by Edward Brody
The fighting grounds were roughly half the area of a football field, still large enough for a massive battle, but small enough that attendees had a good view of the show from any seat. There were scuffs, indentations, and a few suspicious dark spots on the ground—signs that fighting had recently took place there.
“Well, would you look at this,” Aaron cooed.
I swallowed hard and turned to Ozzy. His eyes were wide, and his face looked pale; he clearly was getting hit with the same overwhelming feeling as me.
We walked around the Arena, searching for seats for a minute or so until we found a spot between two robed men that was just big enough for the three of us to squeeze into. I judged nearly everyone in our seating area as citizens of Inner Highcastle or at least wealthy to some degree based on the nice gear they were wearing.
Behind the area of Arena furthest from entrance, tall, rocky mountains rose into the sky and on that side sat more of the poorer folk with raggedy Outer-Highcastle type wear and common linens.
“Look at that,” Aaron said and pointed in that direction.
Between the mountain and the outer edge of the Arena, there was a four-foot section where people were hoisting themselves over the wall somehow and landing inside of the Arena. One by one they were dropping in, then immediately running to find a seat.
I chuckled. “That must be how you get yourself in for 20 gold.”
“Must be,” Aaron said. He turned his head from side to side, looking at the occasional, light guards who were spaced periodically around the Arena. “It’s pretty obvious they’re sneaking in, but doesn’t look like anyone cares.”
A chubby, robed man who was sitting next to me snorted when he overheard our conversation. “All it takes is a few bribes.” He wrinkled his nose from side to side. “And if the poor folk weren’t allowed to sneak in, the Arena would be half empty most of the time. I suppose they’re tolerated because they add to the atmosphere.”
A trumpet was blown that turned my attention towards the center of the Arena, and when it was blown a second time, everyone in the Arena fell silent.
Standing in the middle of the fighting grounds was a middle-aged man wearing a pair of red tights, black pointy shoes, and a baggy black shirt that was cinched at the waist. A thin sword was draped at this side.
He rubbed his fingers over his black trimmed mustache and goatee then raised his hands. “Welcome everyone to the Arena!” Even without a microphone, his voice was clear and seemed to reverberate off of the Arena walls.
The crowd let out a deafening cheer that was so loud that Ozzy, Aaron and I all flinched and blinked at the intensity.
The cheer quickly quieted down, and the man lowered his hands as he continued to speak. “As you all probably know, today is a special day in which Highcastle’s top ranked fighters in each battle tier will be fighting.” The man paused and scanned all the onlookers. “But even more importantly, we have a special guest who will be watching the show us today.” He paused again, and this time you could cut the tension in the Arena with a knife. After several seconds of silence, the man turned and waved his hand to his left. “Please welcome the illustrious King Rutherford!”
Everyone in the Arena stood to their feet and turned to where the announcer indicated.
A small section of bleacher seating had been carved out into its own box area with thin walls on each side, and in the box was a throne flanked by two slightly smaller high-seated chairs. From behind the seating, a man in a rudimentary wooden wheelchair that was lined all over with black velvet padding and gold etching rolled out. The two wooden wheels on the chair were massive, and a man pushing the chair from behind held the back by each side as there were no handles attached.
The crowd’s cheer was deafening at the first sight of the King.
The King was of a hearty build and wore a long, blue silk robe with the Highcastle insignia sewn into the front. The neck, the sleeves, and bottom of the robe were all lined in a cream-colored fur. His white beard was long but thin and uneven, and sitting atop of the thinning hair on his head was a gold, six pointed crown that was tilted slightly to the side. His head sat back against the chair and drooped to his right a little, but his eyes stared forward. He showed no visible emotion.
At each side of the man were two women. To his left was a tall woman who stood with her shoulders straight and her mouth set in a firm line. Her hair was a mix of dark grey with streaks of white and was pulled into a bun at the top of her head. She waved her hand and eyed the crowd but, like the King, showed almost no emotion at all.
