Chapter 56- Day 1 of the tournament

His dreams had been brief, and violent, and full of dark shadows and crazed men trying to take his life. Despite their dark nature he had never cried aloud in his sleep, and had instead faced them head on in his dreams. When Alex shook him awake, Brent slowly opened his eyes to behold his friend. Alex was fully dressed in his leathers, and he only nodded to Brent and told him there was breakfast downstairs.

“Today’s the day,” said Alex, as he left their small room and shut the door firmly behind himself.

Brent smiled wickedly, and tossed the covers off himself.

“Today’s the day,” he repeated.

Thomas, barely awake in the bed next to his, opened his eyes and squinted at him.

“Obviously, now let me go back to sleep.”

Brent quickly changed and then met the others downstairs. Chase was looking hungover, and Meredith was slowly drinking some coffee at the bar. Claire and Alex were chatting to themselves, and about a dozen other players were nervously sitting at tables and glancing around at one another suspiciously.

“Thomas said he was feeling sick,” said Brent when Chase saw him.

Their leader cocked an eyebrow.

“Alright, are you ready?”

Brent stared at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Fighters, let’s go.”

Soon he, Alex, and Claire were following their guild leader to the tournament area. It was different from the building they had registered in, and Chase led them to an area outside of town, just slightly down the road. When they had walked past the buildings they found an area where over one hundred players were gathered. There were tents and awnings shielding people from the bright morning sun and everywhere was excitement and voices talking. Brent saw some familiar faces from the inn, and thought he caught Astor’s hair burning in the sun before disappearing behind a tent.

“Somewhere in the center will be the stage,” said Chase, leading them through the throngs of people. “Amelie was supposed to find me a seat somewhere, let’s see if she managed it without me.”

They emerged finally at the fighting area. Brent was unsure what he had been expecting, but a full fledged fighting arena was not one of them. There was a raised wooden platform surrounded by a fence which seemed to have been constructed hastily. The arena platform was as wide and as long as the inn, and was just tall enough that one would be able to see the fight from nearly any distance. Upon the platform were some NPCs sweeping and checking the corners for who knew what. Markon, the large player from the day before stood in the center, arms crossed and barking orders at the NPCs.

“You there! Sweep the edges. Someone must have been walking on this thing last night. And you! I see you slacking around get off and help Argo if you can’t find something to do.”

The large player exuded an aura of command, and his dark hair waved in the morning air.

“Have you ever heard of him?” Brent asked Chase as they watched the hustle and bustle upon the stage. “His name is Markon. Said he was a five contract player.”

“Markon?” Chase rubbed his face with a hand. He looked like he needed a shave. Brent knew that he hadn’t been sleeping well of late, and the alcohol from the night before likely had him in a sour mood. “The name’s familiar. Oh wait. There was someone named Markon who was apart of the Sliding Death Brigade a few years ago. They competed with the Old Guard for some time, but had a falling out. Not sure what the reason was.”

“A lot of guilds break up over time, then.”

Chase nodded.

“It happens. Differences grow over time. Hey,” he slapped Brent’s shoulder and then drew Claire close. He placed his arms over their shoulders, with Alex in front of him, and formed a small circle. “Whatever happens today, I want you three to know that I am proud of you. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we began this journey but each one of you have more than proven your abilities as fighters over the past months. I don’t know much about who you will be fighting, but whatever the outcomes just know you are the best Fighters around in my book. Got it?”

Alex swelled with pride and gave a rare smile. Claire looked at the ground to hide her reddening face. Brent just felt a tickle of annoyance.

“We came to win, Chase,” said Brent, flatly. “Not just participate We’ve worked hard, but these are the first players we have fought against. Today we make a name for ourselves. By the end of this tournament the Seven Banes will have earned their first bit of recognition.”

“True,” said Chase, he smiled and Brent’s words didn’t seem to effect him at all. “Alright, what Brent just said. Win, win, win, WIN!”

Claire laughed and Alex chuckled. Brent just shook his head but knew that Chase really meant what he said. All those long weeks of killing goblins and practicing fighting at the fort had all led up to this day. There was no way he was leaving empty handed.

They finally found Amelie on the other side of the area platform. She was absentmindedly looking at some flowers growing by the fence surrounding the platform.

“Good morning everyone. I was just looking at this flower,” she said, plucking a small blue flower from the ground. “I think Marlon was telling me it’s a magical plant.”

Chase chuckled, but he didn’t sound genuine. His hangover seemed to be growing heavier upon him and he just wanted to relax.

“That’s a morning glory, Amelie. No magical properties, and not useful in the least.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding defeated. “Well, it’s really lovely, no?”

