by Sever Bronny
“Still handsome and cute,” Leera whispered from the doorway.
“You too.” She looked as radiant as ever, though peculiar with dark brown hair, almost as if she was a caricature of herself. Though the makeup did manage to enhance her adorable freckles.
“Just be sure Robin or Temper don’t lay eyes on your face until they absolutely have to,” Bridget said as they gathered to leave. “And I mean, at the very last moment, preferably when it’s too late. I’m sure we’ll have a plan for all that by then anyway.”
They left in a hurry, necrophyte hoods raised and robes billowing in the frantic pace, soon making their way to the vast and bustling central hall, ornamented by the largest iron hanging candelabras Augum had ever seen—each one must have a hundred candles. The entrance to the library had no fewer than six sets of double-doors, each exquisitely carved. Legion guards stood at attention outside, black plate armor glistening in the early morning sun. The trio passed through the busy courtyard, through the spiked portcullis gate, and onto the ancient drawbridge. Augum could smell the history in the old stone and in the rank odor of the canal, which sparkled in the sun. He could see gray-robed attendants in the minarets and guards in the sentry towers. He noticed drainage spouts shaped like gargoyles. More winged demons oversaw ledges and windows and glared down from perches and spires and hooded lanterns. Two hulking stone gargoyles perched like dragons at the end of the drawbridge, mouths perpetually aflame.
Augum could spend all day exploring the visuals of this ancient castle-turned-library, but Leera yanked him by the sleeve before he got left behind.
“Forgot this is your first time in a city, country boy,” she said with a crooked smile.
The cobbled streets were busy with vendors crying out their wares, women shopping, ox cart wagons rolling, and necrophytes hurrying to and fro. A wooden sign with the words Hilt & Scabbard Inn & Tavern swung on its chains. A distant bell sounded. A smith clanked at an anvil. Babies cried and dogs barked. Chickens squawked and hogs bawled, often butchered there on the street. Food stands were near empty though, and prices were ridiculously high—a symptom of the famine plaguing the countryside.
Young grimy heralds shouted the day’s news, carrying the Blackhaven Herald in one hand, Antioc Herald in the other. Bridget snatched a copy on her way, paying the two coppers, and read it as she walked. The girls seemed quite at ease with city life, matching the frantic pace. To Augum, everything felt hurried and everyone looked so busy, so important. He craned his neck every which way, wondering where they were all heading, feeling foreign and lost and overwhelmed.
He spied groups of warlocks wearing more traditional robes, and guessed they were from other kingdoms, perhaps coming to compete in the tournament, or just to watch. He felt small and insignificant, but wanted to be part of it all, to explore and discover this world he had known so little about, for the true depth of his sheltered life was becoming startlingly apparent in the city.
He glanced back at the distant grand library—a massive, towering gray-stoned castle, embedded with hundreds of iron-rimmed windows and streaked with ivy. At the very top was a glass dome that gleamed in the sun. He could almost picture Senior Arcaneologist Ning floating around in it, enveloped by silence, streaks of sunlight piercing the glass-paned bookcases. What a contrast from the noise of this bustling city.
Leera had to march back and yank on his hand. “Like a baby,” she muttered.
His blood raced as they neared the tournament grounds, for that was where his heart truly lay—in the arcane arts. The closer they came, the more they could hear the crowd swell with boos or cheers.
“Any news?” Leera asked Bridget, hand firmly gripping Augum’s.
“Mentions Malaika’s friend pulling out,” Bridget replied, keeping one eye on the Antioc Herald and one on the busy street. “Augum’s bracket hasn’t been filled in yet.”
They picked up the pace.
“Anything else?” Leera asked.
“Just the usual stuff about the famine. Tax demands on Tiberra—”
“—I meant about the tournament.”
“Other than gossip, nothing we don’t know. Oh, and it does mention the ‘three fugitives’ have been spotted near Southspear, on the Nodian border.”
Another pretense for war, Augum was thinking. At least the sighting meant there was yet another reason no one would expect them to be in Antioc.
