by Pemry Janes
She went to leave, then hesitated and looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll speak with the shamans myself, find out if Fervent has approached them yet. And . . . be prepared for an attack from an unexpected direction.”
“Thank you for warning us,” Slyvair said. “I’ll not let Perun out of my sight again.”
“But I—” A single glance from the orc and the boy’s teeth clicked against each other. He looked away, arms crossed. “I can take care of myself.”
Eurik got up as well. “We are not the ones you should worry about. You will be alone.”
But Silver Fang shook her head. “And that is where you are wrong. I am surrounded by my sisters. I have not been safer in some time. Until tomorrow. Fight well.”
“You as well.” He’d actually forgotten about the next contest.
Should I? No, the plan holds. Get as many people as possible to hear my parents’ names and hope someone will recognize them. Other than Fervent. The combat events are the most popular, so they remain my best chance. And with all eyes on me, I should be safer. Right?
Chapter 16
Test of Mettle
The festival went on. One, or even two murders did not deter the shamans. In some ways, it only made it more important that they continue. And as the hour of the next event drew near, even talk of Inkpaw’s murder and speculation on who was responsible gave way to talk of who was favored to win the armed and unarmed combat events. But talk of the former did not disappear.
Leraine was glad she had not agreed to meet Rock and the others somewhere before it started. She hadn’t really thought about it, but it turned out Fervent had set someone to follow her in hopes of leading her to Rock’s location. She wasn’t very good at it, or maybe everything that had already happened had Leraine on edge.
She stopped and glanced back, made sure to be obvious about it. The girl spun around, trying hard to look like she was examining a dwarf’s wares. Yes, not great at stalking prey through a crowd.
Leraine set off once more. Both events were held at the same time, on podia that ran along the length of the Outer Circle. One podium would hold unarmed bouts, the next one for armed combat, and the next unarmed again, and so on.
She’d been assigned to the Pangolin podium. An auspicious sign, only slightly below being assigned to the one dedicated to Ghisa herself. But that one was to be used for unarmed combat in these preliminary rounds.
Craning her neck, she searched for the right banner and found it flapping in the stiff wind that blew through Chappenuioc today. It carried the chill from the mountains in the north and gave warning that summer was giving way.
She didn’t see anybody she knew. Rock would have naturally been assigned elsewhere and it looked like the same was true for Captain Slyvair. Leraine spared one glance for the two squaring off right now. A man from Boar and one from Orca, both armed with a wooden sword and a small shield. They wouldn’t be facing someone with a spear until after the preliminary rounds.
Their stance, the way they held their weapons, showed they were well trained. But how often had they truly faced off against someone who aimed to kill them? That question she would only know once they got into it. For now, she took the time to check her own equipment.
The weapons were the property of Chappenuioc and wouldn’t be distributed until the match started. But their protective clothing they had to acquire themselves. It was the reason why the armed combat competition tended to attract those who could afford it.
Leraine left her padded jacket open for now. Even with the chill breeze it would be too warm. Same reason she carried the open-faced helmet under the crook of her arm. The trousers weren’t padded, just had a double layer of linen. All of it had been dyed green, yellow, and blue: the colors of Urumoy.
A combination of a cheer and a groan erupted, but all Leraine saw when she looked up was the Boar warrior staggering away. The Orca warrior was on the ground, covering his face.
“Silver Fang of Urumoy,” one of the presiding shamans called out, pointing to her left. Then she gestured to her right. “Trollbane Oak of Auchariuc.”
Even before she caught sight of her opponent, Leraine cursed her luck. It didn’t stop her from fastening her jacket and donning her helmet. But why did a Trollbane have to be her first opponent? You couldn’t get that name unless you’d killed more than three trolls.
The man that stepped up could have some troll in his ancestry. Easily a head taller than her with broad shoulders. His lower lip hung on his right side where a troll’s claws had left a nasty scar. His draen told her he was Bear. He came onto the podium with his arms raised up, propelled by the cheering of the crowd. A local favorite.
