Predictably, the search for the errant warriors led Valentin immediately to the academy grounds he passed the day before. More people attended on this day of the tournament; the wooden fences that bordered the academy cluttered with numerous spectators. Several guards of Allbost stood at various points along the perimeter to manage the burgeoning crowd.
Unfortunately for Valentin, he did not see his truant warriors amongst the bordering crowd. They had either left already to report to Renne or they had somehow managed to nestle themselves amongst the wealthy seated in the grandstands.
“Any sight of them?” Valentin asked the other warriors.
“Nope,” Caera replied with an exaggerated shrug. “I would have at least seen Kerwin’s ugly mug from here.”
“No luck from me either,” Gélique agreed. “Maybe they already returned.”
The spars amongst the senior students had not yet begun. Participating warriors stood around the fringes of the field. In the center stood a troupe of painted dancers flanked by horn players and drummers. They held streams of colored cloth attached to wooden poles that matched the paint on their skin. Blues and greens and purples and grays swayed aggressively and made manic loops to match the energetic tune of the music.
Valentin sighed and turned his head away from the display; he would need to find Mannix at least. He directed Vescal towards the gate to enter the training grounds. Two guards, in the same deep blue as much of the young warriors inside, flanked the entryway with crossed spears. Upon their recognition of the group’s approach, the tightened their grips on in attention.
“This area is restricted to esteemed guests,” the guard on the right announced with a respectful tone. “Please state your name and your business.”
“I am a clansman of Verbosc’s Guerros clan,” Valentin answered, showing the pair a carved emblem of an elk. “I am here to search for new recruits for the clan. Will you take care of my horse and escort me inside?”
The guard inspected the emblem suspiciously. It was admittedly bizarre that a noble from Central Strettia would travel so far north just to inspect some prospective warriors. Understanding that his title wouldn’t grant him expediency, Valentin revealed a heavy leather pouch full of coins.
“I hope that this will show my sincerity,” Valentin stated as he fished out a couple silver coins, tossing one to each of the guards.
“Your sincerity is well received, Young Master Guerros,” the guard said with a short bow. “Will it be just you?”
“I will be bringing these two with me if it will not be too much trouble,” Valentin replied. “Who better to appraise the skills of up and coming warriors than those that are martially gifted? I just direct my coins to whoever they point out.”
Cathmor and Caera dismounted and stepped forward. The pair of guards observed them cautiously. Much to Caera’s chagrin, the eyes of the guards were trained solely on Cathmor. Standing nearly a head taller than both guards, it was natural for them to find greater concern with the hulking warrior’s chiseled form.
“Of course,” the guard remarked. “I assume that the Southern Laws are not so different from our own.”
“We will cause no troubles for our hosts,” Valentin reassured. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes D-. Yes, Young Master,” Cathmor stuttered, nearly reverting to usual formalities.
“We will do nothing unprovoked,” Caera agreed with a thin smile. The lack of fear towards her stoked a fiery look in her eyes.
“Any grievances can be accommodated through duels after the auction at the end of the tournament,” the guard cautioned. “There will be no outside conflicts tolerated during the tournament. Breaking decorum will lead to your exclusion from any future events in Echavin. Please, follow me. While our prime seats have already been occupied by those with reservations, I will escort you to suitable seats.”
Valentin looked over his shoulder at Zoe and Gélique. Zoe broke eye contact and turned her head rebelliously. Valentin could hear Caera give a soft whistle of surprise in response to the act, but Valentin chose to ignore both acts.
“Watch the horses until I send out Gair,” Valentin instructed.
Gélique nodded seriously at Valentin’s command and grasped the reins of Gair’s horse tightly. While Zoe would not look at him, he knew that she would still obey. Offering words at this junction would be a pointless affair. He hoped that she would eventually cool her heart towards him and end this inconvenient pining.
“If anyone tries to accost you,” Valentin trailed off before looking at the guard. “What is the punishment in Allbost for horse theft?”
“Removal of the dominant hand on a first offense. Death on a second offense,” the guard answered plainly.
“Cripple them.”
The guard did not protest Valentin’s order. Instead, they led the three new spectators around the fringes of the field. He could see the student’s gazes travel over their shoulder to size up the new warriors that passed by them. Cathmor took the opportunity to place himself between his leader and the observing warriors. Feeling big-headed from his responsibilities and the guard’s reactions, he made an effort to puff out his chest more prominently and widen his shoulders.
Valentin tried to remember the faces of those that did not appear intimidated by seasoned fighters. Any that would balk at this would not be ready in time to be of any use to Ferron. He wondered with what degree of scrutiny Mannix would view these small details.
“By the way,” Valentin began, gaining the guards attention. “Do you know if anyone representing the Armée du Corbeaux arrived already? We traveled together and were to meet in our seats.”
“I believe a group led by a Deggan Mannix arrived around an hour ago,” the guard responded casually, eliciting stifled childish laughter from both Cathmor and Caera. Fortunately, the guard did not seem to pay much attention. “Though they seemed to be in Allbost to enjoy the sights and women more than any business affairs.”
