A Berserker Rite of Passage

Brandon Daubs

Ronde was having an unusual dream. He dreamt that he saw his camp of desert Berserkers, still sleeping in the cool of early morning, from the sky. The crude tents were pitched around a collection of deep wells dug into the earth, but that was the only water he could see for as far as his eyes could reach. The tents of his clan were the only tents he could see, as well. There wasn’t another collection of tents as far as he could see. Somewhere to the north, half buried in sand, he could make out tattered canvas that might have once belonged to tents. Here and there throughout the baked expanse of clay, bony hands reached for the sky from beneath piles of sand. Somehow, he could see that one of the hands beckoned for him.

He turned his eyes away, but the skeletal hand beckoned again. A breeze uncovered its wrist to reveal an intricately carved bracelet of stone clasped tightly around the bone. Ronde did not want to watch it any longer. He tried to fly further into the sky, hoping to catch sight of something beyond the dunes. Mile after mile of the desert stretched out before him without a single speck of green anywhere to be found. He continued to soar upwards, but his flight only revealed more of the same. No matter how high he flew he could only see desert stretching eternally into the distance.

And, to his horror, no matter how high he flew he could always see the skeletal hand beckoning to him from beneath the sands.
Ronde awoke with a start and was met with the usual sweltering heat of the Desert Realm. He sat up and reached a hand to his head. It wasn’t supposed to be this hot. In his dream, it had been early morning, but the heat in his tent told him it must be well past noon. Hurriedly he cast about for his ragged short, but he couldn’t find them anywhere. He panicked until he glanced down at himself and realized he was still wearing them. They had been wrinkled and filthy even before he had gone to bed, so he wasted no time chastising himself for wearing them to sleep. He rose unsteadily to his feet and shook the sand from his tangled mop of hair as best he could. He checked the rope tied about his waist to be sure it was still securing his ragged shorts and, finding it was, bent to fasten his sandals to his feet. He noticed a tear in the leather binding halfway to his knee, and sifted through the sand near the corner of the tent to produce a crude bone needle and thread with which to patch it. He had to be sure his gear was in prime condition for the rest of the day.

“Ronde!” came a shout from outside the tent, and Ronde jumped to his feet. He brushed the sand off his bare chest before pushing his way through his tent flap and out into the blistering midday heat. He glanced at the sun’s position, and it glared angrily back at him from directly overhead, an unfriendly confirmation that he had overslept once more.
“What do you think you’re doing, oversleeping today, of all days?” a much larger man grumbled as he marched around the canvas tent to face him. Ronde cringed at the sight of his father, Olman, whose wild beard and many scars marked him as a powerful fighter who had proven his use to the tribe countless times. Instead of the usual desert sandals, this man wore heavy combat boots buckled with iron to the knee, somewhat less ragged shorts, and a pair of enormously heavy stone bracelets clasped about each of his wrists. Ronde eyed the bracelets uneasily. They were a sign of belonging to his family, and his father wore them proudly. Ronde’s brother Oswyn had worn them proudly, too. Ronde had buried his somewhere in his tent.

“I’m sorry,” Ronde replied with a sigh.

“That’s it?” Ronde’s father replied, stepping forward to brush some sand from his shoulder. “That’s all you’re going to say? You’re sorry? You are the laziest of all the Sandstorm Berserkers, Ronde. Do you understand that?” He sighed, and shook his head. “Ronde, you can oversleep any other day, but today? Today is the day! Your initiation into manhood only comes once, son! You want to fight your best, don’t you?” His father took him roughly by the shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. “You want to make your brother proud, don’t you?”

Ronde turned away. He hated when his father brought up Oswyn. Years ago, during a crippling drought, the Sandstorm Berserkers had faced death by lack of water. The only nearby clan who had enough for them was the Broken Arm clan, who had dug deep wells in the cracked earth. The Broken Arm Berserkers had been their friends, but when the Sandstorm clan had come to them begging for water, they would not help. Years of peace were shattered by a bloody conflict between the two tribes that lasted for weeks. Ronde’s brother Oswyn had been killed in the fighting and Olman, their father, never missed an opportunity to remind Ronde that it was his incompetence in battle that led to Oswyn’s death. He never said it out loud, but Ronde knew it had been his fault, and he knew exactly why.

