The Key of Creation: Book 01 - Rise of the Destroyer

by M. D. Bushnell

  Aldrick, Jelénna and Adrias made their way through the crowd to the cordoned area on the edge of the main Melee arena, which had been prepared especially for the regent. They found Brodan already seated in his box, watching one of the first matches with a drink in one hand. They had missed the first matches of the morning, yet plenty of matches remained, weather permitting.

  Brodan greeted them warmly and invited them to join him, as if he had completely forgotten about the events of the past few days. Aldrick noticed his unpleasant guards glaring ominously at anyone in the crowd who made the mistake of glancing their way.

  “I’m glad you made it Aldrick. I was beginning to worry.”

  “You were worried about me? I’m honored!” Aldrick jested.

  Brodan gave him a flat look but said nothing, instead turning to his wife with a leer. “Jelénna my dear, it’s wonderful to see you again.”

  Jelénna nodded, but ignored the flirtation. “And you,” she replied before returning her gaze to the match.

  When she said nothing further, Brodan shrugged and turned back to Aldrick. “You missed the starting matches.”

  “I’m surprised you came to watch the entire competition. I thought you might arrive only for your own match.”

  Brodan shook his head. “That wouldn’t be very wise. I have to scout the competition, after all.”

  “Worried about the contenders?”

  “No, of course not,” Brodan snorted before scanning the crowd. “But you never know when you’ll find hidden talent. I need to stay sharp.”

  “Well said,” Aldrick agreed. “Any worthy challengers yet?”

  “Hardly!” the regent laughed. “But the Melee has only just begun. Plenty of contenders left…”

  An announcer interrupted him, proclaiming the victory of Sir Bakkar, son of Sabbelius over Sir Osbourne, son of Tyommie with the required ten points.

  One point was awarded to a contestant for each successful strike with either the tip or blade of his sword to the body of his opponent. For safety, each contestant entered the match in full padding and plate armor. This included the head, which was off-limits as a striking zone. Of course even with the prerequisite protection, accidents had been known to happen. The cheering crowd was not only aware of the possibility of such unfortunate accidents, but some actually welcomed them. Side betting by the spectators was not always limited to the possible winner or loser of each individual match, but often the odds on injury or in extreme cases, death.

  The current match ended, and Aldrick leaned in towards the regent. “I want to apologize for my behavior recently, Brodan. I’ve been distracted with the attack on my family, and I’ve neglected the stress you must be under.”

  Brodan appeared to be considering one of his typical flippant replies, but instead simply smiled. “Apology accepted. I should remember to be more patient with you.”

  It was not the return apology for which Aldrick had hoped, but he let the matter drop. The next bout began and the crowd watched expectantly as the two men stalked each other around the fenced-in ring.

  Searching for an opening to strike and score a point, the fighters circled and took experimental swings, learning the style and abilities of their opponent. They moved back and forth, parrying each thrust and blocking each swing, their blades ringing with metallic clangs. The myriad sounds of the cheering crowd swelled about them like the crashing waves of a small sea.

  Aldrick and Brodan made small talk about the Tournament as the match continued, discussing the skill and techniques of each fighter. The crowd cheered loudly and stamped their feet after each successful point scored. The two men appeared to be evenly matched, and as the match progressed, the crowd grew more excited in anticipation of the final, winning blow.

  With the score tied at eight each, the crowd clapped and cheered boisterously, drowning out any further conversation. They roared again as Sir Raleigh, son of Brenton scored a successful strike, now leading the match with a score of nine to eight. With the possible winning point imminent, the crowd came to their feet in excited anticipation. The two men continued to stalk each other searching for an opening, but both were obviously tired from the long match.

  Several excruciating moments of blows and parries followed, before Sir Raleigh feigned and struck quickly to secure the final point for the win. While his opponent limped out of the arena in defeat, Sir Raleigh bowed deeply, acknowledging the adulation of the crowd. Once the deafening cheers quieted and the crowd began to retake their seats, the announcer shouted the results of the match.

  Once he could be heard, Aldrick asked Brodan, “Shouldn’t you prepare for your own fight?”

  Brodan scanned the dark, ominous clouds overhead. “No, I wanted to study the competition, so I had mine moved to the end. I want to be as prepared as possible.”

  Aldrick scratched his head. “I was under the impression the order of the matches was determined by casting lots?”

  “Sometimes it pays to be in charge.”

  Aldrick knew nothing he could say would change Brodan’s view on the subject. The roar of the crowd from the adjacent arena drew their attention. “Sounds exciting,” Aldrick mused. “It’s unfortunate you can’t be in both places at once.”

  Brodan took a large bite of fried dough. “That’s been taken care of,” He said with a wink.

  The announcement of the next match, and subsequent cheering of the crowd cut short any response. The announcer began in a loud booming voice. “Most of you will be familiar with our first contender in the next match; Sir Marinus, son of Cefin.” His announcement was met with thunderous applause.