They heard the stands rattle with the stomping of feet in time to a drum. Augum got goose bumps as he glimpsed the giant iron portcullis, sitting raised, the bottom spikes sharp as knives. They pushed past an increasing crowd, finally making it to a payment booth.
“Spine a head,” said a young but bored attendant to the people ahead in line.
“ ‘Spine’?” Augum whispered.
“That’s slang for a silver piece,” Leera replied. She open and closed her palm at Bridget. “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”
Bridget dug out one of the new Legion silvers and handed it over. Leera then gave it to Augum to inspect. On the front was his father’s crowned skull-like head, just like on the gold coin, but on the back, rather than a burning sword of the Legion, was the ancient Solian symbol of a great pine, and the words Solia the free.
Leera leaned in. “A silver pine. Get it?”
“Spine. Right.” He traded a smiling Bridget the silver for a copper. On the front was once again his father’s head, but on the back was the image of a castle, and underneath were the words The Black Castle, Blackhaven.
“So if the other one’s called a ‘spine’, this one’s called a ‘castle’?” he asked, wincing.
Leera flashed Bridget a giggling look. “Now you’re getting it.”
Augum found all this fascinating. “Then a gold coin would obviously be a ‘sword’.”
Leera shook her head, now thoroughly amused. “A skull.”
He thrust the copper back at Bridget and crossed his arms.
“A skull, a spine, a castle. Gold, silver, copper.” Leera chuckled. “Look at you. Halfway to being a city dweller already.”
“Shut up,” he said, trying not to smile.
She gave him a roguish grin and squeezed his hand. “Just teasing.”
The line shuffled along until the trio stood before the bored-looking boy.
“Where’s the registration booth?” Bridget asked him over the noise.
The boy looked at her like she was stupid. “Registrations for the tournament closed a tenday ago.”
“No, this is a special case—”
“Spine a head or get out of the way.”
Bridget glanced at two nearby Legionnaires. “All right,” and dug out the money from her pouch.
“Might have to confiscate some of Malaika’s gold for the cause,” Leera muttered as they received their wooden chits and lined up waiting to get in. Augum saw a Legion guard taking the chits ahead, and wondered if this was the best idea—maybe they should find some alternate route in. Then again, they needed to test their disguises, and the sooner the better. One way or another, guards were going to see them.
At last, Bridget handed her chit over. The guard’s eyes flicked to her face briefly before waving her by, doing the same to Leera. Augum’s heart stopped as the guard peered into his face, and for a moment, he thought for sure the game was up, but the guard snatched his chit before lazily waving him by as well.
“That was stressful,” Leera said out of the corner of her mouth.
Augum expelled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The disguises were working … so far.
The trio searched for the registration booth. They soon got a glimpse of the sheer size of the arena—a great wooden oval packed with people. There was a judging booth before a towering row of flags, the largest and central one being the Legion’s burning sword. In the center was a walled arena. A massive drum, pounded by four large men, led a triple-thrum chant the crowd sang in one voice, accented with stomping feet: “LO-SERS SHALL! BEND THE KNEE! WI-NNERS FIND! E
TER-NI-TY!”
Augum’s throat felt dry and butterflies buzzed in his stomach. What was he getting himself into? How could he just waltz into an arena and face thousands of people and expect to perform competitive arcanery? What had he been thinking?
“Catchy tune,” Leera said, tapping her foot in time.
A nearby vendor yelled, “Place your bets here on who’ll die in the qualifiers! Place your bets here—!”
“Think I’m going to be sick,” Augum blurted.
Leera punched his shoulder. “You’ll be fine, champ.” Then, after seeing his pale face, gave him a warm hug, whispering, “Trust me, you will be fine.”
Hearing her say those words lifted his spirits.
“Get a room,” a snarky teen said nearby.
“How about I shove you through that wall instead,” Leera snapped back, much to the boy’s surprise.
“Here!” Bridget called from beyond a gaggle of people. “Augustus! Leigh!”