“Work on your kick, Ronde,” Oswyn was telling him. Ronde remembered the face of his brother. It was bold, with a strong jaw and handsome features, and eyes that both challenged and inspired trust. They were outside, and the sun was setting behind the distant dunes. The air was rapidly cooling, and Ronde knew there wouldn’t be much more time they could practice. In fact, he was counting on it. No matter how hard his brother Oswyn tried to teach him how to fight, he refused to learn. While the other boys sparred in the sand pit, he squatted in the shade of a copse of desert trees and thought. He thought of life outside the desert. He wondered if there was a place where there was enough water for everyone, and where food wasn’t so hard to find. He wondered if there was a place where boys didn’t grow up fighting each other to survive.

“Aim for the jaw, Ronde,” Oswyn was trying to tell him. “It’s likely to knock them out. Ronde? Did you see me? Here, look again. I’ll show you how to do it another time. But pay attention! You never know when you might need to fight someone.”

Ronde did not pay attention.

Then the fighting broke out. Everyone was thirsty. Children who couldn’t get water were dying of thirst, children that Ronde had grown up with. His clan charged their neighbors in the dead of night. The furious screams of fighting men, the snap of breaking bones, and the wailing of wives and children tormented him. He had never seen such madness. Not only the men of the Sandstorm clan, but everyone, was attacking. Women crushed throats and broke necks to save their children from thirst and starvation. Children died defending their mothers. He ran with everyone else, sticking close to Oswyn. Their father had gone up ahead.

They encountered a stumbling Broken Arm Berserker who had already received a severe blow to the head. “We have to kill this man, little brother,” Oswyn told him. “We have to kill him for our father. We have to kill him for our clan.”

It took Oswyn only one strong punch to the man’s throat to bring him down, but Ronde couldn’t move. Not even when two more Broken Arm Berserkers appeared to tackle his brother to the ground did he move from his spot. Ronde could hear them breaking his ribs. He might have called for help if his face had not been pushed into the sand. When Ronde finally overcame his paralysis and ran to help, the best he could manage was an awkward kick that grazed the shoulder of one man. Immediately they were upon him, twisting and wrenching like they meant to tear him apart.

His father had saved him, but he had known from his brother’s stillness that it was too late for Oswyn.

“You do want to honor his memory by fighting your best, don’t you?” Olman asked him. Ronde turned again to face his father. His brother was already dead. Nothing he could do, no amount of training, no amount of victories in battle, would bring him back, and no amount of brutally battering the other boys would bring his people out of such barbarism.

“Sure I do,” he lied. His father looked convinced, and smiled.

“That’s my boy,” Olman told him. “Go on down to the arena. You’re the most rested, so you should do alright. Go show those other boys what father has raised the fiercest son!” Olman was smiling, but something in his voice betrayed that he was still worried. Ronde was not fooled by his father’s encouragement. Olman knew better than anyone that Ronde was likely the weakest fighter in the camp, and he was about to prove it to the entire clan.

Ronde turned and hurried away before his father could embarrass him further, and slunk to the wrestling arena at the center of the camp. He had been dreading this day for a long time, and to think that it had finally come slowed his steps and added an extra weight to his shoulders. He remembered watching Oswyn fight in the Berserker arena, and how well he had done, overpowering his foes with superior strength and an agility Ronde could never hope to have. Ronde imagined himself being thrown on his back and crushed into the sand before ten seconds were up.

He had to shoulder his way past the raucous crowd of Berserkers packed shoulder to shoulder around the ring. They were all applauding thunderously at some violence Ronde could not yet see. As Ronde neared the ring, he pushed his way through the Sandstorm Drummers, who were frantically pounding on enormous drums even taller than he was. The thunder of the drums rattled his brains. He clapped his hands over his ears, but he could not drown out the noise. He glared into the center of the ring.
A pair of young Berserkers, both his age but much taller and stronger, were locked together in gruesome combat. Both boys had enormous hands locked on the other’s shoulders and were attempting to force each other to their knees. Blood flowed freely from one boy’s nose, and the second snarled to reveal bloodied teeth. Ronde had never seen faces contorted in such rage. He knew the two boys, and remembered training with them, even if they had never acknowledged him. He remembered their jokes, and the way they congratulated each other on their progress. He remembered also the way they ridiculed his weakness, but in spite of his resentment towards them, he was appalled to find them so battered. They had been friends, once. But now, the animal rage evident on their faces gave no indication that they had been anything but bitter enemies since birth.

