They Don't Umpire Like They Used To
Category C: Third Place (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Joshua Ludbrook
The knights stood firm, eyes locked, brows furrowed under their helmets, diametrically opposed in all ways but a few. Sharp minds and peeled eyes took in every detail they could; from their opponent, to the surroundings, and even down to how their sabatons slightly sunk in the moist turf.
The field of honour was clear, in contrast to the overcast sky, and any sort of forest was at least a five minute run away. That is, if you could see the forest behind the crowd of spectators, whose numbers, while ebbing and flowing, never made it below 50 locals. They gathered tightly around the 20 by 20 pace square, murmuring as if this was the only entertaining thing to ever happen in their history. Everyone held their breath, almost against their will, as if the air around them had been sucked away.
While there were differences—the feather in one knight’s helmet was blood-red, the other being a bright yellow—the equality between the two sides was so apparent it could’ve been its own physical object. Both had been blessed by their oracle with magical strength and ability; their armour and weapons, especially their swords, had been crafted so well, one would think they commissioned the blacksmiths of heaven to forge them. Both were, in skill more than action, heroes in their own right, dragons only posing a minor challenge. An even match, to say the least, the only perceivable error being the limits of their humanity.
They continued to stand still, hand just above their hilt, waiting for the other’s first move. A bird twittered in the distance outside the wall of people.
A girl, no older than 6, cautiously hid behind her mother’s skirt. “Why are they going to fight each other?”
The mother shushed her, leaving the seemingly obvious answer unsaid. Only the knights knew the reason for this meeting. And only they would know why it was happening in such a way.
In a traditional duel between honoured men, they would have a physician or their seconds to act as an umpire. On short notice, any townie in bright enough farming-wear would do. But there was neither for this duel.
The crowd could only speculate the absence of these traditions; deep down, some of them hoped it was due to these knights being different from the ones they had heard of from travellers in inns. ‘Cowards’ who thought that a small trickle of blood was enough reason to end the fight. But excitingly, these men didn’t seem to care about the possibility of death, in fact, they seemed ready to dance with it.
The others in the crowd didn’t care to speculate, the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ didn’t matter to them, only ‘that’ it was happening.
In less than a second, they drew their swords, slicing through the atmosphere. But they didn’t attack immediately. They held guarded stances, defending their torsos as they started to circle each other.
For a few seconds more, they remained silent in their armour as the crowd gathered their breaths. And then, CLANG! Their blades collided as the two knights closed the distance. The audience unconsciously started cheering; no one knew for which side they cheered, just that they felt compelled to.
The knights traded blows, parrying each and every attack with defence or an attack of their own.
The audience gasped as they never even knew it was possible for a man in that heavy of armour to jump, and yet the red knight did just that to avoid his opponent's swing at his torso.
It reminded them both of real battle; how cramped yet open the field was, the roars of men and the clanging of steel, the mutual desire for personal glory.
There were times the blows hit their armour but never with enough force to have any effect. But that changed when they found themselves in a lock, close enough to touch helmets. With a loud yell from each, they pushed the other away, the red knight pushing hard enough to force the yellow to spin around to face the other way. The quick thinking red, knowing he couldn’t penetrate his back armour, rammed into him, pushing him to the ground. The crowd yowled in shared sympathy.
As the smiling red knight was about to put the tip of his sword to his enemy’s neck and ask if he yielded, the shocking sound of a shrill whistle cut through the noise.
The fight stopped. The yellow knight rolled over and, with the rest of those present, looked to the east, the direction the noise came from.
The audience parted and in their place was an odd-dressed balding man in his 40s. He wore a lanyard with a silver whistle, a bright fluorescent green t-shirt, dark green shorts and a pair of shoes that would not be invented for at least 500 years. He pointed to the yellow knight and said to the perplexed folk in front of him, “Push in the back; free kick to Sir Augustus”.
The Red knight, speaking for everyone, lifted his visor to reveal his baffled expression and asked, “I beg your pardon. What?”
The Green-shirted man, who spoke as snappy as a whip, said, “Listen, mate, I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them. And the rules say a push in the back means a free kick to the other side. Now, help him up.”
The knights looked at each other. The Yellow knight, Sir Augustus, in awe of the luck of this opportunity, put out his hand to be helped up. “It seems to be the rules, Sir Robert. An Honourable man must follow them.”
Sir Robert, the red, with a grunt, took his opponent's hand and lifted him to his feet.
As soon as Sir Augustus’ feet were level, he took the liberty of kicking Robert’s heavily guarded shin. “Alas, my free kick, good sir.”
“No need for the fanciness, mate, I’m just the umpire. Play on.”
The knights stared at him like cows at a new gate, till the umpire blew his whistle again and yelled, “PLAY ON!”