They made their way over to a large wooden booth with a roll-up shutter. Inside, robed officials scrambled to get paperwork in order and post large public brackets of combatants, which people pointed at and discussed.
They shoved their way through to a frazzled gray-robed attendant, frantically scribbling with a quill.
“Hi!” Bridget yelled over the chanting. “We’re here to replace Jens Madis Bjornsson—”
Thank the Unnameables she remembered the boy’s name, Augum was thinking, as he had completely forgotten it.
The scruffy attendant looked up, revealing a boyish face and cropped blonde hair. “You are?” he asked in a squeaky voice.
Bridget yanked Augum close. “This is Augustus Westwood, from Everscale. He’s supposed to take Jens’ place.”
Augum nodded along. They had planned this all out the night before over supper—Augustus Westwood was from a little-known Legion outfit in Everscale, the most middle-of-nowhere Solian town they could think of. Sisters Brie and Leigh Sparrows were his cousins. It was a better story than the one Augum spontaneously concocted back at the Supper Hall. Being from Blackhaven carried too many risks, especially because those necrophyte outfits were actually in the city and would instantly know if he was part of them or not. Regardless, by the time anybody caught on, Augum will have hopefully gotten to the finals, beaten Robin, snatched the divining rod, and they will all have scampered out of there. That was something they still had to figure out of course—their exit strategy, but one thing at a time.
“I’ll get the official registrar,” and the attendant strode off, soon returning with a pot-bellied man with gray stubble.
“This him?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The man turned bloodshot eyes on Augum. “Show me that you earned them.”
Augum gawked a moment before realizing what he meant. He flared his four lightning rings.
“Not the sharpest sword in the armory,” the man muttered, signing a parchment and handing it over. “Sign here and here stating that you understand the risks and that you do not hold the tournament liable in case—” but he cut himself off and made a lazy gesture. “Blah, blah, you get the rest,” and promptly tottered off.
“You’re only the second lightning warlock in your degree,” the boy said, marveling at the rings. “And you’re very lucky you don’t have to prove yourself for the tournament like the others.”
Thanks to Malaika’s bribery. Augum signed the form and handed it over.
“And what will be your nickname, sir?”
It felt odd being called sir by someone near their age. “Oh, uh …” Augum shrugged. “The Hood, I guess.” What did it matter?
The attendant looked Augum’s necrophyte robe up and down. “The Hood. Very cool.”
“Oh, yeah, the ice bath,” Augum said reflexively.
The boy blinked. “What?”
Leera giggled, leaned in to his ear. “It’s city talk, Aug—cool means trendy or stylish. Basically, he’s saying it’s a neat nickname.”
“Ah, I get it.” Augum winked and flashed a thumbs up at the attendant while Leera smacked her forehead.
“Forgive us, we’re not from here,” Bridget quickly said. “What next?”
“That’s all right, we see all kinds here.” The attendant got up to write Augum’s fake name on a bracket chart. “He’s fighting at … the first gong in the afternoon.”
Augum opened his mouth to ask what the boy meant by “first gong” but was elbowed by both girls at the same time.
“Perfect, and who is he dueling?” Bridget pressed.
The attendant referenced the brackets, now completely filled in. It gave Augum great relief to see that Robin was on the opposite side of the tournament brackets. That meant that they wouldn’t meet until the final round, assuming of course each won all their duels.
“He’s dueling Alejandra ‘Annihilator’ Ramirez,” the attendant said.
“Is … is she any good?” Leera asked.
The boy shrugged.
“Does he have to come early?” Bridget asked.
“He should be here to sign-in on the twelfth gong at the latest.”
“Thank you.” Bridget tapped her lip as she turned away. “That isn’t much time. Oh well, should be enough anyway.”
“Enough for what?” Augum asked.
“The biscuit, remember? And then the briefing?”
“Oh, right.” The biscuit was their codeword for the Agonex. He had forgotten they were going to race back to the library to start researching it. Then they were to meet up just before noon for a quick briefing with Malaika and Charissa. Truth be told, there was so much going on he felt a little lost. And being amidst such a bustling crowd in a strange city certainly wasn’t helping.