Just as Ronde was beginning to hope the fight would go on forever, so he would not have to take part in the barbaric ritual, one of the boys dropped suddenly to his knees. The other immediately kneed him viciously in the face, crushing an already broken nose. Refusing to go down, the boy with the ruined face lunged forward to sink his teeth into the unprotected flesh of his opponent’s side. Ronde cringed as the bite drew blood that trickled down the boy’s thigh. He was further disgusted to see the injured boy repeatedly striking the top of his enemy’s head with a closed fist, but the boy’s enemy would not loosen his jaw. Finally the boy with the bloodied side tore himself free, sacrificing a mouthful of his flesh, and the boy with the broken nose crashed to the sand. The standing boy brought a sandaled foot down on the back of his opponent’s head, driving his mouth and eyes deep into the sand. Ignoring the thrashing of his friend, made a bitter enemy by competition, the boy cackled maniacally over his victory.
The drums came to an abrupt halt, and the victorious boy looked around as though awakening from a daze. He glanced down at his bloodied side, and then at his friend suffocating in the sand. He raised his foot a moment too late. The boy had already ceased his mad thrashing, and now lay still. A pair of much older Berserkers hurried into the ring to shoo away the victor and lift up the defeated boy. Ronde watched the sand trail from the boy’s mouth as he was slung over the shoulder of an older Berserker and carted off like ruined merchandise.

Suddenly a massive Berserker shouldered his way into the middle of the ring. Ronde turned towards him, his eyes riveted on the man’s bearded face. The chieftain of the Sandstorm Berserkers stood at least a head taller than even the largest among them, and his tangled gray beard did little to hide the vivid scars evident on the old man’s broad chest. He appraised his gathered Berserkers with a cold gaze that measured each of their worth in battle. As the gaze settled on him, Ronde shuddered and turned his eyes away. He knew that as far as the chieftain was concerned, he was the most useless of the Berserkers, and did not hold promise of a strong future. He had only to step into that ring to confirm the chieftain’s suspicions.

“Let the rites continue!” the chieftain roared, throwing up his hands. His voice carried over the vast crowd with a strength that belied his age. “Let our next contestants come forward! Ronde, unproven son of Olman the Talon, will commence bitter combat with Amerie the Fatherless.”

Great shouts of disapproval erupted from the crowd as a girl slipped into the ring. The crowd’s jeers were obscene and relentless, but her face remained serene. Ronde marveled at how clean her hair was, which made it more blonde than anybody’s. It was also brushed. She stood patiently waiting for her opponent to approach. Ronde could not believe what he was seeing. She was far too slender, too fragile, to participate in the rites. In spite of his dread for this day, Ronde knew that surviving the rite marked a boy’s readiness for battle. This girl could not possibly be thinking to prove her worth as a warrior in the clan of Sandstorm Berserkers.

“Get her out of here!” one Berserker shouted from the crowd, his voice floating to Ronde above the jeers and booing. “This is a man’s contest!”

“Her, a warrior?” sneered another man. “She’s only good for ogling at, until she’s old enough to marry!” The crowd erupted into laughter.

“Silence!” the chieftain roared, putting an end to the crowd’s jeering. “If she wants to prove her worth as a warrior, she must show her prowess against her opponent. At least save your jeering until after she’s been beaten, and crawls back to her tent.” The chieftain’s words stirred up more snickering. Ronde glared at his neighbors. Did they not realize that she had the right to do whatever she pleased? If she wanted to try her skills in the arena, she could try them. But he was certain that nobody of her slim stature could survive a real battle. To save her from having to face the violence of their world, he would defeat her. He only wished it could be somebody else that beat her in front of everybody. He stepped into the ring.

