by O. J. Lowe
“Fine words from the esteemed premier and I echo them wholeheartedly. Because this tournament is going to start and one of you is going to be the winner. You don’t know it yet but you will be immortalised in history. You will be placed amongst the pantheon of former winners and you will be remembered by spirit callers everywhere, an example, an inspiration, a legend.”
“Peter Jacobs. Legend,” Pete mused. “I like how that sounds. I could have business cards printed up with that on.”
“Yeah and if you don’t win it, you can have ones that say Pete Jacobs, Big-headed Bastard on them,” Scott grinned.
“Shut! Up!” That same person in front of them was piping up again. Scott obliged, he didn’t have anything else to say right now anyway. He folded his arms and peered up at Ritellia.
“But enough of hearing an old man talk and talk. We all know what you’re waiting for and I am willing to oblige you.” He raised an arm and pointed at the giant screen towards the north stand of the stadium, the entire thing easily as big as the house Scott had grown up in.
“When I press this button in front of me, you of the competitors will find out who you have been paired up with to fight at random. All battles in this round will be one spirit against one spirit and the winner will advance on to the group stage where you’ll be placed into pools of four, one bout against everyone else in your pool. Only two will advance to the knockout stages. Will you be the one to rise to the top?”
Leaving on that note, he reached down to the podium and made an ostensible show of pushing something. And then the viewing screen exploded into life, a flurry of names rushing across it faster than the eye could follow until they settled enough to reveal their results. Some of the names that flashed up on the screen, Scott recognised, he’d seen them either on the viewing screen or fought against them, or heard of their reputations.
Everyone had heard of Wade Wallerington, the former kingdom overlord of Canterage, bouting against a Serranian by the looks of it with a name like Bernard Kuipers. Pete’s name flashed up, he was fighting someone named Mordecai Blunt, had to be a Premesoiran with a name like that, sounded way too pretentious for anywhere else. Pete’s sister, Sharon Arventino versus Colin Hayres… There he was! Scott Taylor to face…
“Who the hells is that?!” he asked out loud. Around him, he heard someone snicker at his reaction. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret asking that question down the line.
Chapter Thirteen. First Fights.
“It’s always been my opinion that the first bout of any major tournament has to be the one to set the standard. It inflames the passions of the crowds, it sets the mood, it gets people ready. That, of course, is if it’s a good one. When it fails to spark, it can have the opposite effect. And apathy towards a tournament of this size is never an entirely good thing.”
Terrence Arnholt, speaking before the opening bout of the Quin-C.
The eighteenth day of Summerdawn.
“And We. Are. Ready!”
The air lit up with the thrum of electric anticipation from the crowd, cheers and roars of delight falling on the stadium battlefield as Harry Devine strode out of the tunnel, resisting the urge to wave and blow kisses to all of those who were chanting his name. “Stepping onto the field right now, we have competitor Harry Devine from Canterage, a first timer here at the tournament.” Devine was a short-ish man barely out of his teens with olive coloured skin and a heart shaped face, currently warped up in a mischievous grin as he made his way to the competitor box.
There was always at least one caller in every tournament who felt the need to try and psych the crowd up with extravagant hand gestures, fist pumps and ear touching gestures with usually mixed results. Devine wasn’t going to be the first by the looks of it as he trotted into his box and took up a relaxed battle stance, one hand on his summoner, one in the pocket of his denims. If he won, it would be a photo that appeared on the news sites around the kingdoms later that day. If he lost, the focus would be on his opponent.
Towards the other end of the battlefield, Wayne Morgan a burly Premesoiran ambled out into his own area, cutting any show of affection down to a stiff wave at the crowd. “We’re here from Stadium Four, live with the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup, I’m Gary LaMar, your commentator, and this is your first battle of the brand-new tournament! It’s sure to be a cracker”
“And I’m Tess Wilding, your analyser for Five Kingdoms Sports. Young Devine has a potentially tricky tie here; he must overcome Wayne Morgan of Premesoir, a veteran of these tournaments. Although it should be said he has only made it past the group stage once. Unless he has improved, I can see young Devine overcoming. I’ve seen some of his bouts over the last few months and he has a talent.”
“We shall see. Our video referee is just calibrating, the shields are charging up and we’ll be ready to get this underway. About the shields, Tess, I was travelling over here and there was an incident on one of the boats…”
“These are all new pieces of equipment, Gary. I’m sure there’s not going to be a problem. Although I do recall a news piece several months ago stating that they were using inferior products… It’s not going to be a problem. These things have been tested, they’re the premium of the premium. I examined them myself. If anything goes wrong here, it won’t be the field shields.”
Devine glanced up at the video screen to his left, a loading icon on it just finishing spinning before it flared into life. It was the automated calling judgement system rolled out for tournaments like this; he’d seen them before but never been part of a bout where one had been used. Most bouts below championship level involved human referees still. This would declare the winner impartially when one combatant was unable to continue, the system keeping a track on the life signs of the two spirits involved. A picture of himself flashed up across the screen towards his side, another of Morgan did the same. He gripped his summoner a little tighter, his palms sweating. Okay, here he went. He could do this. No pressure. Just like he’d done hundreds of times before. Around him, the crowd were watching, thousands of eyes staring down expectant at him.
