Sticks
By G. W. Thomas
The Contest of Macabeh consisted of three ritual parts. In the first, sixteen contestants (male only by law) select a thick staff of ash wood and throw it into a pile. The second part has two contestants facing off with one branch each, striking successive blows on the other. The third, after the death of one opponent and the removal of his staff, the next player (by choice) draws a staff and on it goes ...
The winner of the Contest of Macabeh was the last of the sixteen standing. The prize: a year free of toil in the home of the Royal Patrician, waited on by pretty young slaves with platters of gold filled with chosen victuals. Contestants were never hard to come by.
Once the Rainbow Man entered the Contest of Macabeh. The savage display had raged on for many hours. Of the fifteen (not including the wizard) contestants--all virile young men with battle training and massive physiques of wiry, corded muscles--only three remained.
Standing with the wizard was an old friend. "Why do you wait so long?" asked the on-looker.
The Rainbow Man grinned. "If I go last then I only have to fight one opponent. These young bucks seem to have forgotten this simple fact."
"Yes," agreed the other, "but he will surely be the meanest of all, since he will have defeated all the others. You might be better off striking while the current champion is weak and dying."
"Only to have to meet these fresh and deadly men afterward. Nay, my way is better."
The friend said nothing more as the current winner died with a staff crushing his skull like an egg.
"Two left," the friend said unnecessarily.
The remaining pair of fighters squared off with a massive branch (logs really) each. The current holder had fought only one other match and was almost as fresh as his opponent. The duo went at their task in different ways. The newcomer fought with a raging fury, his staff swinging in wide circles. The other was a war veteran and remained controlled and cool, using his weapon skillfully. The battle raged on for ten hard-fought minutes.
At the end, the newcomer won by sheer ferocity, taking his older foe in a mad rush, knocking him down then clubbing him viciously over and over. The other man dispatched, the winner laughed maniacally, his head filled with visions of soft slaves girls and deep cups of wine.
When the Rainbow Man approached the depleted log pile, the killer laughed harder and deeper. The only stick remaining was a small, gnarled twig, not even as long as a man's fore-arm. The odd-looking wizard and the pathetic stick brought on new peals of hysterical chortling. "Run, wizard. I might even let you live," the warrior boasted.
"I think not," was all the Rainbow Man said in return.
"Go on. Do your worst before I flatten you," the killer chortled, offering an undefended breast. The wizard nodded quietly, laying the twig on the large man's muscular chest.
The spell was instantaneous. Loud crashing thunder ripped through the cloudless sky, turning the warrior into a blacked, smoking pile of ash.
The Rainbow Man threw his twig aside, brushed a clot of ash from his robe. His friend, slack-jawed, came trotting up.
"How did you know--?"
"Simply enough. I put that twig--magic runes and all--in the pile, knowing no one would select it."
© 1999 G. W. Thomas. All Rights Reserved.
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