Sir Augustus raised his sword to strike Sir Robert, who quickly stepped back to lower his visor. Augustus missed, his blade catching the grass beneath him. Robert swung at Augustus’ wrists, the sword bouncing off his armour before being parried away.
And so, the fight continued, just as ferociously as it had started. The clanging of metal on metal and the cheers and jeers of the villagers would give any normal man a ringing in their ear, but if his ears rang, the umpire didn’t show it, standing at attention, silently watching.
4 minutes had passed and Augustus, like his opponent, while still having plenty of fight left, was starting to grow frustrated at his foe. Each attack from one, the other parried and countered, which in turn the other parried and countered and so on. So, he decided that for this swing he would use all the strength he could muster, hoping to knock the sword out of Robert’s hand.
And it worked; Robert’s sword flew out of his hand and towards the crowd. It landed hilt first, the blade falling and only just missing the little girl and her mother.
Augustus held his blade to Robert’s throat, only for his words to be cut off by the whistle.
“Out of bounds! I’ll have to throw it in,” the umpire yelled, running across the field to get the sword.
They all stared at the umpire once more, astounded and appalled. Augustus raised his arms in disbelief while Robert raised his visor to scratch his nose.
The umpire held the red knight’s sword up straight, facing away from the field, one hand grasping the grip of the hilt, the other holding the pommel. And with movements memorised from years of games, he lifted it up to his face, brought it down in a crouch, took his hand from the grip and, with a little less than a jump, heaved it over his head in the opposite direction.
Augustus and the crowd behind him screamed and stepped back. The sword flew towards Robert, and in that moment, frozen in fear, he closed his eyes and prayed. He, like most knights, didn’t foresee one would need to test the fortitude of their armour against a heavy piece of sharp metal being flung toward it at high speed, never imagining such an encounter would happen. But now, it was happening, and he was far from eager to know the results.
A second later, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was alive. He hadn’t even felt an impact. He looked down and there the weapon stuck out of the ground, like a lever, directly between his legs.
The crowd was silent, followed by small chuckles and sighs of relief.
Robert stepped back and tried to draw his sword from the ground as Sir Augustus yelled at the umpire. “What was that for? What was stopping him from going over and picking up his own sword?”
“The Rules, mate, we’ve been over this. Don’t make me give him a free for dissent.” The Umpire replied. “Now, play on!” he blew the whistle.
Robert, who hadn’t been quite able to wrench his weapon out of the firm mud, took the opportunity of the ‘play on’ call to lower his visor and run full speed to jump on Augustus, knocking his enemy over and making him drop his sword. While Sir Robert wrapped his gauntlets around his foe’s neck, he asked in a venomous tone, “Now, good sir, do you yie-?”
The ear-piercing whistle blew yet again. “Free kick to Augustus. High tackle.”
The audience started booing, their jeers calling for an end to the mysterious green man’s favouritism.
The knights, who, with nothing more than a glance and a nod each, had communicated their mutual want to slay this glowing hooligan, got off each other and stood up straight, both reaching for their respective swords and racing to decapitate the umpire.
With all his strength, Robert finally wrenched his blade out of the ground and met Sir Augustus to swing at the umpire’s neck at the same time.
The knights stood, mouths agape in horror, as they witnessed their blades pass through the seemingly mortal man’s neck as if it were air, resulting in a lack of any blood or wound.
The authoritative Green-shirted man, unimpressed, didn’t even bother blowing his whistle as he spoke to both knights and the apprehensive crowd.
“You’re lucky I was just about to call quarter time. I’ll be reporting you both to the tribunal for dissent and unsportsmanlike behaviour. Never in my career have I seen men with less dignity to uphold.” He blew his whistle, jolting the men into submission, “Quarter time, five-minute break, off to your rooms.”
No one knew what awaited at the ‘tribunal’, but the knights reasoned that if beings of the umpire’s calibre headed it, they would rather face a dragon.
All the while, the bartender of a pub in the inner suburbs sat watching the telly, checking the time he had before his late night shift. A news report came up. The anchor’s voice blared:
“Breaking news, an AFL umpire has been fired at tonight’s match for violating several regulations, only just after the siren at quarter time.
“The umpire in question came to the match out of uniform, wearing a tunic, robe and long beard and speaking in what some have described as ‘Old English’.”
A player spoke to the camera, stupefied, “Some of the boys started fighting on the field, pulling jumpers, punching, that sort of thing. And this guy just stands there, says he ‘can’t interfere’ and that it’s a ‘matter of honour.’”
“The AFL are yet to release a public statement on the matter…”
As the anchor continued, the bartender sighed, the report reminding him why he preferred watching cricket.