“Prepare!” one of the drummers shouted. Amerie dug the ball of one foot into the sand and placed the other forward. She rested both hands on her knee and stared fixedly at Ronde. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

The rattle of the drums began, and he lazily chose a stance to meet her charge. He couldn’t execute any of them well enough to stop the charge of another boy, but he figured any of them would do to halt Amerie. However, when she leapt forward, she moved with much greater speed than he could have imagined her capable of. She reached him, slid to a halt in the sand, and brought her leg up in a perfectly executed arc. Before he knew what had happened he felt her foot connect with his thigh, his shoulder, and the side of his head. He fell sideways and hit the ground with the iron taste of blood in his mouth. She did not allow him time to wonder how she could be so strong, but was on top him in an instant, aiming to break his arm. He threw her off awkwardly, expending far more energy that he should have, and rose to stumble away.
He could not believe the serenity still evident on her face. The crowd’s jeering, intensified now that she had landed the first blow, still did not effect her. She faked a punch, tricking Ronde into bringing his arms up to block, and seized his shoulders with an iron grip. His arms were pinned to his sides. It would be impossible to use them. Ronde was unable to do anything but get a better look at her face, and as she tried to force him to the ground, he watched her calmly as he resisted as best he could. He could not believe that she was so much stronger and more skilled than he was, but it didn’t matter. If he lost, she would get her wish, and his father would finally stop expecting him to be as strong a warrior as Oswyn had been.

Her hair, no longer neatly parted, hung before her face. Behind the golden curtain swaying in the breeze, Ronde could see eyes as cold as a desert night. There was a tiny scar under her left eye that he didn’t think anybody would notice unless they examined her closely. Her eyes were a fearsome blue, made especially terrifying by their complete lack of emotion. In combat, she looked nothing like she had from a distance. Seeing her now made him wonder how he could ever have thought she was frail. Straining with the effort of forcing him to his knees, the muscles of her arms were far more visible than they had been. A glance downward revealed powerful thighs he had not seen from a distance. It was no wonder she had almost taken his head off with her first kick. In spite his newfound fear for her physique, he could not help but admire how clean she was, and how pretty. He found it hard to believe that somebody with such a youthful face would make it their dream to be perceived as an expendable tool of slaughter.

“Are you admiring me?” Amerie asked him. The sound of her voice startled him, but he didn’t turn his eyes away. Her tone had not been hostile, but it was far from friendly. He opened his mouth to stammer a reply, but before he could manage she released his shoulders and moved her hands to his neck. Immediately his freed hands snapped up to grab her wrists. He knew that a stranglehold would knock him out in less than a minute, if it didn’t kill him altogether. It was all he could do to slow the steady advance of her hands, however. She was obviously stronger, and would reach his throat in spite of his best efforts.

“I was just looking,” he told her calmly, but knew it didn’t matter how he said it. It was inevitable that she take it the wrong way.

Finally her icy exterior seemed to shatter, and with a cry of outrage she screamed “You’re not even trying…I’ll teach you to stare when you should be fighting!” and brought her knee into his groin so suddenly that Ronde was on his back before he knew she had moved. The drums ceased abruptly, and Amerie stormed off without celebrating her victory.

Ronde was immediately assailed by the silence. There were no jeers, no boos. There was no noise at all. Warily, he pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked about. Every pair of eyes outside the ring was watching him. Every pair of eyes had seen his humiliating defeat at the hands of a girl they thought nothing of. In spite of all the times he had told himself the rite didn’t matter, Ronde suddenly felt a chill. The old assurances he had used to help himself in times like these were not working. No matter how many times he thought it didn’t matter, how many times he told himself he didn’t care, the mortification of his defeat remained.

He struggled to his knees in the midst of the silence, gasping for breath, but nobody came forward to help him up. There was more to this than just embarassment, he realized as he cast about. Sensing a growing danger, he began a desperate crawl towards the edge of the ring. However, when he reached the closely packed wall of Berserkers, they would not yield. They stared down at him in silence, their faces unreadable. Their eyes held disgust.

Ronde turned to find another escape, but all he found was his father, standing in the center of the arena. At the sight of his son, he raised his chin in an attempt to appear stern, but Ronde could still see regret evident on his bold features. For a moment, he wondered what his father might be regretful about. Until he saw the rod.

“Beat him, Olman!” came a shout from the crowd.

“Preserve your honor, Olman!” came another. “Preserve all of our honor!”

Ronde gave up all hope of escape as a nearby Berserker wrapped his fingers in his hair and dragged him to the center of the arena. Ronde saw his father’s cane rise and shut his eyes against the inevitable.

Ronde wasn’t sure if it was the pain or the cold that had awoken him, and he struggled to open his eyes. Only his right would cooperate, however, and he quickly discovered that the left had swollen shut. He stared upwards at the stars until the chill of the desert night forced him to seek shelter. If he didn’t get out of the wind, he knew he would freeze to death. He struggled to his knees and felt the bile rise in his throat. He spat out a mouthful of blood and rose staggering to his feet, driven by the cold. During the arduous journey to his tent, he turned his mind to Amerie. He didn’t know why he thought of her except that she was the cause for his misery, but strangely, he did not resent her.

