Swept up in the mayor’s lightning-fast rhythm, Penbrooke was brought into the amphitheatre, inside which there was seating available for roughly two hundred people; much of this space was occupied by residents of Fragrant Grove – going off their red, swollen noses and the emblematic flowers on their clothes – with only a minority of the audience appearing to be genuine visitors to the village.

Vendors patrolled the seating aisles, navigating collision courses of potted plants, wayward feet, and stationed guards; all the while they hawked their wares of roasted peanuts, hot sausages in buns, and bakery delights that would rot the sweet tooth right out of your mouth, what being slathered in honey and sprinkled with cracked candy.

The hubbub of hundreds of people conversing made for a charged atmosphere, their combined chatter blending into a single fuzzy noise that’d drift low before surging high again like the waves against the coast, over and over in an unending loop. Winning a tournament in conditions like this was guaranteed to establish your name and have it spread (not very far, sure, but spread nonetheless).

Lucas led Penbrooke to the bottom row where the village herbalist had set up her services during the tournament’s run. Hearing that the knight had muscle aches, she gave him a handful of crushed Gnomes Thistle – an unpleasantly sour and tangy herb with a redcap flowerhead that also happened to be a quick-acting painkiller – for him to chew on.

Penbrooke felt an improvement immediately, and although not perfectly relieved of his soreness, it was the most she could do for him in the time remaining before the tournament got underway.

In the interim while he got medication, Lucas had taken advantage of his position to claim seating for them in the front row, two displaced refugees rushing away to find other seating before the amphitheatre filled up.

The arena in the centre of the amphitheatre was a dusty, circular pitch beringed by alternating pansies of black and white.

On one side of the arena there was a selection of weapons visible, bundled together in large pots like metal bouquets; Lucas informed Penbrooke that competitors were required to use these weapons in the bouts for they’d had their edges dulled to lessen the chances of lethal injury in the tournament.

Beside the weapons on a clothing rack hung two dozen body armour pieces such as leather jerkins and padded tunics, next to which lay a box of helmets: aketon caps, metal kettle hats, and the like.

Since the armour provided was rather basic, you were permitted to wear your own equipment for the bouts if you liked, but this was not of consequence to Penbrooke seeing as Cal’s current protection was limited to his thin cotton clothing and a straw hat.

Lucas continued his briefing by mentioning how, since this tournament was meant to be a fair melee, the use of ranged weapons and magic were naturally banned. And that was about it for the rules, all in all a simple set-up for the first tournament the village was holding.

It wasn’t overly demanding of the competitors either as the tournament was structured to be a three-round affair with only winners going forward.

Cal processed this information distractedly, his mind still occupied by the force of nature they’d recently come across that was the mayor.

Mayor Ovaro was clearly a highly competent individual, evident in how he’d intervened in the standoff and coolly eased it over by offering Penbrooke a cover story that he’d summarily eaten up. Little had he known it’d been a test…

To say someone was from the Darklands was an insult in certain circles in Felsia, as the lands south of the nation were large stretches of desert sparsely populated by nomad tribes; it was akin to calling someone a barbarian, uncivilised and unlearnt (hence also the reason it was not a commonly used insult as most Felsians thought civility and education overrated concepts best left to the effete nobility).

The fact that Penbrooke, who claimed to be a noble, had eaten up the cover story without a single complaint signalled to the mayor the knight was likely a poser, especially as there were known to be no castles or knights in the Darklands; the mayor could have easily exposed his lies there and had him sent to the re-education building, yet instead he’d been given permission to participate in the tournament. Why?

In this case, the simplest answer was likely the right one, which was that Penbrooke was being used for entertainment and would be thrown out once he had served his purpose; as crafty as it was, Cal couldn’t help but respect the mayor’s skill in effortlessly setting this up with no one any the wiser.

Or perhaps the others there had noticed and simply chosen not to say anything, which made sense given the timidness they showed around the mayor, a sign of both respect and fear.

In fact, combining everything he’d so far witnessed, Cal had a hunch Mayor Ovaro was central to Fragrant Grove’s drastic transformation from the one he’d grown up hearing about to the one he stood in now.

Cal was pulled out of his speculation as the amphitheatre underwent a distinct shift in atmosphere, the guards urging spectators to take their seats and hush.

From across the arena – also seated on the lowest row – Mayor Ovaro arose to his feet; he had freshened up since his last appearance and now wore a ruby red tunic with a white toga strewn over his shoulders and draping over his body, the toga decorated by bands of multi-coloured flower prints lining its edges.

He loudly cleared his throat to command the attention of the audience. “Welcome, my friends and dear visitors. We have gathered in this newly built amphitheatre to witness Fragrant Groves’s first-ever combat tournament, to gasp and behold as the assembled fighters compete to become our champion. As for what they will receive for their display of ferocious spirit and masterful skill…”

He paused to stew the audience in suspense. “…it will be a wreath of flowers to be worn on the head.”