“Perhaps they weren’t too interested in the offerings,” Valentin replied through gritted teeth. “After all, it is said that Ferron Martelle has high standards.”
“It would do him well to not underestimate our city,” the guard replied tersely.
The rest of the guard’s words faded into the blaring climax of the performance. Pounding feet and fervent arms were angrily guided by the rapid rhythm of the musicians. Reddened faces blew their lungs empty and arm veins bulged from the feverish pounding of the deerskin drums. The poles clacked as the collided, the strips of cloth clashing with each other like the banners of warring armies.
Valentin could feel the performance shake the ground and reverberate through his legs. The participating students no longer paid attention to what occurred around the periphery. Their steely gazes turned towards the students that stood across the field from them. The value of their future hinged on who they impressed over the past few days and there was nothing more influential than the ability to dispatch an opponent. Even fellow trainees that they sweat and bled with were nothing but enemies until nightfall.
Valentin scanned the grandstands for Mannix and the others. A wooden observation box sat in the center of the top rows of the stands. In each spacious, cushioned seat sat a person wrapped in fine clothing. A large awning spanned the upper rows to shield them from Ortus’ harsh light and offer a cool viewing experience.
He ignored the more luxurious seats and those that sat within them and focused on the seating that sat exposed in the light. After a few seconds of looking, his eyes caught four black-garbed people surrounded in brightly-clothed women.
“I see them,” Valentin commented. “We will be fine from here.”
“Very well,” the guard said with a bow. “Enjoy yourself, Young Master Guerros.”
“Will we be visiting with Deggan Mannix, Young Master Guerros?” Caera asked with a giddy smile, greatly relishing the moment. “I’m sure he would be overjoyed to see his good friend and share what he has found so far.”
Valentin did not reply. He quickly marched forwards in the most direct path towards Mannix. He scaled the stairs on the edge of the stands to reach the correct row and shimmied past the already seated spectators. Quiet curses and annoyed glances bounced off of Valentin’s normally fragile spirit.
The performance stopped and clapping echoed out from the stands. Valentin absentmindedly clapped along with them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a man in a dark blue jacket stand in front of the bowing performers to address the crowd.
“Good morning and welcome to the final day of the Adharc Gorm Academy tournament,” the man bellowed, his voice carrying an impressive distance. “As the current Master of Adharc Gorm, allow me to express my deepest gratitude for all that attended our humble affair. Today will be our student’s final opportunity to impress you and obtain a position amongst your esteemed ranks.”
Met with an overly stubborn elderly couple and their grandchildren who refused to move for the passing Valentin, he changed rows and pressed on, ignoring their indignant glares at his interruption. He diverted again to circumvent an imposing looking warrior with confrontational eyes wearing a wolf’s pelt. A quartet of one-striped druid’s with bulging muscles slowly parted to allow him through.
The man in the field continued to speak, but Valentin did not pay much attention to the platitudes provided in the opening speech. His purpose was a singular one, and much like an animal, he pressed forwards inexhaustibly towards his prey.
A woman in chainmail with tattooed hands obstinately raised her legs to bar Valentin. However, he simply vaulted over her legs while Caera growled harmlessly in her face. More clapping echoed out. The speech had to have ended. He saw the students break into groups of four and migrate to whatever positions they were previously assigned.
“-with a full flourish of my favor, my spear sprung forwards and dispatched the Bandit Queen with ease,” a familiar voice rang out, irking Valentin greatly.
Valentin stood with his arms crossed. He finally encroached upon the group he sought after. Women sat with their vibrant dresses tucked under their legs like wilted flowers. The nearest woman offered him a quick glance but quickly returned to being engrossed by the story being regaled. A stout meatball of a man, a comely man who looked like he came from a painting, and a tall mustachioed man with a hostile scowl sat amongst the women around a haughty looking man. The tip of his nose pointed towards the higher planes and his blue eyes merrily shone from the attention his was receiving.
“As she lied there dying, she sputtered with her final breath. ‘Great Warrior, I beg of you, tell me your name so that I may tell the Great Spirit personally of its greatness in crafting you,’” the haughty man continued. “Of course, I looked into her eyes and said-“
“Mannix,” Valentin interrupted sternly.
The heads of his four warriors quickly whipped towards the origin of the voice. Gair and Guain looked ill, Kerwin looked even more annoyed at the downturn in their luck, and Mannix looked mortified as though the Mother herself called him a fool. His eyes were wide and trembled fearfully.
However, now that he had caught up to his targets, the courage that carried him past all those strangers wavered. He had not really considered what he was going to say in the moment and the pressure of his heated blood scrambled the words in his head. Instead, he silently glowered.
“Look at you lot of fools,” Caera spoke, electing to be her leader’s voice. “Drinking and consorting with such pretty faces while spinning a very interesting tale.”
“Do you know these people, Deggan Mannix?” The woman nearest Mannix asked inquisitively.
Valentin watched Mannix drown inside his own mind. He glanced towards his three compatriots who looked similarly lost. Two ravenous smiles sat on either side of Valentin, relishing the floundering of their comrades and rivals.