He stumbled through the camp towards his tent, hoping he would make it without encountering any other Berserkers. For a moment, he considered leaving the tribe, but quickly put an end to such a foolish notion. Even if he knew what direction to run, Berserker tribes never took in stray members. He might make it half a day before he got lost, and then spend the rest of the day wandering until the heat finished him off. There was no escaping it. He would have to spend the rest of his days living in shame.
He froze as he heard a voice on the wind, and raised his head to listen. “Amerie the Fatherless,” came a familiar voice, and Ronde thought he could make out the form of Amerie slouched against one of the nearby wells. She heaved a heavy sigh as she lifted a handful of sand from the ground and allowed it to trickle through her fingers. “I don’t need a title to remind me of what’s missing.”

Ronde paused in front of her. “Amerie?” he called. She looked up and hurriedly scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of one hand. It was only then that Ronde realized she had been crying.

“What do you want,” she asked, not bothering to rise from her seat. “Did you come for revenge? Just wait until tomorrow, and I’ll beat you down again. If you came to stare at me, I’ll go ahead and fight you immediately.” She sniffed.

“Are you all right?” Ronde asked.

“Of course I’m alright,” she answered. She looked up then, and watched him from behind her sheet of golden hair. “You’re the one who lost. You didn’t hurt me at all. It’s as though you didn’t try.” Ronde opened his mouth to protest, but she forestalled him with a raised palm. He felt strangely compelled to obey the gesture. “What’s the matter with you, anyways, asking if I’m all right?” she continued. “You should hate me. You lost to me, and because of that you’re now the laughing stock of the entire clan. The runt. They think you’re the weakest, because you lost to me. If we run low on food you’ll be the first they let starve.”

“Maybe I am the weakest,” he spat. His temper did little to affect her, however. “Maybe I’m the worst fighter here. What’s that going to prove? Fighting never did me any good in the past. What good will it do me now?”

“Maybe you’re not the weakest,” Amerie mumbled, turning away. “It doesn’t even matter. They assume that I am automatically, when in truth I could have beaten any of the boys in the arena today. If only I had been paired with the best, and not with you, they might have thought differently of the outcome.” She sighed. “All I wanted to do was prove my worth, but I can’t if my opponent is weak enough to lose to a rug.” She paused, and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you talking to me, anyways? I pretty much ruined your life today. We’re enemies, understand? Enemies fight. They don’t sit around talking about their feelings or whatever. Get out of here!”

“We’re not fighting now,” Ronde pointed out. “And I don’t see how we can be enemies if we’re both in the Sandstorm clan.”

“Is that so?” she asked. He thought he detected something dangerous in her voice, but he paid it little mind. She looked too peaceful seated against the well to be any real threat. He soon discovered his mistake, as soon as he nodded. She was on her feet faster than he could have imagined. She seized his collar and slammed him hard against the crudely constructed masonry of one of the wells. His heart raced. If she wanted, she could easily tip him backwards into the darkness. The other Berserkers would have no idea he was down there.

“Look down there,” she hissed. He cringed. “Look down the well!” she shouted again. He turned obediently to peer into the darkness. “What do you see?” she asked him. When he didn’t reply, she tightened her grip on his collar. “What’s down there!” she demanded again.

“Water?” Ronde asked. He was ashamed of the quake in his voice.

“How did we get it?” she asked.

“We won it from the Broken Arm clan…” Ronde began, but Amerie shook him violently before he could finish.

“Won it! Won it?” she screamed. “Won it like somebody wins a game? Let me tell you something. I was there, those years ago. I was there when we stormed the Broken Arm Berserkers like a pack of animals. And let me tell you something else, Ronde. I am a Sandstorm Berserker. My mother was a Sandstorm Berserker. But my father…my father was not! He was a Broken Arm Berserker, and when our clan attacked without warning after years of peace, my mother and I had no choice but to join in.” Ronde shuddered as her face grew cold. He could practically feel the ice on her breath as she spoke. “I watched my mother kill him with a stone. If anybody in our clan knew he was my father, we would have died, too. But it’s okay that I told you, because I’m about to throw you down the well.”

