumed his sulk, and began mumbling audibly to himself: “You want to do something for the kids? How about sparing them from coming into this filthy, upside-down world, so they won’t have to slave their whole lives for a few moldy crumbs from the tables of those their ancestors once ruled…?”
Chego put down his empty can and turned toward Omber. “I know how you feel sometimes - ‘born too late’?”
Omber nodded his confession.
“But,” continued Chego, “didn’t you ever wonder what kept the slaves at the bottom from killing themselves? I see this as our chance to find out. And things will get better over time, too. You’ll see.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of their Teacher. “Boys, some bad news.” Both Magistrates’ attention shifted to her.
“Folks just weren’t interested in seeing a sparring match, even if it is the Grand Duel. But your ol’ Teacher made ‘em interested, and now half of Bekkisburg can hardly wait, ha ha!”
“Just what did you tell them?” said Chego.
“Uhh, ha ha!” the Teacher’s embarrassment showed plainly. “Ah, your old Teacher’s grown forgetful in her old age, ha ha! I told them - ha ha! - that it’s going to be a duel to the, ah, to the death.”
While Omber continued to sulk, Chego reacted with great alarm. “But, you were fudging, right? I mean to say, no one’s actually getting killed? Right?”
“Of course not, ha ha!” When Chego’s brow furrowed with lack of comprehension, she went on. “All you have to do is pretend to fight with live blades, give ‘em a good show, then Omber, I mean - ha ha! - one of you pretends to die. I announce the winner, who drags the loser offstage, we hightail it out of town with the money and split it three ways ASAP. And if these old eyes saw the excitement they thought they saw in Bekkisburg just now, there’ll be a lot for each of us.”
Chego spoke first, after thinking for several moments. “It’s a little dishonest. Otherwise, it sounds good to me. Oh,” in sudden remembrance, “what about the Black Sunrise?”
“Oh, that old thing?”
The gloom in his voice knifing through the conversation, Omber said, “Chego. He can have it.”
The Teacher and Chego simultaneously said, “What?!”
“He already has plans for it. I don’t really care.”
Chego sheepishly responded, “Wouldn’t you rather settle it with a proper sparring match?”
“D’you wanna flip a coin? Ha ha!”
In a flurry of motion, Omber flew through the air, drawing his sword, and defeated the unsuspecting Chego in two moves. “I win the Black Sunrise. I give it to you.”
Looking down at the sheathed blade resting on his throat, Chego stammered, “Th-thank you.”
The sound of the Teacher slapping her own forehead broke the tension between the two swordsmen. “Dag-blast it, boys, your ol’ Teacher’s done it again! I forgot to tell you: I rescheduled the fight. It’s in one hour, ha ha!”
“One hour?”
“From now?”
The Teacher, nodding, dashed through the door while motioning for them to follow. She approached the driver’s side door of a rusted ancient van, saying, “High noon today! I was afraid that we might lose their interest if we waited till tomorrow. Gotta strike while the iron’s hot!”
* * * * *
The van approached the main gate of Bekkisburg - the Teacher at the wheel and Omber and Chego huddled in the near-empty back, bouncing around with the carefully wrapped Black Sunrise sword, a heavy safe with a coin-sized slot in the top, and about a half-dozen cans of meat paste.
Nearly yelling over the commotion, Chego said, “You’ve beaten me already. Would you like to ‘win’ this match?”
“No, you go ahead. I can play dead.”
Chego was so obviously surprised and not understanding Omber’s intent that Omber felt the need to explain himself. He went on in a very relaxed tone. “You’re going to be an established fruit farmer, remember? If I fake my death today, I can just move on - and,” a smile spreading across his face, “I don’t plan on having any kids to deal with my bad name.”
As they grew deeper into the city, Omber began inspecting Chego up and down, and then began to run his hand over his thick vest. He yelled to the Teacher, “The match is in forty-five minutes, yes?”
“Yes. High noon at our old castle.” She indicated a once-mighty fortress situated on a hill in the center of the city, visible from almost anywhere in the city. The crenelated towers were crumbling and the façade was covered with choking ivy and weeds.