  The announcer continued, “No stranger to sword fighting, Sir Marinus holds not one, but two dueling titles in his home town of Ubarra.”

  The cheers for the popular Sir Marinus were deafening. Once the thunder quieted down, Brodan leaned in to ask, “You must be familiar with Marinus, since he’s from Ubarra.”

  Aldrick smiled. “Yes, I know Marinus. He is skilled with the sword, no question. I wouldn’t say he is master status, however.”

  “But he is good?”

  Aldrick nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s very good. He does have two titles, after all.”

  Brodan gave Aldrick a conspiratorial nudge. “But not as good as you, right?”

  Aldrick only smiled as the announcer continued, “Sir Marinus’ challenger is a new contender, sponsored by a noble family of the Kannes Region in northern Asturia, represented here today by Warren, son of Bryce. Please welcome Gilmoure, son of Zakhar!”

  There was a smattering of applause for the newcomer, but it was clear from the general lack of enthusiasm that the crowd was not terribly interested in the stranger. Sir Marinus strode out into the center of the circular arena, soaking up the adulation of the crowd, while his challenger entered the arena from the preparation building.

  An unusual hush came over the crowd as the unknown contender strolled over to join his opponent. The arena was filled with whispering, as the crowd began to stand in order to see the spectacle.

  Aldrick had been chatting idly with Jelénna and paying no attention to the arena, when the crowd around him rose to their feet.

  The sun remained hidden behind the dark storm clouds, yet Brodan shaded his eyes, straining to see across the crowd. “It appears the new fellow Gilmoure, is not wearing his armor.”

  Aldrick stood and spotted the new contender. He was tall and muscular, and strode confidently towards the center of the arena. Hooded, and clothed in non-descript forest colors, he carried a light sword with a simple hilt, but wore not a scrap of the heavy plate armor that was required for protection. Aldrick found the stranger striking in a familiar way, but could not understand why he had not donned his protective armor.

  Aldrick rubbed his chin. “What’s he thinking?”

  Brodan laughed. “I have no idea.”

  Sir Marinus, son of Cefin and two-time dueling champion, gaped at his opponent in amazement. Motioning for quiet, he shouted
in a loud, booming voice that carried over the hushed crowd, “Ho there, friend Gilmoure. It appears you have forgotten your armor!”

  The crowd erupted in laughter. The conversations Aldrick overheard around him agreed with Sir Marinus; no one in their right mind would fight in the Melee Tourney without the protective armor. This unknown fool must have entered the arena after having forgotten to put on his gear.

  After a few moments the laughter and jeers began to subside, and Gilmoure pushed back his hood to reveal strong features, dark sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. He scanned the crowd with no sign of embarrassment or chagrin. That confident gaze settled on him briefly, but before Aldrick could react, Gilmoure had looked away. The crowd quieted, and took their seats once again.

  Gilmoure spoke in a commanding voice, with just a hint of humor. “Ah, Sir Marinus, your powers of observation are nearly as keen as your wit. It would seem the day will be yours, as soon as you hit me.”

  He abruptly moved into a fighting stance that looked as natural as smoke from a fire. Gilmoure twirled his sword and flashed his opponent a steely grin, before adding in a more serious voice, “That is, of course, if you can hit me.”

  With a startled look, Sir Marinus quickly flipped down the visor of his helmet, and struggled to move into position as fast as he could. With the match officially begun, Gilmoure could easily have taken advantage of the moment of surprise, but instead he waited chivalrously for his opponent to ready himself.

  Sir Marinus began circling, making exploratory jabs and thrusts at his un-armored opponent, all of which Gilmoure easily parried or avoided altogether. The newcomer did not attack at all, and without the heavy plate armor, he was extremely agile compared to Sir Marinus. He only blocked incoming attacks or side stepped, dodging them entirely.

  Brodan jeered contemptuously. “Is not having armor even legal? Does he even know what he’s doing? He’s not attacking at all!”

  “I don’t believe the protective gear is required,” Aldrick mused, watching the challenger carefully. Unencumbered by the heavy plate armor that Sir Marinus wore, nearly anyone would be light on their feet by comparison, but there was something different about this man. He danced about, avoiding attacks that any other swordsman would have parried, and one might surmise from his lack of offense that he had never held a sword in his life, but Aldrick’s experienced eye told him otherwise.

  The crowd began to grumble from the lack of action, and continuing belief that Gilmoure could only be a complete idiot who, thus far, had only been extremely fortunate to not be struck down by one of the increasingly wild swings of his opponent.

  Aldrick saw the way Gilmoure moved his feet when he danced away from powerful sword thrusts. When he did parry a strike rather than avoiding it, he brought his sword up lightning fast and then down again, all in one fluid motion. Finally, Gilmoure observed his surroundings with deadly seriousness, and yet he moved about gracefully, dodging blows and wearing Sir Marinus down. Overall, he seemed to be having the time of his life.