“No! Stop!” Ronde shrieked in a panic. She made no move to throw him to his death, however. She only continued to stare at him.

“Why not?” she asked. “I’ll probably wind up killing you someday, anyways. Who knows what might happen. The clan could get too big. Too many children not dying in the rites of passage. Half of them could break away to follow a new chieftain, you know. But there’s still only one source of water, and that’s right where we’re standing.” She paused a moment to let her meaning sink in. “You can fill in the rest, can’t you. Mothers, killing fathers- brothers killing sisters. You’re a smart boy. Spent all your time…thinking. In the shade. Didn’t you?”

“Why?” Ronde croaked. His throat was dry. “Why perpetuate such misery by trying so hard in the rites?”

“Because I want to be able to choose, Ronde,” she breathed. “When boys and girls I grew up with start killing each other, I want to have the strength to protect the ones I want to live. Mark my words, Ronde. If I had been strong enough, I would have fought on my father’s side. I would have broken the neck of every Sandstorm Berserker.” She paused a moment, and Ronde was sure she was debating whether or not to dump him in the well. However, one tortuous minute later, she continued to speak. “I detest your weakness, you know? I didn’t spend every moment of my time training so I could waste my talents on a wimp like you. The point of the rites is to prove your worth to the spectators. Neither of us can do this if you lose like a baby and I kick you down like I’m fighting a cripple!”

“But you won, didn’t you?” Ronde asked. “You beat me in front of everybody. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Amerie’s expression was unreadable. Ronde thought she might have been on the verge of tears, but there was no way to tell in the dark. She pulled him from the well and released him quickly to flee into the maze of tents. Ronde watched her for a moment before glancing back at the well. He shuddered.

Ronde made his way back to his tent to find his father Olman standing before the entrance. When Ronde was within earshot, Olman shook his head forlornly. “I wish you had won, Ronde. I really do.”

“You didn’t have to beat me,” Ronde growled. He did not care at the pain in his father’s eyes was so evident. He crossed his arms and spat at his father’s feet. “You can take a rod to me every day, old man, if you think it will save you some face. Why did you do it? To teach me a lesson? To prove something to the other Berserkers?” He paused long enough to prepare a particularly vile remark. “Do you think Oswyn saw you cracking my skull? Do you think he’s proud of you, old man?”

“Be silent,” Olman answered, but he turned his face away nonetheless. Ronde shoved his guilt aside to revel in his cruel victory. His victory was to be short lived, however. “You have no right to speak of your brother, boy,” Olman growled. “He died fighting the Sandstorm clan so that you could have water, Ronde. He taught you everything he knew so that you, too, could fight for your life. You have never shown gratitude. I don’t think you miss him at all. Oh yes,” Olman interrupted when Ronde opened his mouth to protest, “I’ve seen everything, my boy. Do you think I don’t notice how you never speak of him? Do you think I don’t notice how you avoid practicing the moves he taught you when you’re training with Master Morgrun? When you were born, he made you a pair of bracelets to show his love. And where are they? Buried somewhere in your tent, along with your affection for him. Let me tell you something, son.” Olman raised a finger to point at him in accusation. “I didn’t beat you today for losing to that girl. At least she has the heart to struggle for what she wants. No. I beat you because you’re not even man enough to thank your dead brother for your food and water!” Olman paused and let the silence stretch. Ronde could not meet his father’s terrible gaze. “I imagined I might lose a son in battle, Ronde. But I never imagined I would lose a son like this.”
Ronde did not have time to respond or even register the weight of this remark before his father turned his back on him and disappeared into the shadows.

Ronde slipped inside the tent and settled gingerly onto the scratchy straw mat. He knew it was going to be a long night trying to sleep with so many injuries. He didn’t want to think about what he father had said, or about what Amerie had told him. Instead, in order to pass the time while he stared into the darkness, he allowed his mind to wander. He thought he would begin to dwell on his defeat, or his beating, but he only dedicated a fleeting moment to each of these things. He found himself thinking instead of Amerie in spite of his best efforts to keep her out of his head. He remembered how her eyes had looked while he was locked with her in combat, and tried to make sense of the emotions he had found there. He remembered her admissions to him and how upset she had been to find that her opponent was nothing special. She had been expecting to surprise the crowd, to awe them, to prove her worth in spite of their jeers, and he had taken all that away from her with his incompetence. He tried to put her out of his mind, but the more he thought of what she wanted, the more he came to realize that this was a difference he could make that transcended the barbaric display of strength he had witnessed between the first two combatants. Amerie wanted options. She wanted to protect the few loved ones that she had left. He could not bring himself to rob her of her chance to do so. If she needed to prove her strength in front of the tribe, the least he could do was make that possible for her.