To the man’s right was a much younger girl who looked to be in her teens or early twenties, and the moment I saw her, she looked familiar. She wore a simple white dress that ended with see-through lace at the extremities. She had long, light brown hair that ended at the center of her back, and she seemed genuinely happy to be there as she smiled brightly and waved to the crowd.
I couldn’t put finger on where I had seen the girl before or if I was just imagining things, but she looked extremely familiar to me. Perhaps I had seen a portrait of her hanging up in a shop somewhere? I wasn’t sure. But she appeared to be a Princess, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been painted and framed on someone’s wall.
The King’s helper pushed his wheelchair forward until it was placed awkwardly in front of the throne, then he moved up to the side of the King and offered him his hand. The King grabbed the man’s hand and slowly pulled himself up to a standing position.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder.
Even if the King were sick, he still had an air about him that screamed “King”. He pulled his shoulders back, puffed out his chest and raised his chin triumphantly at the crowd. He was tall, had signs of a formerly muscular frame, and I could see some resemblance of Jax, The Dark Hand, and Dryden Bloodletter, though he most resembled Dryden.
The King slowly raised his right hand, and the crowd immediately silenced. There was a long pause, where the three members of royalty just looked out to the people in the Arena, and the people seemed content to simply stare at them back.
“People of Highcastle!” the King said in a strong but raspy voice, “Freelanders! Thank you for—” The King suddenly slouched over and let out several loud, wheezing coughs, while pressing a fist to his chest and another to his mouth. The young woman to his right placed a balancing hand on the King’s shoulder and the King’s helper rushed up to his other side and grabbed on to him as well. For a moment, it looked like the King was going to lose balance and fall back into his wheelchair, but he finished coughing, slapped the helper’s hands away and stood back up straight. He pressed his chest out again, raised his chin and clenched his teeth. “Thank you for joining me in the Arena! May Highcastle prosper!”
“May Highcastle prosper!” the crowd shouted in unison.
As the King lowered himself back into his wheelchair and the two women sat patiently in their chairs on each side of him, the crowd continued to shout and cheer.
“He looks good,” I said to Aaron. “A few coughs, but not as bad as I thought.”
“Look at the front of his robe,” Aaron pointed out.
I squinted a little, at first not sure if Aaron was telling me to look at the insignia on his robe, but as I scanned over the insignia, I noticed that several inches below the King’s collar, his robe had turned a deep purple color, and upon further inspection, I could see hints of red on the sides of his hand.
“Blood?” I asked.
“That’s what it looks like,” Aaron said. “I think he’s sicker than he looks, maybe even sicker than he wants to admit.”
I sighed and made a silent prayer that Aaron was wrong. I needed time to get to the King, and even if the King wasn’t willing to listen to me, the longer he survived, the longer I could build up Edgewood’s defenses.
The man standing in the center of the fighting grounds raised his arms and clapped to silence the crowd. As everyone sat back down, I noticed the man suddenly had a f
ew sheets of paper in one of his hands. When he had the full crowd’s full attention, he lowered his arms and looked down at the papers. “We have several battles for you today, and we’ll end the matches with the battles ranking highest in each tier.” The man lowered the paper he was looking at and took a few steps backwards. He raised the hand holding the paper into the air. “Mages please!”
Five men, spaced at even intervals in the front rows around the Arena stood to their feet. They all wore white cloth robes with thick red belts tied around their waist. The men placed their hands together and closed their eyes, and then in unison, they reached their hands out as if they were touching the air in front of them with their palms. A few seconds later, there was a humming, almost electrical sound, and the hands of each of the men started glowing.
“What the hell is going on?” Ozzy asked.
Aaron shrugged and shook his head.
“I have no idea,” I said.
In front of the men, a translucent energy appeared and grew darker and more visible as the men cast whatever spell they were casting. The energy from the men joined and created a domed shield that flowed all the way to the ground then shot up to the sky, arching over the fighting grounds.
The men lowered their hands, and the translucent dome seemed to turn transparent.