Must be nice.
The shaman who had called them forth stayed in the middle of the podium, while two others came forward to present sword and shield to the two contestants. Oak’s sword wasn’t any longer than hers, but those arms would give him the edge in reach.
The sword was a simple length of polished ash with a disk of the same material that functioned as the guard. The shield covered little more than the hand and was thick. It wouldn’t be the same as her preferred dagger, but she’d trained with this setup.
“Are you ready?”
“I am,” Leraine said, stepping forward. Oak did the same. No, he swaggered to the line painted on the stage. Still, she did the right thing and gave her opponent a bow that almost forced her to take her eyes off of him. Oak gave half of that.
He is insulting me. Deliberately.
She blew out her anger. This was not the time or place for it. The insult could very well be intended to make her sloppy. She’d done much the same not so long ago. But there was a time and a place for a tactic, and this was the wrong one. Judging from some of the sounds from the people watching, he’d offended not only Leraine with that display.
“The first to get three blows, first blood, or force their opponent off the podium wins,” the shaman said. “If I call a point, you stop. If I call out a winner, you stop. If your opponent surrenders, you stop. If you strike your opponent afterward, you are out of the Games for the next nine years. Or longer. Do you understand.”
That last part was new. A consequence of Rending Snarl’s behavior yesterday?
The shaman’s eyes bored into Leraine, not relenting when she nodded. “Yes.” That word finally released her and the shaman turned his gaze upon Oak. He quickly said, “I understand.”
“Then begin.” The shaman stepped back as he said it.
Both brought up their weapon and buckler, but neither moved from their spot right away. Leraine had gone for a high guard. Shield arm extended, sword arm bent with the blade angled above her head. Oak had tucked his buckler in more with the sword resting against it, ready for a stab.
Leraine opened her soul to Ghisa entirely and the world relaxed. It all moved a little slower, more obvious. When Oak moved, so did she. His weapon slid along her buckler, which had appeared in its path. But the power behind that stab could not be denied. The buckler twisted in her grasp and she had to lean out of the way as the sword kept going. Her own arm came around at the same time, slamming into Oak’s wrist before he could pull back. He didn’t flinch.
“Point, Silver Fang!”
Both froze, Oak only had to take one step back to return to their starting positions. It wasn’t just his arms, his strides let him bridge greater distances in one quick motion, too.
The Bear gives him great strength. I cannot try to block any of his strikes with just my buckler or I’m out entirely.
She gritted her teeth as she brought the buckler back into position. Oak caught her discomfort and bared his teeth. “A lucky hit.”
“I only—”
“Begin!”
No waiting this time. Oak brought his sword around for a swing at her side. Right fist behind the buckler, she slammed the small shield into it. The shock traveled through her arms while Oak’s sword bounced off. Leraine turned blo
ck into a stab but he threw his head back.
Another swing, overhead. Sidestepped.
Not using his buckler?
Oak swung through trying to get his sword back into position while thrusting the buckler in her direction. But it was not a practiced move. All it did was offer his other wrist as a target.
“Point, Silver Fang.”
Oak roared, but retreated. So did Leraine, after a moment. The shaman had barely stepped back for the third round when Oak pressed forward. He swung his sword around in a tight pattern, it whistled through the air.
Leraine hissed, but she had to retreat. She could dodge, but by the time she could get close enough, that sword would come back around. She turned her retreat into a circle, she had to if she didn’t want to end up tumbling off the podium.
Right. He’s clearly used to fighting trolls and the like. With a proper shield and an axe. Or a spear. Lots of power, but not used to an intelligent adversary. How to use this?
The Bear warrior took a sudden, big step forward and brought his blade up. Leraine went for a block, no other option left, but her arms buckled and the wood slammed into her side. Gasping for breath, she staggered.
