Chapter 7.3

  Of Clashing Steel

  Your Worship,

  I write in hopes of swaying your thoughts regarding your son, Prince Talose. I confess, the lad’s charm has all but badgered me into this appeal. Regardless, his talent warrants the finest tutelage we can offer. Already, his skill surpasses many of my most seasoned swordsmen. Of the remaining candidates, I would most highly recommend either Captain-of-Arms Ean Ogrebane, Lord Captain Commander of the Obsidian Order, Heathcliff Montegue, or Master Bladesmaster Biaun Greyblood. As ever, I live to serve.

  — Lieutenant Ove MacGillavray, private letter to Melchan Ozewrath, Twelfth in the Line of Stags

  Trumpets blared above the roar of the crowd, stunning the masses into reverent silence. The tune they played signaled the arrival of the emperor, and in a wave of unity, all in attendance rose to their feet, erupting into cheers as their sovereign stepped into view atop the arena’s grand balcony.

  Clad in a flowing robe of brilliant white, marked only with the stag sigil of House Ozewrath emblazoned across his chest, Emperor Melchan Ozewrath stood tall, a commanding and regal presence. To his right sat the Empress, Trina Storr of Vaugn, dignified and serene. Beside her was their second-born son, Almund Ozewrath, an aspiring priest of the Temple of the Maker, his demeanor already marked by the solemn calm of devotion. Next was Catherine Ozewrath, the emperor’s eldest daughter and third-born child, followed by the youngest of the siblings, little Waewulf, the realm’s third son, who watched the rising excitement with wide-eyed wonder.

  Positioned just behind the royal family sat Grimus of Vistadora, cloaked in understated authority, and his apprentice, Aehyl of Vistadora, watching the proceedings with bright, curious eyes. The only other figure within the Imperial Balcony was the emperor’s Royal Wizard and First Advisor—Eros, ever silent, ever watchful.

  Though the Imperial Balcony housed the emperor’s kin and closest counselors, it was not the sole seat of power. Six additional balconies ringed the arena, each bearing the standard and sovereigns of the lesser kingdoms that formed the Obsidian Empire in its entirety—Iden, Vaugn, Venetia, Chad, Cynry, and Trahern.

  At the Emperor’s nod, the trumpets blared once more, and one by one, rings of light flared to life along the outer wall of the arena, casting an ethereal glow upon the sand below and revealing a formidable assembly of warriors.

  Each stood tall and silent, flanked by squires who held aloft narrow banners bearing their names and personal symbols, bold heraldry meant to catch the eyes of those seated in the high balconies. Among the most recognizable were the crossed battle axe and sword of Captain-of-Arms Ean Ogrebane, the black raven of Master Bladesman Biaun Greyblood, the stag of Prince Talose Ozewrath of Jerrico, and the winged harpy of Swordswoman Lieutenant Ove MacGillivray.

  Though many other combatants were present, most had yet to earn the notice or repute of those few, and relied on their banners to make an impression on the watching nobility.

  Last to be acknowledged was a late entrant—the Wild One, Portean of Vistadora—whose recently chosen symbol, a bow overlaid by a crosshair, had been hastily stitched into a banner by the palace handmaidens working through the night.

  More than a tournament for glory, the annual gladiatorial contest served as both proving ground and spectacle: a chance for soldiers to rise in rank, for mercenaries to advertise their steel, and for champions to seize the coveted prize in the final bout.

  Below, the eighteen combatants stood as the last remnants of a much larger cadre. Each year, a rigorous preliminary contest was held to cull the ranks of hopefuls. This year, several hundred warriors had vied for a chance to enter the tournament proper. Only the most exceptional had earned their place in today’s games.

  Two exceptions, however, had bypassed the preliminaries entirely: the elven ranger Portean, and the legendary bladesman Biaun Greyblood. Neither had been present in Jerrico during the trials, yet their reputations alone had sufficed. Few dared question their right to compete.

  For the next hour, the arena floor came alive with movement as the warriors stretched, limbered their limbs, and sparred lightly, sharpening reflexes while awaiting the draw. At the edge of the sand, officials clustered around the lottery keg, pulling names to determine the first-round matchups.

  At last, with the draw complete, the trumpets sang again.

  A roar went up from the crowd as the tournament officially began. The warriors made their way to benches stationed around the perimeter, each waiting in stoic silence for their name to be called. Then the first two were summoned, and the arena fell still as the opening bout of the day was set to unfold.

