Arc 6: Chapter 4: Melee

    Twenty fighters filled the tunnel. The humid early summer air stank of leather, oil, and human bodies.

    The people around me were a far cry from the gleaming stock who’d acted as accessories to Evangeline Ark’s joust. These were freeswords, adventurers, third and fourth sons from lesser families eager to make a name for themselves in a world where wealth so often bought one prestige. There were a crop of proper knights, clad in full plate like mine with distinctive helmets and brightly dyed cloth. Just as many would have looked at home in a band of brigands, though all made at least some concession for theater.

    A brawny man who’d dressed himself like a coastal marauder, complete with a crudely beaten iron helm sporting twin horns, was in the middle of regaling the group with some story as I took up position among them. His bristling black beard erupted from the open faced helmet, and he rested a hefty flat-bladed axe, just as crude and impractical as the helm, on one shoulder.

    There, I thought. Knew I wouldn’t be the only one.

    “Aye, it’s a good show!” He said in a spitting bluster. “A very good show, yes indeed. Haven’t seen its like in some time. Remember lads, when they open those gates, all’s fair. No hard feelings! Ha!”

    He spoke in an accent common among the rugged folk who populated the subcontinent’s southeastern shores. At least, he made an earnest attempt at it. I’d had some exposure to the dialect. They tended to roam the winding rivers of Urn on sleek ships as traders, sometimes as raiders, and held a number of small kingdoms not far to the south of Elfhome.

    I highly doubted this hairy axeman was actually from Alheid, but I couldn’t begrudge him a bit of playacting. Especially since it would be hypocritical.

    “Ah, and the Black Knight himself joins us!” The probably-fake sea raider let out a booming laugh as he turned to me. “Should I take it that means our team has been cast as the villains this time?”

    One of the knights among that misfit band eyed me up and down. His visor was raised, giving me a glimpse of a young face with lazy eyes and a snub nose. Others turned to glance at me as well, and many shifted nervously. I imagined I cut a gloomy figure.

    But hardly the most eccentric one. Besides the marauder, the group contained a particularly stunted dwarf no taller than nine feet, who kept to the back and hunched as though fearful someone might notice him. He wore a lumpy helm and not enough armor, as though whatever rural village he hailed from hadn’t been able to produce enough metal to outfit him properly. A cat-eyed youth in green who I suspected was a changeling kept trying to flirt with a scarred woman with spiked hair and a single pauldron onto which the carving of a weeping maiden had been chained.

    Lovely bunch.

    “Ah, you wield an axe!” The marauder nodded at the weapon at my belt. “A man’s weapon! Good. The name’s Harald, ser knight. Harald of Hroth.”

    I just tilted my head to him, much as my helmet allowed.

    “Man told you his name.” This came from an aged veteran in dingy armor who might have been a man-at-arms in some lord’s retinue. “Polite to return the same, don’t you think?”

    A number of hard eyes fixed on me. Inside the helmet, I sighed softly. I’d played this game before. The game of bluster, of trying to create a hierarchy before steel even started to swing. These were the chaff I’d mentioned to Jocelyn before, part of the masses of home town heroes and opportunistic sellswords here for a long shot at grabbing even a scrap of wealth or glory.

    I did not much want to dialogue with them, and didn’t want to raise any hackles with my magicked helm. So, instead, I shrugged and made a sharp gesture with one hand, the steel plates on it clicking as I worked my fingers.

    The man-at-arms snorted. “Great. A mute. Just what this pack of freaks needed.”

    The cat-eyed man watched me thoughtfully, then shrugged and returned to chatting with spike hair. Harald blinked as though my silence perplexed him, then grinned.

    “Well, we’ve all got our little quirks! I wish you luck today, my quiet friend.”

    He went back to chattering, as though a silent audience was just what he’d been looking for. I endured it stoically, occasionally gesturing in response to some question or jest. If they wanted to think me the mute, I was happy to play the role and knew enough hand signs to make it convincing.

    Outside, I could hear the drums and the half-muted voice of the tourney herald. Clumps of dust occasionally fell from the ceiling, dislodged by the motion above.

    A tourney organizer stepped between us and the gate. When I recognized Cairbre’s face, I stiffened. But his bored eyes slid over me, and I relaxed.

    “Five minutes!” He said in his court voice, making his words undulate over the din. “When the gates open, you will all file out onto the island in an orderly fashion! You will not swing your weapons until the drums stop! You will all wear these to mark your comrades.”

    He held up a yellow cloth. Some other Coloss staff members were passing around more of them. I took mine from a wisp of a girl no older than fifteen, who paled when my helmed visage turned down to her and scuttled off.