The announcer in the fighting grounds smiled and said, “A shield as usual, to protect the crowd from magic attacks. Please be on alert during the show, as non-magical weapons and items can pass freely through the barrier. The Arena will not hold any liability for accidents.”
“Smart,” Aaron said low.
“Now!” the announcer yelled. “For our first fight, we have a level 15 fighter with a win/loss record of 0 and 0. Please welcome the untitled, Sanistaine Morri!”
The crowd clapped unenthusiastically as a portion of the inner arena opened and a man stepped outside. The man was tall and lanky with two long, thin swords in each of his hands. He looked nervous as he made his way closer to the center of the Arena and swallowed hard when the door behind him shut. His armor was a typical set of plain, leather armor, but oddly, he was wearing a pair of red, cloth boots. I found the fact odd as most NPCs generally didn’t mismatch their gear so blatantly, and I immediately questioned if the guy was a Reborn.
“And the opponent, a level 16 fighter with a win/loss record of 0 and 2. Please welcome the untitled, Joshin Mosh!”
Again, the crowd clapped unenthusiastically as the wall opened on the other side, and another man stepped forward. The new fighter was much smaller, held a large hammer in his hand, and wore a set of chainmail armor. He seemed much less nervous than Sanistaine and strode confidently, holding his hammer high in the air.
Joshin glared at Sanistaine from across the Arena and Sanistaine just looked on anxiously.
The announcer glanced at Joshin. “Are you ready?”
Joshin nodded.
The announcer turned to Sanistaine. “Are you ready?”
Sanistaine curled his lips and nodded slightly.
The announcer looked forward, held a sideways palm up to his chin, and yelled, “Fight!” As soon as he said the word, he dipped his chin, and seemingly disappeared, leaving nothing but puff of fog where he was standing.
Joshin rush forward, grunting loudly as he held his hammer up high. Sanistaine stood his ground, and held both of his swords in front of him, nervously waiting for his attacker to approach.
When Joshin swung his hammer, Sanistaine easily parried, using his sword to simultaneously block and pull Joshin forward with his own velocity. Joshin stumbled forward, allowing Sanistaine easy access to his back. Sanistaine swung both swords across Joshin’s lower waist, and Joshin let out a cry.
Aaron chuckled. “This guy.”
Joshin rolled on the ground and picked himself up after the blow. His armor seemed to protect him from most of the attack, but Sanistaine hit him hard enough that he could feel it. He ran on wobbly feet towards Sanistaine and again swung his hammer slowly, allow Sanistaine plenty of time to us one blade to parry the blow, sway to the side, and drive the tip of his other sword deep into his side.
Joshin screamed.
Sanistaine pulled out his sword and leapt into a jumping spin, ending with him slamming his sword hard across the back of Joshin’s neck.
Sanistaine’s attack cut through the man’s chainmail and landed with enough force that it should have decapitated the man, but it didn’t. Instead, the sword was lodged in the back of man’s neck, and a second later there was a wave of energy that pulsated off of Joshin that forced Sanistaine backwards and dislodged the sword.
The crowd clapped and several people were nodding their heads in the amusement. They didn’t seem too impressed with the one-sided show, but were enjoying it nonetheless.
“That Joshin should give up,” the chubby man beside me said to his friend. “He makes an amazing peach cobbler, but he’ll never be cut out for fighting.”
Two women rushed onto the fighting grounds and towards Joshin. One of them stopped midway to raise a staff in the air and cast a healing spell on the fallen man. The women began bandaging him and pouring a potion down his throat as they lifted him to his feet and started walking him slowly out of the fighting area.
“That was fast,” Aaron said.
“He was outmatched,” Ozzy added. “He had better armor, but the other guy had more speed.”
“Do you think the guy with the two swords is a Reborn?” I asked.
Aaron raised his brow. “You noticed the shoes too, huh?”
“Hard not to notice,” I affirmed.
Aaron shrugged. “Could be a Reborn. But I’d need to see more to know for sure.”