  Biaun watched the first few matches with passing interest. Since he had no squire of his own, one had been assigned to him, a wide-eyed boy who delivered the match schedule with breathless excitement. Biaun would be facing a mercenary named Dreng Fairfax, a veteran out of Chad known for his lucrative work escorting caravans across dangerous territory.

  His match was slated as the sixth of the day, immediately before that of Prince Talose, who—somewhat awkwardly—had been paired against his own sponsor, Captain Ean Ogrebane.

  Though Biaun felt little concern for his own bout, he knew Talose stood no realistic chance against Ean. Still, he hoped he’d have time to observe the young prince in action before the inevitable defeat. Biaun had sparred with his old friend Ean many times over the years, and while the matches had always ended the same, he knew better than most just how cunning and unpredictable the burly captain could be.

  The second match ended with Lieutenant MacGillivray’s victory over a lieutenant from Venetia. As names were called for the third match, Biaun noticed Captain Ogrebane and Prince Talose making their way toward him across the packed staging ground. When they reached him, the larger man extended a meaty arm in salute, which the prince mirrored with regal flair.

  “I swear, knight,” Ean bellowed with mock solemnity, loud enough for several bystanders to hear, “ye be far too pretty to waste yer face fightin’ the riff-raff in this arena. If I were you, I’d be mountin’ that mule of a horse ye ride and ridin’ clean outta here 'fore ye hurt yerself.”

  The prince’s composure cracked at that, and he broke into a wide grin.

  “And am I to believe this is genuine concern for my safety, oh great one,” Biaun replied with a raised brow and half a smirk, “or should I trust my instincts and assume you’re more worried for your pride?”

  Turning to the prince, Biaun offered a slight, courteous bow. “Your Highness, I do hope you’re not too disappointed about the coming match. We all know it’s a bit unfair, forcing you to duel a feeble old man like him. Still, he should at least keep you occupied long enough to warm up for your next opponent.”

  Talose grinned roguishly, clearly enjoying the chance to heckle his sponsor.

  “Yes, it is quite disappointing, Master Bladesmaster,” he said with exaggerated formality. “I only hope that during the match, his largeness doesn't overbalance and topple into the dirt. I’m not sure I could bring myself to finish off a man so clearly... handicapped.”

  “Hah!” the captain barked, his face reddening. “Me broadness is the mark o’ true manhood, but I suppose Lord Uptight and Lord Puberty wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

  He turned on the prince with a mock-scolding finger.

  “A skinny pup like ye couldn’t best an old hag with a cane.”

  Keeping his voice even, Biaun waited until the warrior was certain he’d had the final word.

  “And where exactly did you put that cane, Master Ogrebane? Oh, how silly of me, you must be using it today to prop up your equally decrepit banner.”

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  Talose let out a howl of laughter and gave his giant of a sponsor a hearty slap on the shoulder.

  “You know I’m only kidding, Captain Ogrebane. My only hope today is to give a good showing for Lord Greyblood here.”

  At this, the prince stiffened slightly—his nerves finally showing—and gave each of the warriors a quick nod before trotting off to speak with Lieutenant MacGillavray.

  Ean, watching him go, grunted his approval before cutting a sideways glance at his friend.

  “He looks up ta ye, knight. Ye’d have ta be blind not to see it. Watch him careful today, and try usin’ some emotion when ye size him up. That lad’ll take yer place someday as the best o’ the best. Mark me word, he will.”

  “I have already thought on the matter, comrade.” Raising his hands to forestall the captain-of-arms’ protest, Biaun spoke deliberately.

  “I’ve lived a life few understand. I have sought harmony in my travels, yet try as I might, I know it will never come. Last night, though, I realized that perhaps the harmony I seek does not lie along a well-worn path. So I’ve decided to follow yours, and especially Carrigan’s, advice.” He finished solemnly.

  “Should the prince give a good accounting of himself, I will sponsor him come the morrow.”

  Shaking his head slightly, Biaun met his friend’s gaze, his expression hardening.

  “Push him, Ogrebane. I need to know what he’s truly capable of.”

  Ean nodded somberly, extended his arm to the knight, then moved to his banner to prepare for the match.

  Watching the large man depart, Biaun drew a deep breath, forcing all uncertainty from his mind. He was certain he would sponsor the prince, but the thought of teaching his deadly trade made him uneasy.