    “You will not attack anyone wearing a yellow cloth,” Cairbre continued. “You will avoid killing. If an opponent surrenders or is clearly unable to continue the bout, you shall leave them be! All the realm is watching this, my fellows, so have some fucking tact.”

    I blinked. This brusque man was a far cry from the stuttering fop I’d taken advantage of at court.

    “What if someone dies?” The woman with the weeping maiden on her shoulder asked. “By accident, I mean.”

    There were dark chuckles. Cairbre sighed.

    “You are all using real weapons, so accidents will happen. If it becomes a matter of urgency, you are permitted to defend your own life. You will not be penalized unless malicious intent is obvious. Remember there are several thousand people watching. Some of them are kings. Don’t embarrass yourselves.”

    That took the humor out of them. Most of these people weren’t even here to win, but to catch the eye of some lord or wealthy official and gain a comfortable post the vagrant’s life didn’t offer. Cairbre studied the group, judging their mood, then continued.

    “When only those wearing a single color are left on the field, then we shall finish the round with single duels. This will be more informal, with each of you pairing up until only one stands. There will be two other teams, for a total of sixty fighters, and only one of you will move on to the next bracket.”

    “One!?” The dingy veteran spat a foul curse. “That’s fucked.”

    Cairbre shrugged, unbothered. “There are over a thousand competitors, and most of them are far more important than any of you. The tourney council intends to weed you all out until only the best are left. I don’t care if you’re a peasant or a churl, but if you want to stand among champions, then prove you’re worthy.”

    That didn’t seem to satisfy the man, but he kept his silence. The mood seemed much subdued from when I’d entered the tunnel. At my side, Harald of Hroth just grinned and chuckled, tapping his wedge-bladed axe on one shoulder eagerly.

    Sixty fighters, and only one would move on. Had I been overconfident about this?

    The rhythm of the drums changed, taking on a slow, ominous beat. Cairbre drew himself up.@@@@

    “It’s time. In an orderly fashion, people! And good luck.”

    Fighters started lacing their helmets on and doing last checks of their gear. Some rubbed river stones or shards of volcanic rock over their weapons, covering their gear with a bit of natural aura. Harald made a minute adjustment to his pot helm. Spike Hair slipped an iron mask over her face, securing it around the back of her neck to leave her bristling locks untouched. The small dwarf giant laced a too-small shield onto his arm, while the changeling stepped close and patted him on one shoulder, muttering some encouraging words.

    The gate began to grind open, spilling more dust from the ceiling.

    “We’ve got this,” Harald rumbled at my side. By the cadence of his voice, I got the sense he said it to himself as much as anyone else. “Weee’ve got this. A bit of sound and bustle, and it’s done. Right!”

    A bead of sweat worked its way down his neck. I wondered who he really was. A farmer or craftsmen who’d decided to play the adventurer barbarian? His axe looked home made. The metal wasn’t professionally shaped, and I guessed it to be modified from a lumber tool. The balance had to be terrible.

    I elbowed him. He started, glanced at me, then flashed a nervous grin.

    “Step aside, ser knight.” She flashed her teeth at me in a wolf’s grin.

    “He’s probably devilspawn, too.” This came from the man with the studded club, a mercenary in mismatched armor. “No telling what that creepy helmet is hiding.”

    Ignoring their taunts, I glanced back at the young dwarf. His pale eyes, better for darker environments, were large and full of fear. The rain had plastered his wispy hair to his skull, making those shaved horns stand out starkly.

    I turned my attention back to the would-be monster hunters. No doubt some of them were that, out in the world.

    The woman with the meteor hammer came at me first while the others gave her the spotlight. She swung her weighty weapon in complex arcs, forming figure eights in the swirling clouds of dust.

    I felt energy gathering. Some lesser Art to give her unconventional weapon a mightier punch, I suspected. The feeling intensified with each moment it kept swinging in preparatory arcs. A ritual motion?

    Interesting.

    I did not watch the ball at the end of that chain. I watched her instead, judging the flex of her muscles, the glint in her eyes. When her feet shifted and her eyes widened, only then did I move.

    I cheated a bit, because I was angry at them and because I needed to conserve strength for the rest. I put some aureflame into my downward chop, just enough to give the battleaxe a slight brassy hue only a keen eye would have noticed.

    As far as paladin smites went, it didn’t count amongst my most dramatic. It did its job, however. The edge of the axe struck the oncoming ball dead center, and shattered it in an eruption of flying steel splinters. Several pinged off my armor, shredding some of the blue cloth I wore over it but doing no real damage. Other onlookers let out shocked cries and curses.