“Oof.” The audience response was brutal as evidenced by their glum faces and booing jeers, particularly amongst visitors who were far less inhibited in voicing their dissatisfaction.

Yet, the mayor’s lips edged upwards into a roguish smile. He waited for several beats longer, before pulling something out from behind his figure. “A wreath of flowers made of gold! That’s right, the winner of the tournament will receive a crown of gold!”

But the grand reveal did little to change public opinion; many audience members continued to give the mayor the stink eye, while others muttered comments along the lines of: “It’s still a crown of flowers, though, isn’t it?” and “Yeah, the whole flower schtick is getting old if you ask me.”

Eyes darting from side to side, the mayor looked perturbed at their enduring lukewarm reaction, dumbfounded even. Perhaps they’re missing the context, he must have thought, for he had another go at winning them over:

“Guys, flowers are actually really cool, and in fact the opposite of something getting old as they’re fresh and colourful. Now a golden crown of flowers, that’s even cooler because it’s also highly symbolic. Yes, that’s right. Very chic.”

For some reason his patronising tone did not land well with his detractors and instead served to fuel them further, their rowdiness only growing as several locals joined in: “It’s always flowers this and flowers that, I swear.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Totally. Like why couldn’t the prize be a new wheelbarrow? Mine broke the other day, so I’d have thought a golden wheelbarrow a super stylish prize.”

“What? If that’s so, you should have told me earlier, you silly goose. I’ve got a spare one I’m not using; you can have it for free.”

“Oh, bless you, bud. You know what, I wish you were mayor instead of this flower guy. He’s given me nothing so far except a permanently itchy nose.”

Seeing how the fickle and uncultured audience continued to resist his message, the mayor had a change in mien as his voice dropped to a low simmer: “I better hear some cheering now, or else…”

Hearing the cue, the stationed guards threateningly raised their batons at the noisy audience members, a few swings even being made, until the crowd was enthusiastically screaming praise about the prize: “I’ve always wanted a crown of flowers ever since I was a little un waddling around, it’s true.”

“I totally get you. If only I had a crown of flowers, I reckon my wife would return to me from that flirt who seduced her away with his crazy expensive gifts – only the Saviour knows where a deadbeat dandy like him got the money to afford them from.”

“Really? You reckon that’s all it’d take to get her? Well, in that case I genuinely do want this flower crown if it’ll bag me that hot tart of a woman.”

“Oi, what’d you just say… That’s still my wife you’re talking about! You wanna go, mate?”

The mayor ignored the ensuing brawl – which the guards were struggling to break up – and basked in the moment. “I knew you guys would come around to sense and realise how amazing flowers are.”

Noticing that he was losing audience members again with his gloating, he cleared his throat into his fist and moved on: “Anyway, now that I’ve announced the prize, I think it’s time to introduce the fighters who are determined to win it.”

The mayor’s voice became booming and oratory. “To kick this tournament off, we’ve organised an action-packed first round for all of you: on one side, the valiant Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle, a hedge knight in search of glory and riches, hoping to rebuild his home and save its inhabitants taken prisoner after it was struck by a devastating bandit raid several months ago; and on the other side, our very own Hound of Basketville, stomper of petals and bane of all public street poles – at least before his extensive stay at the re-education building – that’s right, it’s Hugo Ripper!”

Lucas patted Penbrooke on the back and motioned for him to go forth into the arena. “Good luck, ser knight.”

Penbrooke needed no further encouragement. Advancing onto the dusty pitch, he cast himself under the audience’s collective curiosity: “It was a good introduction, nice bit of backstory, but he doesn’t look too knightly dressed up like that, does he? In fact, I’d say he looks a bit daft with that silly mask on.”

“Yeah. What is he, some sort of cloaked thief?”

“I suppose those pesky bandits must have taken everything from him, including his dignity. Now if I were him, I’d demand more than a floral crown for winning this tournament, you know, something that’d actually help me get revenge. Woah, wait, ouch, ouch, no need for the baton, please, I promise I won’t bring it up anymore. Ow, stop it!”

Penbrooke ignored the commentary and picked out a longsword from the weapons on offer, its faces scratched and edges notched but having a good weight to it when swung. He then swapped his straw hat for an aketon coif, tried out a grubby padded tunic that turned out to be not to his liking, and finally selected a leather jacket instead.

“Go on, take as long as you need. Not like any of it’ll make any difference,” came a deep, growling voice from behind.

“Oh, huh, you must be the…” Penbrooke began as he spun on his heels to gander at his opponent. He then rubbed his eyes and did a double take, yet the sight in front of him remained the same. “…the Hound of Baskervilles...”

“Awooo,” greeted his opponent, throwing their head towards the sky and howling. The hound was a man with a lupine, shadowed face and feral, matted hair, being skinny enough to have his ribs showing. Like the goblins of yesterday his only article of clothing was a loincloth, but where they’d made it work, this man looked plain off his rocker.

He stood upright (for now), and wore on his extremities paw-like gloves that functioned as weapons due to the large, metal claws coming off them.