“Understood. I’ll see you there.” And then Omber vaulted to the back of the van, threw open the rear door, and leapt out, slamming the door shut as he did it.
“Teacher! Omber just - “
“Eh, let him; he’ll be there in time. His mind probably can’t even contemplate disobeying his old Teacher. Like an obedient mongrel dog, ha ha!”
Chego thought about that for a few seconds and then began to stare out the windows at the city. All over were big advertisement banners reading, “Grand Duel”. Some of them had faded with great exposure to the weather, and some had a line reading, “In __ Weeks!!!” with several corrections pasted in the blank.
Chego, somewhat unnerved at his Teacher’s abject lies, said, “Teacher, you didn’t put up all of these posters just this morning.”
“Ha ha! ‘Least one of my boys has enough wits to think for himself.” But her expression was more menacing than matronly. “Yes, you found me out. I’ve been stringing these people along for a month and a half now - promised ‘em a duel as soon as you two answered my call. They’ve been getting mighty impatient, ha ha! I couldn’t keep them waiting a day longer.”
“So you -“
“I know what you’re thinking,” she snapped coldly, “and yes, the contract is still binding. That means if you chicken out, I will hunt you down! Is that perfectly clear?”
“Painfully, I’m afraid.”
They continued the ride in silence until they reached the dilapidated castle. Shooting through the first gate (on which there was a large red sign reading “CONDEMNED - SCHEDULED FOR DEMOLITION”), they entered a spacious, rubble-strewn courtyard. A single great statue, the likeness of Chego, stood in the center, surrounded by the remains of what once were similar statues of Omber and the Teacher.
The Teacher cautiously steered the van through the rubble and parked the van in the right side of the doorway into the main chamber - a now ceilingless and weed-filled coliseum, but with a fairly open space in the center, surrounded by stone bleachers. Turning off the engine, the Teacher hopped out of the cab and opened the rear door. “Give me a hand,” she said to Chego, and began pulling on the heavy safe before he could respond.
With Chego’s help, the Teacher guided the safe just to the edge of the van. “Here’s our box office. Five silvers for adults, two for kids. I’ll take care of the crowd; you just wait in the meditation cell until I call you in” checking her watch “forty minutes. You do remember where the meditation cell is, don’t you?”
“Of course; it was my favorite spot when we played hide-and-seek.”
* * * * *
In a dimly lit chamber inside the castle, Chego practiced forms. He had rearranged his hair into the traditional triple ponytail, and slowly moved about the ruined cell. He could feel the fatigue flowing from his body, and he closed his eyes in relaxation. I remember this being home, he thought. How odd, to have a sensation of ‘home’ again. He didn’t notice the entrance of Omber behind him, carrying a bundle under his arm.
Omber watched for a few seconds, then spoke, “Ollie ollie oxen free.”
“Oh… hey. Ready?”
“I am ready,” he said, nodding, “but the same cannot be said of you. A Magistrate without his uniform - it’s disgraceful. So….” And, rather than let his words speak for him, he unfurled the bundle. Chego gasped as he recognized the long, black Magistrate uniform overcoat. He took it from Omber, and put it on over his other clothes, taking a moment to keep it from catching on the butt of the cut-down repeater rifle he still carried. While admiring its quality - for it was in much better condition than Omber’s coat - he felt something in the pocket: a pair of sunglasses.
Chego was finally able to find words. “H-how were you able to afford this? Oh. Did you trade in your armored vest?”
“It was becoming too loose anyway.”
“Omber…. You really shouldn’t have….” He trailed off, and then recovered. “Thank you.”
Omber responded by picking up Chego’s dropped sword. He handed it to Chego. “Your soul, brother.”
“Thanks again.” He attached it to the fixture on the coat. “You never did tell me where you found it.”
With a dark smile, Omber said, “You sold it to a short, husky human male with a large aluminum ring in his left ear, yes?”
Chego nodded. Omber showed Chego his left hand, on which is an aluminum ring. He took it off and flipped it to Chego, who caught it. “My employer declared war on his employer. I met him in battle.”
Reluctance, guilt, and disgust swirled through Chego’s mind, and he put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and looked at Omber, who was still smiling.