Come on… Come on…
The screen went green, green for go and he pushed the button to release his spirit. He had one chance to get this right, he’d go strong and the being that materialised on the field was probably his best. It looked like a giant grey shapeless shadow, four silver rings interlinked around the centre of mass that passed for its body.
“Come on, Sneak,” he muttered as Morgan was already in the process of releasing his own creature, an odd-looking spirit that resembled a crocodile. If crocodiles stood up on two legs perhaps, its skin a dull green and black, body covered in scales and a golden crest up on the crown of its head. The jaws were thick and looked heavy, its head bowed and eyes beadily focusing on Sneak. The claws on its front arms looked stubby but still sharp enough to cause damage to something that perhaps wasn’t a ghost, its tail dragging heavily along the ground. As it dropped down onto all fours, Devine saw it had more of the golden crests along its spine poking proudly up into the air. “We can do this.”
“Good luck, kid,” Morgan called across the field, a smirk on his face. “You’re gonna need it here.”
Devine ignored the smirk. “Thanks, sir. The same to you.” He bit down on the idea of bringing up Morgan’s record to taunt him. His dad had always imparted that one bit of wisdom to him. Never taunt them before the match because you’ll probably regret it afterwards. Do it after all you want but don’t give it if you’re not prepared to take it down the line. Last thing you want is your words thrown back in your face.
There was an automated mechanical whistle from the video referee and a second green light flashed bright, the sign to get going. Another deep breath and Devine made his choice. Apparently so had Morgan as his spirit charged across the floor like a cannonball, showing deceptive speed for something that he’d noticed looked so lumbering when on its hind legs. The mouth opened, the numerous fangs inside it glowing
with energy. Whatever his plan was, Devine wasn’t about to let Sneak get tagged with it.
A quick command alteration and Sneak formed a giant fist out of the shadowy mass that made up his body, swinging it back and delivering an almighty punch straight into the crocodile, the blow smashing it several feet up into the air before it came back down again with all the grace of a falling electro-organ, landing in an untidy pile. It slowly got up, shaking itself off as it did so, a mad look on that reptilian face.
“Nice hit,” Devine muttered, more towards Sneak but also to himself. Wait for it to come to you, don’t go on the attack and leave yourself open yet. Make it chase you.
The croc wasn’t the only one that looked annoyed, Morgan didn’t look impressed himself. As it righted itself, the mouth opened again and a torrent of liquid erupted out from within the maw, streaking across the ground too fast for Devine to follow. Even as he urged Sneak to dodge it, he realised he just hadn’t been fast enough and it struck the ghost right in the centre mass.
He felt Sneak’s surprise, he cursed himself. It wasn’t easy to hurt ghosts like Sneak but neither was it impossible if you went about it the right way. Which Morgan clearly had the know how to do. And that ability to spit water wasn’t uncommon to be engineered in aquatic creatures. It was easier than say, modifying them to spit fire or acid. That blast had to have hurt. “Okay, let’s try something else, shall we? How about…”
The croc didn’t see it coming, thick tendrils of sticky smoke and ectoplasm erupted out of Sneak’s body and shot across the battlefield like a barrage of black vines and landed hard, each of them lashing, raking, beating the scaled body of the enemy spirit, tearing away thick skin and muscle with each motion in large bloody chunks. Crimson spattered the stadium floor. The spirit let out a roar of pain, tried to escape only to find that two of the tendrils had snaked around its back legs; it went down with a crash. Helpless against the onslaught, it tried to break free to little avail.
Still they buffered away, slashing and tearing until finally with an almighty effort, the croc found the strength to break free. A look of concern passed across Morgan’s face, be it for his spirit or his fading competition chances, Devine couldn’t say. In the past, the sight of so much blood would have bothered him. Now, he found it hard to worry. No permanent damage would be inflicted on something that wasn’t technically even alive anymore anyway. He could see Morgan’s concern replaced with anger, curse words falling from his mouth as he muttered something out of the corner of his mouth…
Out of nowhere, the croc let loose another blast of water, a great column of liquid erupting from its jaws, this one somehow even more potent than the first. What little scales it had left shone with the slick sweat and renewed gore of the effort, how it was still standing Devine didn’t know. Either way it made no difference, Sneak sailed up into the air, floating high above the raking blast of the torrent. Maybe some stray droplets caught it, not enough to make a difference.
For a few moments, Sneak just hovered there, staring down at its opponent far down below like an oversized shadowy vulture studying a particularly appetising piece of prey. Devine could see the look of horror and realisation in the eyes of both opponent caller and spirit. They knew they couldn’t hold out for much longer. Maybe the croc would still fight on, it probably would, but Morgan knew it was only a matter of time. Adrenaline rushing through him, giddy glee that he’d just about won…
… Not won yet, you still need to deal the final blow…
… Okay, okay… Sneak? Do it.