  Talent alone was no guarantee; if the prince was too soft-hearted, he would die in his first battle. Biaun had seen such men before, and probably sent many of them to their graves. The truth was, you never truly knew how a person would handle bloodshed until they faced it themselves.

  The third match ended with a mercenary out of Iden defeating a soldier from the Arm, and Biaun’s attention shifted to the ensuing contest between the Wild One, Portean of Vistadora, and a youthful shock warrior from the distant country of Daria.

  After brief announcements, both warriors offered the emperor a short bow and began to close the distance between them at a measured trot. Biaun studied the elf. From Portean’s fluid movement and calm, stately manner, the knight knew the young warrior was in for a harsh lesson.

  The space between them vanished. Cloth-wrapped weapons met with muffled clangs. A heartbeat later, the Wild One stood still while the shock warrior blinked in confusion, grasping at empty air where his short blade had once been. Behind him, Portean calmly retrieved the lost weapon. After helping the dazed youth to his feet, he returned the blade with a polite nod.

  He was declared the victor, and the herald began the announcements for the fifth match.

  As the next combatants took the field, Biaun noticed the lithe form of the Wild One approaching. The knight waited until Portean was within arm’s reach before offering a small bow.

  “Ah, Portean of Vistadora, such a pleasure to see that you could make it, and congratulations on your victory. You are indeed as skilled as the rumors claim.”

  The elf merely grunted. “Taking candy from an infant.” He paused, then added with more formality, “I am here because I regret my manners last night. You were clearly strained by the loss of your manservant, and I acted poorly, good knight.”

  His amber eyes stayed locked on Biaun as he extended his hand in a gesture of remorse. “Please accept my apology, Master Bladesmaster.”

  Gaging the elf’s sincerity, Biaun accepted the offered hand and cleared his throat gruffly, “So, what do you think of the festival?”

  At this Portean began to play with his hands while trying to appear as sincere as was possible, “You have a grand city here, knight. Although I do not particularly enjoy the crowded nature of most human settlements, Jerrico is…unique.”

  From the elf’s guarded response, Biaun gathered that Jerrico held little fascination for the ranger, and he chose not to pursue the subject further.

  “Yes, Jerrico is unique, but it’s still a city nonetheless,” Biaun said. “Were it not for the tournament, and the rather urgent nature of my return, I wouldn’t have bothered coming back so soon. Believe it or not, I hold as little love for bustle as you.”

  The elf was about to reply when Biaun noticed the fifth match had ended, and he was being called for his own.

  With a nod of apology, the knight excused himself and signaled for his squire. Moments later, the youth returned from the wall, carrying a slim longsword wrapped in cloth padding to prevent serious injury. Biaun accepted the weapon without fanfare and strode into the arena as his name was announced.

  At the sound of it and the raising of his banner, a roar swept through the stadium. Commoners lost in daydreams snapped back to attention, recognizing the name of one of the realm’s most famed knights.

  Biaun wore a light chain coif with matching vambraces and greaves. His dark hair was pulled into the traditional warrior’s braid and tucked away.

  Instead of his usual two-handed greatsword, Biaun wielded a slender longsword in his left hand.

  Coming to a halt in the center of the arena, the knight sized up his opponent, carefully weighing strengths and weaknesses, advantages and flaws.

  Dreng Fairfax was a lean man who stood nearly seven feet tall. His arms were long, granting him a reach advantage, though the knight noted he preferred fighting up close. His eyes were sharp and piercing, signs of a man well-versed in his trade. In his left hand he carried a longsword similar to Biaun’s; in his right, a shorter blade, gripped with the comfort of one accustomed to dual-wielding. All in all, he seemed a worthy opponent, but Biaun caught the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip, and recognized it for what it was: the unease that came with facing a legend.

  Introductions were made. Each man bowed to the emperor before beginning their slow, deliberate approach. As the gap closed, Biaun raised his sword, waiting for the first strike.

  It came fast, a blur of metal toward his side. The knight reacted with equal speed, catching the incoming shortsword with a sharp downward parry that turned the strike before it could gather force.

  Wasting no time, Biaun rolled sideways in a controlled somersault, rising to his feet behind the tall mercenary. He struck immediately with a series of blurring, light blows—not meant to wound, only to off-balance. Fairfax stumbled into retreat, his rhythm breaking. Seizing the moment, Biaun surged forward, spun, and swept the man’s legs from beneath him.