I thought Lucas mentioned you weren’t allowed to use your own weapons, so how come they’ve made an exception for this man? Being off your rocker shouldn’t allow you to flout the rules, not least when those rules concern lethal weaponry...

“It’s Basketville, you fool,” Hugo shouted in a huff at Penbrooke’s last comment. Waiting for a response, he panted with his tongue out.

“Huh?”

“I weave baskets, you bloody muppet, not baskers. What a dumb name that would be.”

Penbrooke’s mouth was slightly agape and brow faintly crinkled. “How with those claws? There’s no way those digits have the deftness to weave anything together.”

“Obviously I take these off when I’m working, you cur. Fucking mongrel,” the hound’s verbal assault continued.

“What! You can’t say that…”

“Yes I can, you dumbass mutt. You’re not my master.”

Realisation finally struck Penbrooke. “Oh, you’re one of those, are you? I’d been hesitating because I thought you had a few screws loose, but it turns out you’re just a pervert.”

“Says the guy wearing a children’s mask. Whose kid did you diddle to get that, you sicko?”

Oh jeez, he’s not holding back.

“Tsk, right, no more of your shit.” Fuming, Penbrooke took his starting position twenty paces away from Hugo, and proclaimed in his knightly voice: “I, Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle, will put you down, you misbegotten mutt. Let’s find out if there’s anything behind your bark, eh. Unless you’re already eager to run off with your tail between your legs.”

He pointed his sword at the Basketville Hound. “Well, do you dare, animal?”

Only on hearing Penbrooke’s challenge did Cal notice that his opponent did indeed have a short tail hanging out the back of his loincloth.

Boy, I sure hope that’s not attached where I think it’s attached.

Meanwhile, the foul-mouthed hound assumed his fighting stance, going down onto all fours while displaying a slavering, canine grin. “Oh this doggy dares.”

A din of noise rained down onto the arena from the crowd as the mayor announced that the bout had officially begun, but the fighters inside seemed not to notice, their eyes locked and bodies frozen in time. The lean muscles on Hugo’s bare back quivered, upper arm muscles twitching; then within an instant he was off, dashing forwards with a diabolical howl.

Running at speed on all fours, with feral hair whipping every which way and metal claws flashing in the sunlight, he no longer looked like a skinny man but a menace gone mad.

And yet Penbrooke held his position with one foot ahead of the other, his sword held in front waiting for the decisive moment to chop down.

The hound was cautioned by this rigid stance, so when closing in, he launched off the ground like a spring, jumping high enough to vault over a standing man, no doubt intending to catch the knight unawares by using an avian’s angle of approach.

His vicious claws reached out for Penbrooke’s unprotected face.

Yet Penbrooke did not recoil in fear; how could he when he’d faced down orc charges far more terrifying just yesterday? Rather, he focused every single iota of strength into his arms in an upwards motion and launched his longsword into the stratosphere, straight into the slavering head sailing overhead.

The dull blade’s edge collided with Hugo’s knobbly chin and then his bare torso. Penbrooke made an attempt at dodging the incoming body but lacked the speed to do so; thus, he took the projectile squarely in the chest and dropped his sword in the collision.

They spun and tumbled to the ground, flares of dust shooting up in the mad scramble that ensued after they’d landed. When the dust cleared, the audience caught sight of a white-eyed hound on the ground, froth dribbling out of his mouth, while the knight kneeled over him and pummelled the life out of his limp body.

It turned out the hound was just a skinny man after all...

Perhaps out of surprise at the sight, a few seconds of flesh smacking and pitiful groaning passed before Mayor Ovaro finally got his act together and declared the bout over. Only then did Penbrooke dump the floppy body onto the ground.

The village herbalist and her helpers rushed into the arena while the amphitheatre exploded with applause, the spectators’ desires for violence having been met and then some. Amidst this, Penbrooke stood up and raised his arms, before lowering them into a muscle pose, flexing his brawn.

He roared at the adoring audience: “Who else thinks my mask is lame, huh? I’ll knock you dopey, fashion sense-less fools out, so get your arses on the pitch right now. Come on, you cowards.”

It was the most animated Cal had ever seen or felt Penbrooke, his emotional landscape turbulent with raging waters; he was clearly sensitive to insults about his mask and would not take them lying down.

As a result, the second fight of the tournament – which was scheduled to immediately follow on from the first – had to be delayed a good half an hour while peace and order were being restored to the amphitheatre that had imploded into chaos.

Not that the audience minded the altered schedule, though, as evidenced by their deafening whoops and hollers directed towards the intermission act: an all-out brawl between the event security, commanded by Mayor Ovaro, and the pitch invaders, who were willing to risk arrest and injury out of their steadfast belief that the eyemask indeed looked lame and unseemly on a grown man’s face.

Even Penbrooke, chief inciter of this public disorder, was taken aback by the dozens who came at him from every side. Yet he refused to repent: “Who knew there were so many losers with no sense of style. Don’t like my mask? Then just take it off me. Come on, you punks!”