Chase was about to respond when Markon shouted from the stage.

“TIME TO BEGIN THE CONTRACT TOURNAMENT. WE WILL BE BEGINNING AT RANDOM. PLEASE BE READY WHEN YOUR NUMBER IS CALLED.”

Markon lowered his hands and eyed the crowd as the fighters assembled. Around Brent people began to fill in the area around the platform. Markon was suddenly joined by the NPC named Argo who had the same helmet from yesterday. Markon reached into the hat and pulled out a number.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“Beginning with the men…number 4! Fighters come to the stage now or forfeit the match.”

Brent heard a whoop behind him and the big man he had seen challenge Astor came through the crowd. If anything he appeared even larger than the day before as he was wearing some worn out plate armor. He circled the fence and clambered upon the arena platform to stand beside Markon. He grinned savagely into the crowed and his greasy hair shone in the light.

“ASTOR,” yelled Markon. “Where are you? After all that talk yesterday you aren’t gonna forfeit are ya?”

“Over here, Markon,” came a calm voice. Brent looked down the fence and saw Astor, his red hair standing out from the crowd. He placed his hands upon the fence and easily leapt over the barricade. From there, he jumped onto the platform and turned to bow to the crowd. There was an excited mumbling on every side of Brent as the gathered players realized who he was.

“You still think my death will be exquisite?” Said the big man, eyeing Astor.

“There will be no deaths here,” said Markon gruffly. “Argo. Give me the swords.”

Argo handed a case over to the big player and Markon gently opened it to reveal a pair of blades. They looked just like the training island practice swords but shimmered as he removed one.

“These swords have been enchanted,” Markon explained to the crowd. “They cannot cut flesh, but will render the victim magically damaged as though they were real. A slice to the hamstring will make your leg immobile. To the head, and you will pass out. They are basically just metal rods at this point.”

“I can still beat you to death with them,” said the big man. He took a blade from Markon and inspected it critically. Astor merely rolled his eyes and grinned cheekily at the crowd.

“What is your name, player?” Asked Astor.

“Harris,” said the big man. He licked his lips and his eyes grew wild for a moment. “I was friends with Terri— the man you killed last year. We weren’t close but came up on the island together. Today I get revenge for him.”

The crowed ogled the combatants, and Brent heard people gasp around him. This was quite a bit a drama for the first match of the tournament and he was already not liking having to follow this. He would have to stand out even more now to be noticed when his match with Hackney came.

“Enough of that,” said Markon. “If either of you two get close to killing one another I’ll stop the match. The match is over when one of you faints, or decides to forfeit. Are you ready?”

Harris gave an “aye” and Astor merely shrugged.

“Argo, get off the stage!” Said Markon. The NPC scampered off to the laughs of the assembled players. “Alright. Match start!”

Harris swung before the words had even left Markon’s mouth. They were close enough that had Astor not anticipated the blow it would have struck him across the face. Brent heard the wind come off the blade as Astor easily stepped back. He chuckled and then leveled his blade.

“Exquisite,” said Astor, and then answered with a hail of blows against his opponent.

Harris parried and blocked a dozen strikes, and was able to move quickly despite his girth. The crowed cheered as he answered with his own strike, which Astor easily parried away.

“This is for Terri!” Roared Harris, and he lunged wildly. Astor stepped out of the way and smacked the back of Harris’ leg, striking him in the thigh. The big man immediately went down on one leg, gasping in pain. His left leg was useless now.

“You!” Harris landed on his back, sword raised to deflect any coming blows, yet none came.

Astor was standing at a safe distance, a satisfied look upon his face.

“Terri died like the coward he was. You really think you’d be the one to avenge him?”

Harris grunted and tried to get to his feet but his leg just hung limply.

“Heh, I still can. Come over here and I’ll rip your face off. I don’t need a leg to finish this.”

“Do you know why I killed Terri?” Astor swung his sword idly and began circling around his opponent. Harris had to get into a kneeling position to track him, his sword extended.

“Why?” Said Harris. The crowd had begun to call for Astor to end it, and some, Brent assumed Harris’ guild members, were crying for him to forfeit.

“Because he was playing a flute. He was quite the musician, did you know? I requested a favorite of mine and he refused.”

“That’s why you ended his life?” Said Harris, unable to keep the shock and the rage from his face. “Because he wouldn’t play a song?”

“It wasn’t that he said no,” said Astor. “It’s the way he said it. Had he politely declined I would have gone about my day. But as it were he told me to get lost, and that disrespect I could not have.”

