Within the arena, there was a large, robust youngster with a prominent cleft chin struggling to his feet – presumably Gillis’s bet Sloggin Saul – as well as a man approaching his thirties with a grey ponytail and two scabbards strapped to his back bearing cleavers. He swivelled around on the balls and heels of his feet, arms raised in celebration and potbelly proudly jutting out; the crowd responded in adoration, the butcher clearly a darling of the masses.
Blaviken the Butcher pointed at his bested opponent, and flourished a wave to the wider audience. “Hopefully you hooligans can now see for yourselves how far physical attributes alone will take you within a fight; practised technique is what decides the winner, not brute strength. That’s why it doesn’t matter if I’ve put on a bit of pudding.”
He slapped his belly, a mischievous smile playing at his lips and dimpling his meaty cheeks. “Because I can still beat you kids with technique alone, while also being an inspiration to plus-sized people everywhere.”
“And if you want to learn how it’s done,” the butcher continued, “turn up to my next training session. Especially any dawdlers who’ve been hesitating, now’s the time to try because for a limited time only I’ll waive the cost of your first session as part of an ongoing promo deal.”
He ended on a mumbled, almost unintelligible afterthought, “Which only applies if you purchase the ten-session bulk package and pay upfront,” returning then to his normal voice, “You got that, Saul?”
Saul’s view on the subject did not matter as the gushing crowd answered on his behalf, some remarks eager such as, “Ooh, I’m in dire need of a whipping, Mr Butcher – into shape, of course – but I’d be a little shy to do it in front of other people. Do you happen to offer 1-on-1 training sessions as well?”; whereas other remarks were more doubtful and did not immediately buy his sales act, “Sorry, Mr Butcher, I’m going to need a close-up look if I’m to be convinced. Maybe you could give me a demonstration of your technique tonight?”
(These were two of the tamer comments yelled out by middle-aged ladies who admired the dad bod, the rest of that cohort’s comments being considerably more salacious and certainly in no way appropriate for public discourse.)
“Tsk.” Penbrooke looked away from the butcher’s celebration, “How come they didn’t react that way when I won? Whoever programmed these NPCs is stupid.” To distract himself from his jealousy, Penbrooke clapped Gillis on the shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re still moping, fella. Cheer up already.”
The gambler did not respond, staring listlessly at the ground.
“Surely it can’t be that bad.” Penbrooke cocked his head inquisitively. “It’s not like you bet everything you had on that single wager or anything, right?”
“Close to. Not much remaining,” the gambler croaked.
You mean money, or reasons to keep going?
“Okay, but you haven’t lost everything, so what’re you getting all down in the dumps for?” Penbrooke clipped the gambler around the ear. “Just gamble what you’ve got left and win, and voila, you’ll have all your money back and my quest will be complete. It’s as easy as that, so quick you’ll think it was magic.”
Indeed, the oldest magic trick in the book: gambling – blink, and watch your money disappear. The most heart-wrenching vanishing act around.
Fortunately for the Gillis, a welcome diversion arrived at this moment and spared him from the need to respond, the volume in the surroundings rising as the final qualifier bout was announced.
“On one side, it’s the stubborn mule who’s persistent and obstinate if nothing else, who many of you will know all too well, that’s right, it’s Nagging Noel.”
An elderly man pushing maybe fifty or sixty shuffled into the arena, dressed in a tucked-in striped shirt and oversized brown trousers. He had secured against any blunders involving his trouser slackness through a belt-and-suspenders combination that provided double the security against them falling, as opposed to, say, simply asking the tailor to resize them into a smaller fit.
I can’t help but feel his family must have thrown him in there for being too much of a bother at home.
From the weapons on offer, Noel picked a cane, tested it out with a few swings and, once satisfied, decided to use it as a walking stick; he raised and wagged it as he yelled into the crowd.“I’ve still got enough strength in my old bones to whack any of you whippersnappers all the way back into yer granddaddy’s balls.”
This elicited some awkward there-he-goes-again laughs but more so gripes and jibes from the many victims of his nagging, to which he displayed a near toothless smile, only too pleased to disappoint all those who wanted to see him humiliated.