The weight of his father’s grim revelation, combined with Amerie’s miserable past, was suddenly more than he could bear. He spent the next hour sobbing into his hands. Oswyn had been watching him, he knew with terrible certainty. Oswyn had seen him bury his bracelets in the sand. Oswyn had seen him neglecting his training and had never heard a kind word spoken to their father concerning how he had lived. His homage to his brother was far overdue. He would fight proudly in the arena in the morning. He would go to his master and ask him for advice. He would practice and execute the moves his brother had shown him to keep him safe. It was too late, he knew, to prevent harm to his father, but he could not continue avoiding Oswyn’s memory. Hurriedly, he crawled to the corner of his tent and dug up the bracelets he had buried there years ago. He slipped them on. They were heavy, but he bore them all the same.
In spite of his injuries he headed out of his tent and into the freezing night air. He limped directly to the tent of his teacher, an old Berserker by the name of Morgrun, and paused in front of it.

“Master Morgrun?” Ronde called.

“Ronde? Is that you?” Came a gruff voice from inside.

“Master Morgrun, I need you to teach me some things before tomorrow’s match.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Morgrun responded, emerging from the tent. “You’ve got a lot to learn before tomorrow, boy, and don’t think I’m doing you a favor…I’m only giving you the help because you need it so badly.”

The heat of the day had not yet reached its pinnacle when Ronde arrived again at the ring of Berserkers and pushed his way to the arena. He ignored the cold looks he received and ground his teeth against the elbows knocked purposely into him. The last fight had just concluded, and both boys were being carted away with broken legs. It was just another testament to the ferocity with which they fought to win. Ronde shook his head.

The chieftain emerged from the crowd to raise his arms high in the center of the arena. “Again I present Ronde the unproven son of Olman the Talon, and…” the Chieftain was about to continue when suddenly Olman stepped from the ranks to whisper something fiercely in the chieftain’s ear. “This is a serious action,” the chieftain told Olman, taking the other man by the shoulders. “Be sure you are not acting on impulse. Have you thought this through?”

Olman nodded gravely. “I must let the boy go,” he sighed. He clearly did not realize that Ronde could hear him. “He cannot abide his family any longer. Only alone can he realize his true potential.”

“I have mistaken the titles,” the chieftain continued grimly, turning to the crowd. Olman slunk back into the crowd and vanished from Ronde’s sight. “I present Ronde the Forsaken Son, who is to fight Amerie the Fatherless.”

Ronde stepped into the arena in a daze. He hardly noticed the elevated jeering of the crowds. His father had changed his title to the Forsaken Son? For a Berserker, giving the title of Forsaken to a child is to relinquish all responsibility, protection, and affiliation. Because the chieftain had used this title before the clan, every Sandstorm Berserker now knew that Olman was the father of only Oswyn, and that Ronde was now a fatherless boy of mysterious origin.

“Wake up, Ronde,” Amerie ordered. He jumped. He hadn’t realized she had entered the arena. For a brief moment, he thought her eyes held a hint of sympathy, but he shook the allusion out of his head. He had to focus.

Ronde realized the drummer had already shouted for them to prepare, and before he could think of a stance to adopt the drumming began and Amerie came charging towards him as before. He closed his eyes a moment to focus, and drew in as deep a breath as he could hold. When Amerie reached out for him, aiming to seize his shoulders as she had before, he released his breath in a roar of challenge that echoed even over the tremendous pounding of the drums. Amerie was thrown off just enough for Ronde to duck and hit her low in the knees with his shoulder, carrying her off the ground. He seized her arm and used her own momentum to hurl her away and into the sand. She landed on her feet, and her expression never changed, but she rolled her shoulder to be sure she hadn’t suffered injuries from his throw. She watched him carefully as she began to circle around him. Clearly, she was taking more care with her approach.

There are ways to best an opponent with superior strength, Morgrun’s voice played in his head. But you must always wait for them to attack.