  Fairfax hit the arena floor hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Biaun’s sword came around and slapped across his chest with a forceful thwack—loud enough to silence the crowd for a heartbeat.

  The knight stepped back and offered his hand, helping the winded mercenary sit upright. As the victor’s flag rose, Biaun stood motionless, his breath quick, his senses sharpened to a razor’s edge. His muscles trembled, not from exhaustion but from the aftershock of battle.

  He waited until Fairfax had fully regained his breath before stepping away. The crowd was already chanting his name.

  But as he left the arena, Biaun’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  In a real fight, he thought grimly, I’ve just killed a man. I’ve widowed his wife. Made orphans of his children. And all these people cheer.

  From the balcony above, a pair of eyes remained fixed on the Bladesmaster’s figure as he exited the arena. Never in her life had Aehyl seen such a display—was it grace? Efficiency? Beauty in battle? The barbaric act of combat had transformed before her eyes into fine art. Her stomach fluttered with butterflies as her mind replayed the solemn knight’s measured dance again and again.

  Had the combatant seemed eager, bloodthirsty, she might have looked away. But Biaun's expression had held no hunger, only focus. It was the same quiet resolve she had seen on a ranger’s face while loosing an arrow into a deer. Discipline. Duty.

  She was still staring when the emperor spoke to her.

  Grimus nudged her lightly with an elbow.

  “Forgive me, Emperor Ozewrath,” she said, blinking. “I was lost in thought.”

  The emperor chuckled and smiled. “I see you’re enjoying the performance, young druid. I just asked whether you think my son has much of a chance against Captain Ogrebane.”

  Aehyl felt heat rise to the tips of her ears as Grimus raised an eyebrow at her. She cleared her throat and gave a modest shrug. “I only watched your son spar briefly this morning before my duties called me away, Your Highness. But from the looks of him, I would say that even Captain Ogrebane will find a worthy challenge in such a talented youth.”

  Clearly pleased, Emperor Ozewrath leaned back in his throne and gave his wife’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “You see, my dear? We have nothing to fear. Talose is skilled in his art, and win or lose, we should be proud that he made the cut to enter the competition.”

  Nodding, the queen smiled weakly at her husband, then turned her anxious gaze back to the arena floor, where Captain Ogrebane and her son were approaching one another with padded blades in hand.

  The captain studied his squire closely as they met. He knew the lad too well to assume anything about how this match might end. Talose was as skilled with a sword as most of Ean’s high-ranking officers, and his unpredictability made him all the more dangerous. All told, the captain would have just as soon faced a dark troll shaman on the battlefield as the young man now standing before him.

  As the final steps between them vanished, Talose launched a flurry of quick thrusts and spins, aiming to catch the older warrior off balance. But Ean, wise to the youth’s tricks, parried each strike. Once the flurry had run its course, he launched a counterattack that forced the prince back several steps.

  They made an odd pair on the arena floor. Talose was small of frame—lean, yet clearly muscled—while Ean was a giant by human standards, though far swifter and more graceful than his bulk should have allowed. The prince wore his golden hair to his shoulders and was always clean-shaven; his sponsor, by contrast, kept his dark brown hair cropped short and typically wore the grizzled remnants of a morning beard.

  Watching from the arena’s edge, Biaun was genuinely impressed by the prince’s performance. Talose was bold but not recklessly so, nimble on his feet, and cunning in his counters. He defended well and pressed his sponsor harder than many seasoned soldiers in the Arm could manage today. In fact, the only flaw the Bladesmaster noted was that the prince had adopted Captain Ogrebane’s fighting stance and style. While this approach suited the captain’s considerable size, it would eventually hinder someone of Talose’s slimmer, more agile frame.

  The match continued for several more minutes, escalating in intensity but with no clear victor.

  Eventually, however, the captain’s years of battlefield experience tipped the balance. Though the prince fought admirably, he lacked the stamina to wear down his sponsor. Soon, he was retreating under a relentless barrage of precise thrusts and jabs.

  In a final, desperate gambit, Talose occupied the Captain with a rapid number of wicked thursts, the spun low, attempting to sweep the captain’s legs—mimicking the maneuver Biaun himself had used earlier in his bout. The move was executed correctly, if a bit awkwardly, but the nimble captain was ready. He leapt over the sweeping leg and, upon landing, brought the flat of his padded blade down atop the youth’s head.

  With a wry grin and a raised salute of his crossed battle-axe and sword, the large warrior helped the dazed prince toward the edge of the arena.