Mayor Ovaro’s voice continued, “And on the other side, it’s the dark, mysterious visitor determined to take the crown. He’s a fighter known far and wide for his ruthlessness, defined by his cruelty, and a knight infamous for turning his back on chivalry and finding his place instead within menace.”
Even without the contestant being named or sighted, the air in the building had gone from being a rowdy romp to putting on its mourning clothes for the occasion, creating the perfect environment for wild rumours to spread like contagion.
One particularly virulent tale went that whenever the contestant got thirsty, he would decapitate the nearest innocent civilian and glug down their spraying blood, and it had to be an innocent’s blood or else it wouldn’t quench his thirst.
This hearsay was added to as it spread and now went further in explaining why the contestant was permanently bloodthirsty these days, for where could he find an innocent person to decapitate in today’s depraved and immoral society?
When the mayor saw the audience had gotten themselves into the mood and were spreading stories like they were sat around a campfire, he continued, “That’s right, he’s all you’ve heard and more, it’s the one, the only, it’s the Black Knight!”
The people didn’t cheer or applaud like usual, instead restraining themselves to a tense silence (except for one noisy braggart, who snickered and clapped like there was no tomorrow, and whose neighbours graciously lent a hand in bringing up to speed with a dozen cuffs to his head).
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
This rare moment of quiet was punctuated by the sounds of clinking armour, thudding steps nearing, until from the amphitheatre entrance emerged a figure that was shaded solely in matte pitch. Broad shouldered and easily a head higher than the next tallest person, he looked less of a man and more a suit of armour that had gained conscience for there was not an inch of skin visible, only inky metal ridged by spikes.
Proceeding into the arena, he chose a bastard sword from the available selection, then took to his starting position where he loomed over his hunchbacked foe, the impenetrable armour of his extinguishing every glimpse of sunlight from Nagging Noel’s vision until there remained only an old man shivering in the dark.
Damn, Noel must have worked hard at his nagging for years for his family to want to treat him to such a bollocking.
To say that Noel was scared would be to do him a disservice; it was more accurate to say his brown trousers had gone a shade darker starting from the crotch, and that he stared in utter disbelief at his foe, incredulity slackening his jaw while habitual nagging redrew it in order to vocalise one of his tried-and-tested complaints, this tug of war forcing his mouth to oscillate between o and O.
Soon after, the cane slipped from Noel’s palm and he tumbled down in a pitiful sight. Only when his face was cast against the ground did he recover his ability to speak, albeit a feeble bleat. “I-I forfeit.”
Besides a low grunt, the Black Knight did not react, and so nor did the crowd members who waited in cold suspense. Even Nagging Noel’s sufferers bit down their celebrations in fear of what would happen, in fear they’d gone too far…
With every pair of eyes in the building trained on him, the Black Knight walked to the edge of the arena and leaned down to pick a white pansy. He then crossed over to the seating section, making a beeline towards a wealthy couple in the front row.
When the guy in the couple – a fop dressed in fine, garish clothes – realised he wasn’t hallucinating the suit of armour coming towards them, he tried bargaining for his life in a violently shaky voice: admitting that he had recently come across a great sum of money that he would kindly donate to ser knight were his life to be spared, and anyway that his blood, tainted by sin and scandal, would no doubt be repugnant to be ser knight’s refined tongue compared to the other delicacies nearby.
When even this failed to bring a stop to his impending doom, the man collapsed white-eyed into the row behind, slaver spilling.
The litany of croaks and desperate pleas that followed from those nearby were cut through by the Black Knight’s tinny voice. “To the fair lady Megan, I dedicate this victory.” He dipped his torso and offered the flower.
Seeing that he did not mean to harm her, the lady accepted the pansy with quivering hands and planted it in her hair, smiling demurely like a maiden in love (or, alternatively, one scared within an inch of her life who understood that failing to appear lovestruck now would have an all too lethal impact on her final grading).
The world around them froze out of respect for this touching moment, not a single person moving an inch or whispering a remark, total silence. Though it was not to last.
“Hey, that deadbeat flirt is out cold. You can get your wife back now,” came a voice from across the amphitheatre, shattering the illusion.
