Scourge Ten - Show

For some reason the news that the Swinging Sabers were going to be testing out a group of girls attracted a bunch more attention than I think even the guy on the boxes was expecting. My friends and I are gathered up on one side of the makeshift arena, behind a wooden barrier and with a bit of room left around us from the other onlookers. On the other side is our competition, four men, though two of them are about our own age. They look really confident.

“Who goes first?” I ask.

Esme shrugs. “Might as well get this over with,” she says.

I nod and give her a pat on the back. “Do your best, but don’t get hurt,” I say.

“Yeah, mess them up good,” Felix says.

“The Swinging Sabers accept only the very best!” the announcer says from atop his box. He has a deep voice, one that carries well over the growing murmur in the crowd. “But we don’t care where you’re from. Born high or low, rich or poor, even men, boys, and girls!”

My brows pinch together at the laughter that generates. There’s a lot of guards nearby, they look tired, but kind of eager, and I see the flash of coins as people gauge Esme.

She stands near the middle of the arena, arms crossed and face impassive. I don’t think anyone in the crowd would be able to notice the way her hair is gently poofing itself out into an even bigger poof than usual.

There are some people along the edges that don’t look at her with the same kind of condescending and dumb look. Particularly a group not too far from the announcer. Men in nicer armour than most, with tabards, sashes, and feathered hats that make them stick out.

“Those are the leaders of the various guilds and mercenary bands,” Bianca says. “They’re the strongest people here. Or close to that, at least.”

“Huh,” I say.

“Fighting this intrepid and very brave little girl is a fresh-faced local!” the announcer says. He gestures to the side, and a boy jumps over the fence.

He’s wearing armour. A big brass breastplate, cut to look like pectoral muscles and abs, with metal greaves, and pauldrons over a chainmail shirt. Felix and I look at each other. The boy’s lost already.

“Let us see what this young man can do against this fearsome girl!”

“He’s not even pretending that Esme can win,” I say.

“She’s a girl,” Bianca says.

I glance at her. “Yeah? So?”

“Well, ah, it’s not typical for women here to know how to fight. That’s a man’s duty.”

I blink. “That’s stupid. Mom’s the scariest fighter, period, and she’s a girl.”

Bianca doesn’t shrug, she’s too blue-blooded for that, but the little wavy gesture she makes with her free hand means the same thing. “Be that as it may, tradition tends to warp perceptions, which in turn creates a sort of imbalance in a society.”

I pout. “That’s stupid. How hard is it to judge people based on their merits?”

“Let’s start this contest of wills!” the announcer calls.

The boy swings his sword around in a tight little circle. It wasn’t an actual sword, just a length of wood shaped like a sword he’d picked off a rack set to the side. I imagine that walking into the arena with an actual sharpened sword would be a bit unsportsmanlike; also, a little murderous.

“Good luck,” the boy says. He grins and starts moving towards Esme before she can reply.

“Yeah, you too,” she says.

The crowd starts to cheer, but it’s cut off with the snap-crack of a magical spell going off.

The first is just a tiny spark, barely a flash that starts somewhere in the air next to Esme and connects with the boy’s hand. He hisses, and his hand spasms open, sending his wooden sword thumping onto the sand.

The boy’s eyes widen, and in his defence, he does react well, lunging forward towards Esme.

Another snap-crack and a bolt flickers around the boy and touches his knee. It bends, and he drops to the ground mid-lunge.

He catches himself, and starts to stand when three more bolts snap out, hitting his legs and back.

The boy ends up on his knees before Esme, back straight as the sword he’s dropped.

Esme gestures lightly towards his face. “Sorry,” she says.

There’s another snap, and a tiny, imperceptible flash before the boy drops onto his side, eyes rolling back into his head.

“I win!” Esme cheers.

It takes a moment for the crowd to join in. They don’t seem all that enthused, except for a few who are very eagerly collecting some big winnings. Serves the others right for betting against my friend.