“Come on, Amerie,” Ronde told her. “You won’t defeat me unless you demonstrate your best. While everyone’s watching, show them you can protect them. If you can beat me.”
She charged at him again, and when he ducked to grab her knees she halted short of his reach and brought her sandaled foot into his face with a crunch. He reeled backwards and fell, but caught himself before his back hit the sand. Amerie had to look twice, as though she couldn’t believe he hadn’t been defeated already. She attacked again before he had a chance to properly gain his balance, but he met her halfway. Their hands laced together and they began a pushing match, each trying to force the other off balance.

“I don’t want to kill you, Ronde,” Amerie hissed through clenched teeth. “Give up if you have to…I will do anything to win this fight.”

“And I will do everything to make sure you deserve to,” Ronde responded.

They were locked in this struggle for fifteen minutes, and the Berserkers watching began to mutter in disbelief amongst themselves. The other fights had lasted ten minutes, but these contestants were trying so hard to overpower each other that they continued in spite of their dwindling strength.

“You improved…for me?” Amerie breathed in disbelief. She locked her fingers harder into his and pushed.

“Maybe,” Ronde answered as he pushed back with all his might. “Maybe I did it for myself. Maybe I did it for somebody else.”

Amerie was silent for a moment, but she did not let up. “I hate to do this to you,” she told him after a moment, lacing her fingers still tighter into his own, “but I have to prove my worth.” She summoned an incredible amount of strength from some inner reserve and forced herself forward, pushing with more strength than Ronde thought possible. He heard the first of his fingers break with a sharp snap, but he only ground his teeth against the pain and continued to resist. Sweat slid down his forehead as more of his fingers broke. In spite of the terrible pain in his hands, in spite of being a part of such a bitter struggle, Ronde found himself again examining her features, from her golden hair to the flush of exertion on her youthful cheeks. She caught his gaze with her own.

“Are you admiring me?” she asked him again.

“Yes,” he answered unashamedly.

The corner of her mouth twitched in what Ronde thought could have passed for a smile. He smiled back at her, until several more of his fingers broke with a sharp snap and he grimaced against the pain. “I’ll teach you to stare,” she told him, but when she struck out with her knee Ronde twisted out of the way. She released his hands and swept his knees out from under him with a powerful kick, driving him to the sand with a thud that robbed him of his breath. He struggled to rise, but Amerie pinned him down, wrenching his arms back behind his head. He struggled to rise, calling forth every ounce of strength he had, but it was not enough. After a final agonizing minute of struggle, the drumming ceased.

This time Amerie did not hurry from the arena. Instead, she lifted Ronde to his feet and tried to wipe the blood from his broken nose. He had just begun to marvel at the fact that she wasn’t pummeling him when she begun to snap his fingers back into place, which caused enough pain to drive all other thoughts from his head. He was ready for the silence of the crowd. This time, when he had given the fight his best, he would not be affected by their unjust accusation. When he glanced over at the spectators, however, he was caught completely by surprise when they erupted into raucous cheering. Ronde and Amerie looked around to see who had entered the arena to cause such a commotion, but there was nobody else around. It took them several moments to realize it was they who were being celebrated.

Not everybody was celebrating, however. Just behind the front row, Ronde could see the tired face of his father, looking older than he ever had. With back bowed, the old man took one sad glance at the bracelets Ronde now bore and turned to go. Ronde took a step after him, but Amerie stopped him with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Let him go,” she ordered, shaking her head. “What is done cannot be undone, Ronde. You may respect him as another Berserker, but he will never be your father again, no matter what you do.” He nodded grimly, and she brushed some of the sand from his chest. “Thank you,” she told him. “I never would have thought you could last for thirty minutes. You’re stronger than I thought, I guess.”

“It wasn’t strength,” Ronde replied. “I wasn’t fighting to prove my strength. I wasn’t even fighting to save my name. I didn’t think I would.” He cast about him in disbelief. “I want my clan to know they can depend on me to try for them. Even if I’m not the strongest warrior, I want them to know that I care enough to make an effort.”

“Be honest,” Amerie demanded, taking hold of his shoulders. “Did you do it for them? Or for somebody else?”

Ronde eyed her warily. Her eyes compelled him to speak, but he would not give himself away. “For them,” he assured her.

“I don’t think so,” Amerie told him with a smile, “but it doesn’t matter. Let’s get some splints for your fingers.”