Sneak fell from the sky, a silent bomb homing straight in on its enemy, a sudden ethereal shriek breaking from it as it landed down on the croc, the horrific mix of scales and blood suddenly engulfed completely. More screeches met a crescendo of roars and growls as for a moment the two spirits were one, locked together in a final death lock for victory. The croc couldn’t be seen beyond the black shapeless mass of smog that was Sneak but surely it hadn’t given up without a fight. It surely couldn’t do too much in there and yet it had kept on going. And Sneak didn’t look to be having it all its own way. It didn’t normally take this long to engulf something. Inside that ghost there’d be a maelstrom of pain and fear, it’d be like leaping into a pit of knives, or so he imagined. Fighting it would be beyond agony. And yet the croc had anyway.
Then Sneak fell away, melting off the body of the other spirit like a giant mallow, one moment there had been just the big pile of black and then there was just the croc as Sneak hovered up above in triumph. The croc lay still and Devine bit down on the urge to punch the air, a resistance he held only for a few seconds until the crowd exploded in cheers and the video referee made its call. He let out a deep exhalation of breath, it couldn’t have gone on for that long and yet it felt like days. It was like waking up after a deep sleep, you knew what had happened but you couldn’t quite realise how it had passed. On the screen, his picture flashed up and the word WINNER below it.
Punching the air in celebration felt like the least he could do as Sneak floated over to hover next to him, the flashes of a thousand different picture boxes all raining down on him. If this was what winning was like at this tournament, he felt he could probably get used to it very, very quickly indeed.
As rushes went, it wasn’t a bad one indeed.
The twenty first day of Summerdawn.
“Okay,” Scott muttered as he spun in the chair and waited for the connection to load up in front of him. Slow… So slow. He let out a sigh of frustration. With a tournament being held here, you’d think the least they could do was ensure the CallerNet was up to scratch. Welcome to Vazara, he thought dryly. Doing today what everywhere else did two years ago. And that was being generous. He shouldn’t be so hard on the place. After all he did have some heritage here. Admittedly it came from a father who’d done a runner a very long time ago indeed so it was hard to feel any sort of attachment to the place for very long. In fact, thinking about it just brought up resentment. Not just from him but from his mother. He wondered what she’d say if she could see him now. Those were painful thoughts, he rejected them immediately.
His bout was that afternoon, the tournament was well underway and he’d seen the highlights of some of the fights that had already taken place. None of the winners looked like they’d really had to break sweat so far and he didn’t know whether he should be worried by that or not. Either they’d been lucky enough to get a battle against someone anyone would have been able to beat or those who’d already gone were genuinely that good. Hard to say. In theory, the competition didn’t let just anyone in.
He’d had a look at the rules not too long ago. Two hundred enter. Half are knocked out at the first stage. The rest go into twenty-five groups of four, two going through to make it fifty. After the next round of twenty-five matches, the statistically worse placed winner was automatically eliminated. Then they’d carry on going knockout rounds until the semis when three remained and went into another group, the top two in that group advancing to the final.
Tough. Very tough. But this was the most prestigious tournament in all the five kingdoms. They didn’t want to let just anyone win it. To win wasn’t just about being the best; it was about persistence and creativity and determination, as well as strength. It was about utilising all your talents and not giving up no matter how hopeless the odds might seem against you.
It sounded clichéd but that didn’t make it any less true. Scott knew that he probably wasn’t going to win it. There were so many more people here with a better chance than him in theory. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give everything to make sure he gave himself the best chance.
He settled back in the chair and fought the urge to give the screen a smack. He wanted to do some research on his opponent, one Nadia Yepes. Never heard of her before, didn’t know anything about her. He hoped that the same was the case for her then they’d at least be at the same advantage. Then he’d thought about doing research on her, in the theory that it’d give him a le
g up on her. And then he’d realised that maybe she’d be doing the same on him. So at least they’d be even again.
This was why he was in one of the information centres on the island, which at the very least was heavily air conditioned. The cool breeze flushing through the room was very welcome, especially since it wasn’t quite enough to drown out the radio in the building. It sounded like one of the qualifying bouts had just got underway. The breeze was almost as nice as in the stadium he’d been in earlier when he’d gone to cheer Pete on in his match, a victory he’d taken with some effort but not much difficulty. Scott rolled his eyes. If he went out at this stage, Pete’s jokes at his expense would probably be the least of his problems but they’d probably hurt the most.
“For those of you that remember, Willow Silva made it past the group stage last time round, she did well. She might hope to do better this time, she’s got to get through this bout first though. She sends out… What we saying that is, Tim? Fanged fighting goat?”
“Could be, Jeff. I’ve not seen one of those things for a long time. They’re found primarily in northern areas of Serran, if I’m not mistaken that’s Silva’s local area so it makes sense really.”
He found himself trying not to pay too much attention to the radio. Back onto Yepes, that was who he needed to focus on. Not worry about what was going on elsewhere. Yepes was the priority problem.
“But her opponent is a first timer. So far, the first timers have done well here, Harry Devine won the opening match a few days ago, let’s not forget Peter Jacobs won earlier, Katherine Sommer and Lysa Montgomery both won yesterday. Can Matthew Arnholt add his name to that list? We’re nearly at the end of the qualifiers; we’ve got live commentary of Scott Taylor against Nadia Yepes in two hours’ time.”