Sanistaine held one of his swords up in the air and smiled to the crowd who continued to clap.
The announcer marched back out to the center of the Arena, looked at Sanistaine, and gave him a quick nod, signaling that he could leave. The announcer looked up the onlookers and smiled. “Well done, Sanistaine! A fast win but well earned! I believe we’ll be seeing more of him in the future.”
The bell on Ozzy’s ticket began to ring.
“Oh shit!” Ozzy said, pulling his ticket out of his pocket. “Already?” He looked at Aaron and me with wide eyes.
“Go get ‘em Oz,” I said.
Aaron punched Ozzy on the shoulder. “Make us proud, big guy.”
Ozzy gulped and stood to his feet before rushing off in the direction where we had entered.
The announcer stood patiently in the center of the Arena for a minute or two before lifting the paper in his hands. He announced a level 16 combatant with a record of 0 wins and 0 losses who had the title of “streetfighter”.
The streetfighter walked out wearing a pair of tight leather shorts, a leather vest, and a pair of sandals that were cinched tightly around his feet and ankles. He was tall and muscular, about the same height as Ozzy, but with a little less extra weight. His hands and wrist were wrapped in a tight cloth, and he banged his fists together as he strode into the gaze of the crowd.
“And we have another new combatant,” the announcer yelled. “At level 19 with 0 wins and 0 losses, please welcome the untitled, Ozzy Caldwell!”
“Level 19 and no fights?” the tubby guy beside me snorted to his friend. “I hope he’s doing it for the gold, because he’ll be pushed into the next tier in just a couple levels.”
The man made a good point that I hadn’t really put much thought into. If tier 1 was for anyone level 20 and under, Ozzy was only able to level one more time before being pushed into tier 2, and at level 18, and I was only going to be able to level twice more before getting kicked to the next tier. We had a great advantage by being at high end of the tier, but I wasn’t sure if I was willing to postpone leveling just for a ‘chance’ to win the championship and ‘chance’ to speak with the King. If I happened to surpass level 20 during normal play, I’d just have to work on gaining the championship for tier 2, which would likely be considerably more difficult.<
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Ozzy marched out onto the fighting grounds nervously. He had his shield in one hand and his hammer in the other, and while he wasn’t as uneasy as Sanistaine had been, I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t excited when he saw the size and muscle of his opponent.
The announcer looked at Ozzy. “Are you ready?”
Ozzy nodded.
Her turned to the streetfighter. “Are you ready?”
The streetfighter banged his bandaged fists together.
The announcer held his sideways palm up to this chin, yelled, “Fight!” and disappeared.
“Let’s go Ozzy!” Aaron yelled, causing several of the people in the stands to briefly turn their attention to us.
I felt nervous for Ozzy. He had a few levels on the streetfighter, but he still looked weaker in comparison to the guy overall, and Ozzy was a close guild mate. I didn’t want to see him lose or get hurt.
The streetfighter ran towards Ozzy, and as soon as he was in reaching distance, he jumped and threw a superman punch. Ozzy, ducked a little, held up his shield, and when the streetfighter’s knuckles landed onto the shield, there was a loud clang that rang all through the arena.
The streetfighter immediately leaned back and dropped to the ground, performing a quick sweep to the legs before Ozzy had time to react. Oz fell sideways to the ground awkwardly, and held up his shield in an attempt to block any incoming blows.
Instead of throwing blows, the streetfighter grabbed the edges of Ozzy’s shield and started yanking back with all his might. Ozzy held on as best he could, but with a hammer in his other hand, his one handed grip was no comparison for the streetfighter’s two, and within seconds, the streetfighter had managed to pry the shield from his grasp and flung it away.
“Shit!” Aaron cursed.
The streetfighter jumped on top of Ozzy and started throwing fists after fist at his face.
I shook my head, thinking the fight was going to end as quickly as the first. The fists of the streetfighter landed hard and you could hear the force of them landing on Ozzy’s face.