Suddenly, the booming amplified voice of the Teacher echoed through the castle: “Citizens of Bekkisburg, are you ready for some carnage?” After an appropriately long pause for applause, she continued. “Well, you’re going to get your money’s worth!”
Chego flipped the ring back to Omber and said, “See you inside!” They then exited the room through opposing doors.
* * * * *
“This Grand Duel began fourteen years ago; it ends today. One contestant will become the Master of the Black Sunrise Sword! The other contestant will become… souvenirs!!!”
The crowd erupted, the intense noise channeled downward into the center by the accidental acoustics of the collapsed ceiling.
Once they had calmed down somewhat, the Teacher continued. “Ladies and gentlemen of all species, I present two ‘gods’ of swordsmanship…” causing the crowd to bubble with derisive laughter, “…the scions of the Sunrise School, your former Lords and Magistrates.”
“In the white coat,” indicating the door on her left, from which a white clad figure had emerged, “Omber XXIII! And in the black coat,” turning back to her right, “Chego VI!”
Chego stepped out into the sunlight and faced Omber across the room. Both of them were wearing sunglasses. Chego then surveyed his surroundings. The Teacher was standing on a makeshift throne atop the van, which she had moved inside for that purpose. The Black Sunrise Sword was positioned in a place of honor beside her. The crowd was a motley bunch, pushing and jockeying each other for a better view.
They waited a few seconds, allowing the noise to wash over them before they slowly and dramatically walked toward each other. The Teacher deftly hopped down from the van and met them in the center.
“Magistrates, touch blades!”
Each of them ceremoniously drew their swords and made a show of toggling the blades bare in mid-swing, creating a resounding clang! on contact. They then stepped back and waited for the go-ahead from the Teacher.
“Begin!” The crowd roared, attaining an even higher decibel level than before.
Chego and Omber leapt at each other, bellowing. They passed each other in the air, their swords ringing once, twice, thrice. When they landed, they turned and smiled at each other through their broken sunglasses. As they discarded them, the crowd again roared, and the sounds of bet taking redoubled. Again they charged at each other, their moves chosen for minimum effectiveness and maximum drama.
During a pause in the fighting, Chego glanced in the direction of the Teacher, who sat on the throne atop the van with a wicked grin on her face. Chego was reminded of ancient depictions of evil goddesses observing the world from a distance and contemplating something about which the puny mortals know nothing. Deflecting an attack from Omber brought him out of his reverie, and again the two combatants paused opposite each other.
“Prepare to die!” Chego yelled, while simultaneously winking. Omber’s face told Chego he understood, and Chego took advantage of the opening Omber left for him. His sword plunged into Omber’s white coat just as Omber twisted his body slightly - the sword came out of the other side of the coat, missing Omber’s body completely while giving the illusion that he had been run through. Omber gave a fairly convincing impression of a dying scream and fell at Chego’s feet. Most of the crowd began screaming, but many remained dissatisfied and wanted to make sure he was dead before giving up their money.
Chego made a show of pulling his sword from Omber’s body and stood over him, mock-triumphantly. When the cheering faded, Chego cried out, “Teacher! The fate of the Black Sunrise Sword is settled!”
After a collective roar and exchanging of lost bet money, the Teacher chuckled and icily spoke to Chego: “Excellent, my disciple. Now… present me with the loser’s head!”
Shocked, Chego’s gaze snapped down to the face of the fallen Omber, whose own surprise was revealed only by a twitching cheek muscle as he continued to maintain the illusion of his own death.
Chego looked back up at the Teacher, desperately looking for a solution. “Uh, this disciple begs his Teacher’s pardon, but respectfully suggests that the, uh, venerable remains of the defeated be, ah, allowed to remain in, uh, an… an intact, uh, state….”
“No! He may be feigning death. Bring me his head, that we may know he is not!”
“Teacher! You can’t-“
Slowly, the Teacher withdrew from an inner pocket of her Magistrate’s coat the contract signed both by Chego and Omber. She was triumphant in her attitude and clearly in command. “Didn’t you read this? I can change the rules at any time! Ha ha!”