Bridget leaned close. “The gongs refer to the old monastery bell. They ring on the hour. Twelve gongs for noon, then one gong after the first hour, two after the second, and so on, all the way to twelve gongs at midnight. Keeps the city running.”
He nodded his thanks. There was so much to learn!
Suddenly the chanting stopped and a smooth voice thundered over the crowd. “Ladies and lads, men and women, young girls and boys—welcome to the Antioc Classic, one of the oldest warlock tournaments still running!”
The crowd cheered as Augum craned his neck to spy a gangly olive-skinned man standing on a platform in the center of the arena. He wore a shimmering rainbow robe and made extravagant gestures.
“I’m Lucca Giovanni, your announcer and master of ceremonies!”
More cheering.
“Oh, we have to stay for the first fight, Brie!” Leera shouted.
Bridget glanced at Augum, who was nodding in agreement.
“All right, one fight,” she said, “but that’s it.”
“As you all know,” Giovanni boomed in a practiced, articulate manner, “the 1st to the 10th degrees shall be represented by warlocks from all the kingdoms of Sithesia! There will be sixteen combatants per degree battling for the coveted Antioc Classic trophy, in four nail-biting rounds—today we have the qualifiers, tomorrow, the quarter-finals, the day after will be the semi-finals, and then, on the last and most glorious day, the finals—!”
As the man spoke, a slender woman in a peacock-like outfit paraded a large silver trophy of a warlock with hands raised in triumph. There were whistles and catcalls amongst the cheers.
“As well, there will be a one hundred gold-per-degree prize presented to every winner! That means that a 1st degree winner will receive one hundred gold, but a 10th degree winner will receive one thousand!” The crowd cheered loudest thus far.
“Past winners include such legendary names as Occulus, The Canterran Cobra, Narsus the Necromancer, Trintus, Matilda Viperborn, and the villainous but infamous Anna Atticus Stone!”
There was a mixed chorus of boos and cheers as Augum exchanged looks with the girls—Nana had been a champion of the tournament once! Why hadn’t she said anything?
“Now, for the rules of the tou
rnament—points will be scored with hits to the body. First to five points claims victory, or whoever has the higher score when the hourglass runs out. Off-the-book spells are welcome and encouraged. A contestant may drop to one knee at any time, indicating immediate submission. And of course, a knockout always wins, regardless of score!”
The crowd roared as the drum pounded. “LO-SERS SHALL! BEND THE KNEE! WI-NNERS FIND! ETER-NI-TY!”
“No eye-gouging or use of weapons of any kind other than the ones provided. No teleporting outside of the arena floor. No artifacts and no outside help whatsoever. Cheating will result in immediate disqualification! And now allow me to introduce our illustrious judges—”
Cheers rang out as three figures waved from a booth at the foot of the flags.
“On the near end, standing in the emerald green robe, we have our very own Head Examiner of the Ancient Antioc Library, Vulica Vaneek!”
A distinguished-looking ebony-skinned women with long and curly flaming hair bowed deeply, to cheers from the crowd.
“On the other end, from the Canterran capital city of Iron Feather, please give a warm welcome to the Headmaster of the venerable Academy of Iron, Martus the Black!”
A stern-looking bald, pale man with coal eyes inclined his head. There were some boos mixed with scattered supportive cheers.
“And lastly, we have the charming, the indomitable, the famous head of the tracking party always searching for the villainous Anna Atticus Stone—Erika Scarson!”
Even more people booed, much to Augum’s pleasure. He wondered if it was Erika, or the fact that she was head of the tracking party. If it was the latter, maybe there were a lot of secret future Resistance supporters in the crowd …
Erika ignored the boos while waving with a giant fake smile, blowing kisses. She was wearing a flashy gold-fringed red robe and the largest earrings Augum had ever seen.
“Delusional as always,” Leera whispered into Augum’s ear.