Stolen story; please report.

Someone jumps over to check on the boy, but all it takes to wake him up are a few little smacks to his cheek that are delivered while Esme returns to our side. “That was easy,” she says.

“Yeah, these people don’t seem all that impressive,” I say.

The announcer takes just a moment to centre himself. “What an upset! Truly, a spectacular, and surprising, show of cultivation powers! Which young lady will step up next, and who will dare challenge her after seeing what one sparky young lass can manage?”

A man steps into the arena. He’s huge, way taller than any of my friends and I, and wider than two of us standing side-by-side. His armour isn’t all that impressive, a thick gambeson that pads him out, and he’s carrying a wooden mallet covered in pillows held in place by twine.

“I’ll take this one,” Felix says. She jumps over the fence and lands on the other side before walking to the middle with a confident swagger. Even if I can’t see her face, I can imagine the smile she was wearing.

“Will she be able to defeat him?” Bianca asks.

“Oh yeah, Felix is the strongest of us when it comes to stuff like sparring,” I say.

Esme nods. “She’s tricky to hit. I mean, if you can hit her with a good spell, you might take her out, but she’s really fast.”

“Are our two contestants ready?”

“Yeah yeah,” Felix says. She bounces on the spot a few times, shoulders shifting to loosen up.

“I’m ready,” her opponent says. He nods to Felix, who returns it with a grin.

The announcer takes a deep breath, then holds it as the betting shifts into a frenzy. There’s more people now, I think, attracted by the last fight maybe. I hope Felix isn’t the sort to get nervous when too many people are scrutinizing her.

She turns and glances my way, and our eyes meet.

“Begin!” the announcer screams.

Felix shoots backwards, narrowly avoiding a swing of the mallet that would have smacked her in the head were she any slower. “Sorry little miss, just figured I ought to take you out quick before you pulled some trick on me,” the man says, quite politely as well.

“That’s okay,” Felix says. She grins, big and proud. “I like playing with my food.”

The man laughs as he swings his mallet again, horizontally this time, and Felix backs away just enough that it brushes by the front of her shirt.

She waits for the next swing, a return stroke, to pass by her, then she brings her arms up and weaves in close to her opponent.

The man tries to grab her with his free hand, but Felix ducks under it, then side steps into a blind spot.

She punches him.

It’s not a single punch, and it’s not even that hard of a punch. Felix weighs practically nothing, and while she’s nearly all muscle--despite her diet of ‘as much as she can fit in her stomach without puking.’ That’s not what matters. It’s the speed of her strikes.

They sound like heavy rain on a windowpane. It’s a paf-paf-paf sound so fast it’s more like a rattle.

The big man moves to the side, and chuckles. His gambeson is pushed in where Felix struck him, but the material moves back into shape as he walks sideways and keeps her before him. “Fast little one, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” Felix says.

“But can you handle this?”

The man raised his foot up, and I can sense the magic welling around him. Vigilance. “He’s a mage!” I scream, but the warning is drowned out by the crowd.

His foot crashes down, and the arena floor buckles and breaks apart into a spiderweb of wide cracks with the fighter in its centre.

Felix seems to almost disappear for a moment before reappearing standing on one of the posts of the arena. “Whoa, that was dangerous old man,” she says. “I could have sprained an ankle.”

“Oh, try to avoid that, it’s a pain to heal a twist, especially when you’re as old a man as I am,” the man says. He laughs, but his eyes never leave Felix.

“Will the young miss please remain within the arena?” the announcer snaps.

“That’d be stupid when the arena floor’s a weapon,” Felix says. “What about staying above the arena, is that good enough?” she asks.

The announcer doesn’t have time to answer when Felix rolls forward, her boot scrapping atop the pole. Then, when she’s almost horizontal, she launches herself forwards across the arena, propelled by a powerful gust of wind, and infectious laughter.

***