“Bast—.” Harris blocked a blow that would have sent him sprawling. Astor cackled in glee.

He’s just playing with him, thought Brent. He glanced at Markon who didn’t seem about to stop the match. The five contract player was standing at the edge of the area just watching them talk.

Just then Astor produced a flute from his shirt and held it for the crowd to see.

“This is Terri’s flute,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Any who cross me will meet the same fate. I will be greater than Lord Oscuro himself someday. It has been promised to me. Remember that!”

Harris opened his mouth to speak, but Astor Briggs leapt upon him. He struck the big man a dozen times in the head, the neck, his shoulders, and his face again as hard as he could. He screamed like a banshee and his face contorted from rage, to glee, to rage once again.

Thud thud crack thud thud thwack!

Markon sprinted to the the combatants, but Astor had already done his work. The big player grabbed Astor by the back of the shirt and yanked him so hard that the red haired man flew a dozen feet and nearly slid off the stage. Harris was a bloody mess and unconscious. Some people ran towards the stage, Brent assumed his guild mates, and leapt to his side to attend to him.

“The match is over,” said Markon, rage in his voice. He glared at Astor like a crazed bear ready to pounce, but held himself together. “You, get Harris off the stage. There are mages who can see to his wounds. Astor! Do that again and you’ll be disqualified. Contract tournaments are about sportsmanship, not beating your opponent bloody.”

Astor rose from the stage and brushed himself off. He then straightened his red hair and smiled at Markon.

“By your leave, Markon the Mangy,” he said. He laughed and then left the arena to the boos of the crowd.

“Now I remember him,” said Chase, leaning close to Brent. “Markon the Mangy. He got the name by traveling with a guild named the Dirty Hounds over twenty years ago. They disbanded after the uprising in Great Nexia didn’t go their way. After that he joined the Sliding Death Brigade and challenged the Old Guard one too many times. I think Karkren slew most of his friends single handily.”

“Chase!” Said Amelie, her eyes wide. “This tournament is awful! You can’t let the others fight in this. That player was insane!”

“Don’t worry,” said Chase, weariness in his voice. “Astor seems unhinged, but the rest probably wont be like that. Probably,” he added.

“I want to fight him,” said Brent. He tried scanning the crowd but saw no trace of Astor anywhere. “I hope Harris’ guild doesn’t get to him before we meet in the arena.”

“Me too,” said Alex, but he sounded less sure.

“You guys,” said Amelie exasperatedly. “Fine. Just be careful. If you’re about to be beat to death please call a forfeit.”

Fat chance, thought Brent, but he kept it to himself. The NPCs were cleaning up the arena platform of blood and getting ready for the next match. Markon was talking to Argo and suddenly motioned to the NPC.

“THE NEXT MATCH IS ABOUT TO BEGIN,” announced Markon.

Argo held up the helmet for Markon, and the man reached inside.

“NUMBER 5! COME TO THE PLATFORM.”

A cold thrill like cracking ice shot through his spine and he felt that even if lightning stuck him he could not possibly be more energized.

“That’s me,” said Brent.

Alex clasped him on the shoulder and Claire said “good luck.”

“Make us proud,” said Chase. He nodded at the arena. “Go get him.”

By the time Brent reached the top of the platform Hackney was just coming up the other side. Despite the work of the NPCs there were still several red splotches where Harris’ blood had been. This was the first time Brent had ever been in front of a crowd so large, and elevated at that. All eyes were on him and Hackney but, though he knew he should feel nervous, all he could think of was Hackney. He focused on his opponent’s face, noticing his beard, the way his eyes darted back and forth, and how he licked his lips nervously.

“Swords,” said Argo, opening the box and allowing them to select their weapons.

A part of Brent desired the blade which had brutalized Harris, as it had already been bloodied, but both blades looked clean and he had to select the one closest to him. He hefted it in his hand to test the weight. It was slightly lighter than the blade he had been training with for months.

“The match ends when the other is unable to fight, or gives up,” repeated Markon. He glared at them both, daring them to test him.

“Ok,” nodded Hackney.

“Got it?” Said Markon, staring daggers at Brent.

Don’t give him any clue what you are feeling, thought Brent.

He nodded.

“Very well. Argo, how many times do I have to tell you? Go!”

Brent and Hackney took some steps back and waited while Markon retreated to the edge of the arena.

“Good luck, Brent,” said Hackney from across the arena. He raised his sword in a warriors salute.

Probably learned that in a book, thought Brent.

“Don’t need luck for you,” he responded.

“BEGIN!” Shouted Markon.

The crowd roared.

Brent charged, Hackney raised his blade and swung.

The fight began.