A frantic response followed, “Shut up. Why would you—Eek!” It cut off midway with a squeal when the Black Knight glanced in that direction.
The mayor – who’d been as curious as anyone else on what the dishonourable knight would do following the bout – must have realised precisely where this was heading as he intervened with a delayed announcement. “And the winner is… the Black Knight, which brings our qualifying stage to a close.”
With it, the audience finally felt they’d been given permission to speak, noise starting up again, although still subdued around the Black Knight who stood motionless.
“Tsk.” Penbrooke wagged his head while eyeing the armoured giant. “Dedicating his victory to a pretty woman with a flower, why didn’t I think of that? This guy’s out-knighting me right now.”
He nudged Gillis with the elbow, and pointed, “Why didn’t you bet on that guy if you wanted to win?”
Gillis, who’d recovered some spirit during the match by witnessing someone having a worse day than him, frowned glumly at the suggestion. “There would have been no point. He’s the favourite to win the tournament by far, so there’s nothing to gamble for even if I bet on him.”
Before Penbrooke could respond, Mayor Ovaro’s voice rang out again in the amphitheatre: “Given the lack of spectacle in that last bout, how about we kick off the semi-finals with an explosive match-up?”
Although the mayor’s voice sounded clear and steady, anyone could tell he was troubled by the Black Knight who remained in the arena as still as a statue, likely nursing dark thoughts, hence the mayor’s bid to disrupt those delusions.
“It’s the most anticipated bout by far, that’s right, genuine knight on knight action. Please give it up for Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle versus the dreaded Black Knight.”
Ignoring the resounding noise that accompanied the announcement and the rows of people turning his way, Penbrooke gave a hearty slap to Gillis’s back. “Looks like it’s my time.”
He began to shimmy his way out of the seating row, leaving behind one last comment. “Listen, if you want to win your money back and more, just wager everything you’ve got left on me. Hell, go ahead and leverage it if you want even bigger spoils.”
“B-but…” Gillis sheepishly cast his gaze down, stalling so as to not give an answer. And who could blame him when it was obvious the odds of Penbrooke winning were slim to none; betting even a penny on him would be too far, let alone the paltry sum Gillis had left.
Penbrooke must have known this as he followed up with a shout while going down the aisle towards the arena. “And here I thought you were a real gambler, no? Cos the stakes don’t get realer than this, son.”
Having said everything he’d wanted, Penbrooke proceeded into the arena without glancing back. He pointedly ignored the suit of armour glowering at him from the other side and leisurely went about putting on the same equipment as before: his longsword, leather jacket, and aketon coif, in addition to a thin cotton glove he picked up this time.
When he eventually took to his position opposite the Black Knight, he could not have cut a more different figure to his peer: he looked like a solid guy, sure, but ultimately bare and amateurish in his hopscotch, worn-down equipment, at most a plucky village lad who’d had ideas above his station and was now in for a brutal reality check.
Some in the audience were further enthused by the sight, but many more sounded drained of their excitement on now seeing that he looked almost as outmatched by the Black Knight as Nagging Noel had; at least in the old man’s case there were many with grievances against him, whereas Penbrooke may have come across as a delusional and certainly an oddball of an outsider, but not to the extent that people would to cheer on a one-sided beatdown.
For his benefit, they could only hope he would forfeit early as Noel had done.
Yet, the subject of their concern alone seemed immune to the prevailing bleak atmosphere; he spat onto the dusty pitch in contempt and chucked the glove before the Black Knight, drawing a chorus of gasps. “You sure have some audacity to out-knight me like that in public, oathbreaker. Now I’m going to have to punish your punk arse for that.”
The black enclosed pot helm facing him moved at last, rotating down to peer at the glove, followed by a small shake of the head and the tinny voice again.
“This is not how it’s done, Ser Penbrooke. You throw down a gauntlet, good knight, not a dirty glove, and only ever to establish a duel, not when agreed-upon combat is about to take place. Perhaps it is done differently at Twirdly Castle, so I can understand your confusion, but all the same I must be duteous in informing you of the custom in these lands.”
It’s odd he even acknowledges Penbrooke as a knight despite everything pointing to the contrary. It almost makes him seem… respectful. Huh…