The crowd began to chatter, having little-to-no idea what was going on. The Teacher went on, unconcerned. “Bring me his head, or walk away with nothing, Chego. The choice is yours.”
Chego wallowed in indecision. He bit his lip and looked down at the supine Omber, who made eye contact with Chego.
Whispering, almost imperceptible above the chattering of the crowd, Omber said, “Kill me.”
“No.”
“Do it! Kill me!”
With great resolve and force, Chego yelled, “I! Will! Not!”
The Teacher’s face lost its malicious grin, souring to a look that would cause most to quail. She stepped lightly off the van and began walking toward the combatants. “Then the fate of the Black Sunrise Sword remains… undecided-“
Omber swiftly jumped to his feet, drawing a sharp intake of breath from every member of the crowd. “Wait! Chego, please, go ahead. Think of your children!”
Chego scowled. “Stop it!”
“I…. Look at me! I do look like something from an antiques store….”
Chego was not swayed, and he toggled his sword and turned to walk toward the exit, unconcerned with the boos and rotten cabbage pelting him from the crowd.
“Calm down, people; it’s all part of the show,” said the Teacher, trying to placate the audience.
“Chego!”
Chego turned around to see Omber, his sword raised before him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
“Omber, I won’t do it!”
“Chego!” The words came out as a half-snarl, half-sob. “I… I never learned anything except how to kill people! I… I couldn’t even understand the words in Teacher’s contract! I’m a dead weight on this planet! You have moved on! You’re useful! Please! You need the money. I don’t. You… you can think of it as a gift! I… I’ll probably get shot someday, or starve to death. What kind of death is that for a Magistrate? Please, Chego! Let me die by the sword!”
Tears flowed down Chego’s face as well, but he responded, softly, “No.”
Omber’s expression grew dark, and he furiously wiped the tears from his face. “Then… maybe… you’ll do it… in self-defense!”
Omber ran full speed at Chego, his sword swinging for Chego’s neck. Through the jeering of the crowd could be heard a loud “Ha ha!” from the Teacher.
Chego defended himself from Omber’s berserk assaults, but at every move he could tell he was falling further and further behind Omber. He backed continually across the open-topped chamber, barely able to save each of his limbs in turn. As the fight prolonged, the noise of the crowd faded, each spectator concentrating on the combatants. Finally, Omber chopped downward with such force that, when Chego attempted to block it, his straight-bladed sword shattered, allowing Omber’s blade through with little resistance.
Chego was wounded deeply in his left arm; the blood oozed swiftly down the arm and caused the hilt of his shattered sword to fall from his lifeless hand. He fell back against the side of the rust encrusted van and slid to the ground.
Omber stepped back to prepare to deliver the final blow. He raised his sword above his head to decapitate his fallen foe, but Chego instinctively drew the saurian’s repeater from inside his coat and fired at Omber’s unprotected chest.
Omber stopped short and looked down as the wound began to gush. He looked back up at Chego with pure horror and mouthed a single word: Bul-let? Chego, blinking back tears, looked away and emptied into Omber all of the remaining rounds of the saurian’s chopped-down rifle.
Omber lay dead on the ground, and the crowd vocally approved. Chego dropped the smoking gun and walked over to Omber’s body, stooping to pick up Omber’s sword. The crowd softened again in anticipation, and again erupted as Chego decapitated his friend with a single downward swing.
Chego removed his black Magistrate’s coat, knelt, and slowly and meticulously wrapped Omber’s head in it like a newborn baby. When he finished, he rose and walked grimly to the Teacher, who had been watching it all with a sickening smile, ear hole to ear hole.
As he handed Omber’s head to the Teacher (as per the newly renegotiated contract), he looked her in the eyes. “Why?”
She leaned toward him and spoke disdainfully into his ear. “Oh, Chego. I couldn’t stand to see a third of our profits wasted on that walking anachronism when you and I could actually do some good with it.”
The Teacher took Omber’s head, climbed on top of the van, and held it up for the crowd’s approval with a loud “Ha ha!” Chego grimaced as the crowd cheered for his dead friend’s head. He turned away from the crowd, picked up his shattered soul, and walked weeping out of the chamber. Quietly. Bleeding.