“Point, Trollbane Oak!”
“Might want to give up. Or you’ll be going to the healer instead of the loser’s bracket,” Oak said.
He is used to being the hunter. That’s what I’m doing wrong.
“How about . . . you? Will . . . your ego . . . survive?” It hurt to breathe. But with every exhale, the pain slackened. By the time the shaman told them to resume, it had become a dull throb that flared when she brought up her buckler and sprang forward.
Her blade licked out, high, low, high, low. Oak brought his buckler back up, for a moment he lost sight of her. The blunted point of her sword dug into his belly and the air rushed out of his lungs. Leraine caught a hint of breakfast, spiced flatbread.
“Point, Silver Fang. Winner, Silver Fang of Urumoy!”
Leraine bowed to him, Oak didn’t. Or he couldn’t come out of his bow, depending on how you looked at it. Giving her buckler and sword back, she walked off the podium with her head held high.
Hopefully the rest won’t give me this much trouble or I’ll be one big bruise by tonight. Wonder if Rock is doing any better?
***
Eurik danced with the wind, slapping a punch away and chopping the upper arm right after. His opponent shrugged it off, like she had everything else. He kept moving, ducking, evading, attacking.
This was his third fight of the day and sweat glued his shirt to his back. The morning had started off refreshingly cool, but the sun had burned through the clouds and he’d been fighting this woman for what felt like hours now.
His first two bouts hadn’t been this difficult. But this Iron Sow took everything he threw at her and kept going. The fight would only end if one of them was knocked out, any part of their body touched the outside of the square, or they gave up. How was he going to do that to Iron Sow?
She went for a grab, Eurik dodged.
Iron Sow moved slow to him; the whole world did. But he couldn’t get enough power behind his attacks to get through whatever defenses her spirit gave her. If only he could access earth chiri, this fight would be over. He could have overpowered Iron Sow and simply thrown her out of the square. Instead, it was him who was in constant threat of being pushed out.
Eurik jumped back to put some distance between them. The wind ruffled the clothes of the referees.
“I don’t recognize your style,” Iron Sow said.
She made no move to close the distance, but Eurik had to keep moving or lose the wind chiri rushing through his body. “It’s not Mochedan.”
She grunted. “Strange. You move too fast for it to be natural.”
“I dance with the wind.” The breeze that carried the memory of the white tops of the mountains up north flowed past him. And perhaps that was his answer. The wind came in many flavors. Rather than pelting Iron Sow with the whirling blows of a storm, perhaps he should be the sharp blow of a gale.
“But this ain’t a dance!” Iron Sow rushed him.
Eurik met that charge, then jumped clear over her. He had to balance this right. Landing in a crouch, he stopped moving for the first time this match. Eurik drew in the wind chiri. It had already stopped building up, and in the blink of an eye it would slip through his grasp entirely. But for a single breath, it all concentrated in him.
Iron Sow skidded to a halt and turned around when he uncoiled and launched himself at her. He threw his arms forward, not in a punch, but a push. His opponent couldn’t miss the move and braced for it, but she’d set herself to resist a fighter; a human. His palms slammed into her and the full force of the mountain wind rushed from his hands into her. It picked her up like a leaf.
Arms flailing she sailed into the crowd. Eurik was still. It had been a gamble, putting it all in one move. If Iron Sow had been strong enough to resist all that force, if she’d evaded the blow, if he’d timed it wrong, he would have had nothing left to fight her with. Given Iron Sow’s skill, that small window of vulnerability would have cost him the match.
The judges looked from her to him, then at each other. One nodded, then the other. “Winner, Rock of San!”
There was some cheering and applause, but as Eurik looked over the hundreds—thousands even—watching him and others compete he couldn’t help but feel alone. He didn’t see Leraine, or Slyvair, not even Perun. These were all strangers.
He bowed to the crowd and made his way off the platform. He needed to think. If he didn’t come up with something he wasn’t going to make it through the next day.