  The crowd, realizing neither contestant had yet scored a single hit, grew increasingly restless. A few less dignified spectators went as far as to jeer and cast insults, and soon more of the crowd were mocking the contestants in a similar manner. Aldrick knew the crowd would not allow this game of dance and avoidance to continue for much longer, regardless of how interesting he found it to be. Even Brodan, forgetting how a regent should behave, joined in with the crowd, booing and shouting epithets.

  Gilmoure appeared to arrive at the same conclusion, and abruptly bowed dramatically to his opponent before holding his arms out, as if in surrender. The crowd quieted immediately, in anticipation of an inevitable fatal blow. Sir Marinus was clearly frustrated, and with a burst of remaining energy launched a massive final attack at Gilmoure’s unprotected chest. Clearly, if the mighty blow were to connect, it would run Gilmoure through as surely as he stood there. There could be only one outcome to a strike like that. Instant death.

  Aldrick held his breath as Gilmoure spun with lightning speed, barely avoiding the fatal thrust. In one fluid motion, his own sword whirled around and struck Sir Marinus resoundingly in the back. The champion had overextended himself with his missed thrust, and losing his balance, he fell forward heavily onto his knees. Gilmoure continued to strike different areas of his armor, carefully avoiding the openings between the armor plates where he might strike flesh.

  In the space of three heartbeats Gilmoure landed nine distinct blows, while Sir Marinus was collapsing face first onto the ground. The newcomer paused dramatically and flourished his sword. He addressed the dumbfounded and nearly silent crowd and said, “and ten,” before delivering the final strike. The resounding clang of his sword on the back plate of his opponent echoed eerily throughout the arena.

  A long moment of stunned silence followed before the full realization of what had taken place sunk into the collective mind of the crowd, and then everyone erupted in applause. Everyone that was except Brodan, who did not look at all pleased with the victory of the newcomer.

  “Did you see that, father?” Adrias asked, wide-eyed and grinning as he clapped. “That man fought with no armor, and won ten points to zero. Has anyone ever done that before?”

  Aldrick slowly shook his head, still incredulous over the outcome of the match. “No son, I can’t recall anyone competing in the Melee Tourney without armor, much less scoring a perfect victory. Brodan?”

  The brief look that the regent gave him sent a chill down his spine. “I need to prepare for my match,” Brodan replied dully. “Enjoy the rest of the Melee.” Accompanied by several guards, the regent stalked off pushing his way roughly through the excited crowd until he had disappeared from sight.

  Aldrick turned back to the field of battle in time to see Gilmoure stride out of the arena. Aldrick decided to learn more about this man who could be the first viable contender to his friend Brodan. It was not just anyone who could set one, if not two, new records in the Melee Tourney. Aldrick kissed his wife, before hopping down from the stands and following after Gilmoure.

  Cutting across the edge of the arena, Aldrick wondered how to approach Gilmoure; as a friend of the regent, he did not want to appear as if he was spying on the competition. It was not in his nature to dissimulate, but in the end he decided to cloak his true intention with the simple guise of congratulating Gilmoure on his victory. That at least would not require a lie, and Aldrick was a terrible liar. He would simply congratulate the newcomer on his amazing victory, and see what he could learn.

  Entering the preparation building, Aldrick squinted in the gloomy interior. Once his eyes adjusted, he spotted the object of his search across the enormous room, taking a swig of ale from a large mug. Aldrick started across the room, but paused when he recognized the skinny fellow congratulating Gilmoure.

  He had been hooded at the time, but Gilmoure had to be the same man Aldrick had collided with on the street several days before.

  Aldrick smiled and introduced himself, offering his hand. “I wanted to congratulate you personally on your astounding victory.”

  Gilmoure shook his hand with a genuine smile. “Thank you, Aldrick was it? I am Gilmoure, son of Zakhar and my companion is Warren, son of Bryce.”

  Warren took the offered hand. “Yes, thank you very much. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Why are you thanking him?” Gilmoure chided. “It wasn’t your victory!”

  Warren reddened and stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Aldrick ignored the interchange. “I will need confirmation, but I believe you may have broken at least one, if not two different Melee Tourney records.”

  “Likely the one for most jeers,” Gilmoure laughed.

  Aldrick chuckled. “You may be the only man to ever compete in the Melee Tourney without wearing plate armor. Also, I cannot recall hearing of a ten to nothing victory.”

  “Interesting,” Gilmoure replied with a straight face. “You are here to deliver my medal
s then?”

  Aldrick laughed again. “No, but I will inform you of the records once I confirm them.”

  Gilmoure snapped his fingers. “I bumped into you the other day, didn’t I? I thought you looked familiar. Then today I see you sitting with regent Brodan, son of the late King Hermanus. You must be terribly important,” Gilmoure jested, before adding in a nonchalant voice, “Do you know him well?”

  “We grew up together,” Aldrick admitted. “But I’m not important. What about you?”

  “Me?” Gilmoure coughed. “I’m not important.”