    Spike Hair’s eyes went wide as her broken weapon flopped to the ground. It gave off smoky vapor, like the hot remnants of a cannonball. Had this been a real life or death situation, I would have dashed forward and cut her down. It took a force of will to stop myself, the bloodlust I’d refined through long years of ugly, desperate fights screaming at me to kill, kill, kill.

    Through the din, I heard a sinister croon in my memory, half-remembered from a dark dream. You long for war. For blood.

    Too many demons haunting me. This wasn’t the place for brutal pragmatism. This was theater, and I would not sully this sacred ground with unhindered violence.

    So I just canted my head to one side and shrugged as though to say that’s it?

    This must have sparked a competitive spirit in the group, because rather than reacting with fear, their eyes all sparked with interest. Many of those nearest stopped fighting each other and turned to me.

    So much for saving my energy. I twirled my axe once, lifted my shield, and waited for them.

    The first came at me with a halberd. I chopped his weapon in half, punched him with the rim of my shield, then kicked him back into the next pair. That gave me the space to turn and parry a sword stroke. Steel ground against steel, burning sparks showering into my helmet, threatening to find the gaps and sting my eyes.

    Something hit me, bouncing off my backplate but still knocking out my breath. I staggered forward, got hit in the shoulder, then managed to get my shield up. Blows drummed against it, sending lightning shocks through my arm.

    Too many. Can’t cover every angle.

    There had been more in Rose Malin. But I hadn’t held back then. I’d slaughtered them.

    This wasn’t the place for the Headsman.

    Rose... did you name me your First Sword as a favor?

    No. I did it because you defeated my enemies.

    Where was that man? Where was Alken Hewer, First Sword of Queen Rosanna and Ram of Karles? I needed to find him again.

    A maul whooshed through the air, coming right at my face. I caught it with the shield, heard wood splinter and felt my arm go numb. Snarling, I ripped my axe blade across the shield’s leather straps to free myself of it. Taking the hefty weapon in both hands, I swung in a savage fury. A man-at-arms fell back as his chain mail splintered. The axe came away bloody.

    Some of those gathering to take me down balked. This time, I punished them for it. My weapon slammed against the barbute of a Bairn knight, denting it and dropping him. I put some aura into a left handed punch, caving a fighter’s breastplate in and sending him to his knees, unable to inhale.

    Too brutal, a voice in the back of my head warned.

    I stopped, taking a step back to keep myself between them and the two changelings. The green one seemed to still be alive, though he struggled to breathe.

    I glared at the rest through my helmet. There were few left, and some scattered pairs still fighting in the surrounding dust. The man I’d punched writhed on the ground, scrabbling at his armor. When I loosened the fist I’d made with my left hand, it emitted a molten glow which faded after a moment.

    Pointing my axe at the others, I lifted it high before hurling it. The man with the crumpled breastplate flinched as it sank into the sand inches from his head. I drew my dagger, knelt, and grabbed the man by his gorget. He’d managed to get his visor up, but it wasn’t what blocked his air. Beneath it, his face was turning blue.

    I sliced the straps holding his cuirass together and yanked the breastplate off. The man sucked in a breath. I took my weapon back up and stood.

    Scattered beads of rain pattered against my armor, soaking the dyed cloth Emma had picked for it. The storm muttered high overhead. Up on his balcony, the herald paused to listen to another man whisper into his ear. I risked a glimpse at the Arbiter’s Spire. From below, the royal box looked like little more than a window in the structure with small figures seated inside, surrounded by flapping banners.

    Rosanna would know me, surely. Would Markham guess? Would Hyperia? Her demon had found me in the armory. All Yith needed to do was out me to his mistress, and all of this fell apart. I couldn’t be certain the fly would choose his freedom over causing me grief.

    Returning my attention to the field, I showed the remaining competitors my bloodied axe. No words, no taunts or challenges. I felt the message was clear enough.

    I will take you all.

    Movement at my side almost made me reflexively swing, but when I caught a flash of yellow cloth and a bristling beard I paused. Harald took up position at my side, grinned, and faced the others. He had an ugly bruise purpling his nose, seemed to be favoring his left arm, but otherwise looked eager to fight. He’d taken my cue and claimed several strips of cloth as trophies from his foes.

    One of the other fighters jumped twice and let out a shout, working himself up, then charged. His courage spurred on some of the others.

    Harald roared with laughter at my side, while I just lowered myself into a hunch to provide a smaller target and took the battle axe in both hands.

    I could not laugh. All I felt in my soul was anger at those who’d poisoned this festival with their schemes, and a reminder that I could not let myself take joy in this anymore. That road was too dangerous.

    And I felt shame, because for the brief time I’d lost myself to the melee, I hadn’t thought about Catrin.