Chapter 17
A Safe Bet
Rock looked troubled as he emerged from the crowd. It wasn’t difficult: as the day had progressed the people watching had segregated themselves, leaving spaces open between them. They had fractured not only by tribe or sept either. The Truce Warriors were easy to pick out, and the others had to be so-called Traditionalists.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey. Were you victorious?” He gave her a nod, though it was stiff. And the way he held himself . . . “You had a hard time of it, I see.”
“So did you. There’s a hitch every time you breathe in.”
Leraine grimaced. Her side and arm flared up as if Rock’s words banked the pain—like it were a slumbering campfire. “A few looked to try and cut with a blunt, wooden sword. It didn’t work, but it’s not pleasant. Nothing is broken,” she said, waving away Rock’s hand.
On the podium, the victorious Wolf strode back to his supporters while the Crocodile shot him a furious glare. Those supporters wore the garments of Truce Warriors, and not all were Wolf tribe. Indeed, one was Snake.
“Evident Spark of Urumoy.” Joyous Bell’s daughter stepped away from them and jumped up onto the podium. “Slyvair of Volsom.” The mercenary captain thumped up the steps. Unlike Evident Spark, he did not wear much in the way of protection. His new left arm gleamed in the sun.
“You are still in?”
Leraine looked down at the boy; she hadn’t noticed Perun getting so close to her. “Yes.”
“So far,” Rock said right after.
Perun nodded. “Good.” His face scrunched up. “The . . . kaptin . . . he wants to fight you.” He glanced at Rock. “Does not want you losing too fast . . . too.” His Linesan continued to improve.
“And I see Captain Slyvair has done well as well,” Leraine said. Indeed, the sun-man looked uninjured. Then again, who ever heard of a bruised sun-man?
Still, Perun swelled. “He don’t need magic. He just better.”
“He is good. Still, some of the people I fought didn’t just rely on their magic,” Rock said.
“You see. Watch.”
On the podium, Captain Slyvair greeted his opponent. Evident Spark, however, did not. Leraine pressed her lips together at the fool girl’s disrespect. It was worrying to see her own e
xperience was not an isolated incident.
Girl? She’s a year older than me. But she’s not acting like it.
Evident Spark’s limbs moved with the flowing grace that Ghisa’s aid granted. She held the buckler fully extended and moved it lightly. Leraine recognized her intention, another sign Evident Spark underestimated her opponent.
Captain Slyvair didn’t fixate on the shield and slammed his buckler into hers as he pressed forward. Evident Spark swiped at his leg, but the older sun-man parried then swept his blade up. If it had been steel, he would have lopped Evident Spark’s left arm off with that move. As it was, it earned him a point while her fellow Snake warrior stumbled back, cradling her arm.
They returned to their starting positions. This time, Evident Spark took Captain Slyvair more seriously. The sword blurred and spun in her hand as she attacked, the sun-man needing to use both buckler and sword to defend himself.
“Yes, your captain is very good,” Leraine said. “But he is still but flesh. And flesh falters.” The end came quickly. Evident Spark fixed his sword with her buckler just after he’d blocked another strike. It left him open and Evident Spark chopped at his leg. Given their disparity in height, it was the best target available.
“Point to Evident Spark!”
“Lucky hit,” Perun said in Irelian as he crossed his arms. Then he started shouting in encouragement in the same language.
The third clash ended in three strokes. Evident Spark tried to use her speed again to dominate Captain Slyvair while the sun-man sought to counter. He tried to stay in contact, turn it into a wrestling match. But Ghisa made Evident Spark too fast and the moment her blade slipped away from his buckler its slashed across his right arm.
“Luck!”
Leraine bestowed him an amused smile. Evident Spark was not her favorite person in the world, though that was more because of her mother than anything. But there was still some pride—however reluctant—that one member of her tribe and sept was doing so well.