“Yes,” Mannix admitted, still formulating a proper response. “This is Master Valentin Guerros, a noble from Verbosc and our employer for this trip.”
Word of nobility piqued the interest of the attending women who now regarded Valentin with far gentler gazes. Mannix looked at his leader with pleading eyes that his cover would not be ripped to shreds.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Valentin said without further elaboration. He had not yet decided with what degree of discipline he should employ.
“We were given permission by Vice Deggan Renne to trade chores for some leisure time,” Guain explained sheepishly, deciding to potentially take the brunt of Valentin’s ire. “We would have returned before Ortus fell.”
“And I plan on honoring the decisions of my second,” Valentin replied.
Visible relief spreading amongst the four. No looked more relieved than Guain and Mannix. The latter gave a small bow and began to give his thanks.
“We are-“
“However,” Valentin spoke sharply, cutting him off. “I have also corrected the Vice Deggan on his excess of leniency. While I will not punish you, I will remember that all of you saw no issue in abandoning your duties for an entire day. In the future, if you leave camp, you will report back at dawn. If I had need of you, none of you would have had any idea.”
“Yes, Deggan,” the quartet said in unison, accidentally dropping all pretenses in front of the women they brought. Mannix, for a moment, hesitated in his acknowledgment.
“In this instance, the person I had need of was you, Gair,” Valentin continued, pointing at the stocky man. “Go out and meet with Zoe and Gélique. They have a spare horse and provisions for you.”
Gair made a dumbfounded expression. His slack jawed look made Valentin realize that he really shouldn’t be sitting next to Guain. Compared to the gentle, hand-molded feature of Guain, Gair appeared to be crafted by beating two rocks together. Scars and dents and lumps covered his bald head to create a violent topography.
“What are we doing, Deggan?” Gair wondered.
“Zoe will explain to you,” Valentin answered curtly. “You have already delayed me by hours. Must you waste more daylight?”
“I would never dream of it!” Gair exclaimed, hopping to his feet and plowing his way out of the seating area.
Valentin nestled himself into the spot that Gair vacated so that he would no longer block the vision of any of those standing behind him. Cathmor and Caera squeezed themselves to flank other side of Valentin, forcing the women sitting there to shuffle away.
The group sat quiet for a moment. Kerwin, Mannix, and Guain exchanged quick looks amongst themselves. Guain’s eyes seemed to convey that he would not stick his neck out a second time. The oppressive atmosphere kept any of the accompanying women from breaking out into small talk.
“Who impresses you?” Valentin asked Mannix, mercifully breaking the silence. “Are there any that seem worthy of my coin?”
“Well,” Mannix spoke trepidatiously, his guilty thoughts transparent. “Yesterday, all I managed to see was a tournament amongst the newest students. I am certain that you do not wish to recruit one that has yet to reach their thirteenth Killicia.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Your assertions are correct,” Valentin confirmed. “So, you intend to choose based solely upon the results of the final day’s tournament?”
“Deg-“
“Mannix, enlighten me,” Valentin continued to pressure. “As one who seemed to be highly decorated in tournaments, what events are typically showcased at these sorts of events? Is it only the duels?”
“Of course not,” Mannix replied quickly. “There is usually some sort of equestrian test and group formations before the sparring. There can also be etiquette tests and survival skills.”
“Who was the best at riding and who impressed in working in group tactics?” Valentin asked.
Mannix fell into reserved silence. He realized the hole that he dug for himself in a panic. His face, now pointed downwards, had an appearance of surrender. His gloved hands wrung together nervously.
“I have no excuses,” Mannix answered with a sigh.
“You have time to give me a proper answer still,” Valentin remarked, reigniting some level of hope. “Whoever finds me the most promising warrior at a reasonable price will save themselves from my disappointment. Use anything at your disposal outside of Cathmor, Caera, and myself. Do well enough, and maybe, I’ll reward you.”
Kerwin, Mannix, and Guain, now rivals, quickly separated from each other to win this impromptu competition. Predictably, most of the stranded women followed Guain, leaving the stands around Valentin spacious and devoid of color.
“May we also join the competition, Deggan Valentin?” Cathmor inquired, seemingly motivated to prevent any of the three from reaching salvation.
“If you wish to abandon your current assignment, you are more than welcome to join them,” Valentin replied nonchalantly.
“I’ll watch from here,” Cathmor decided aloud. He slapped both of his knees with his calloused hands and leaned forwards intently to view the matches below.
Valentin allowed his eyes to drift to the closest field to his seat. A fairly even spar seemed to be at its midpoint. The two students, both in the dark blue of the same school, of similar statures went after each other with practice spears. They danced around each other, throwing in probing strikes intermittently to test their opponent.
“They will be out there all night if things continue like this,” Caera commented with a yawn.
“This is an important day in their lives. It would haunt them for cycles if they were to lose without showing everything that they have,” Valentin replied sympathetically. “A patient warrior will live longer.”
“Is it patience, or cowardice?” Cathmor questioned, backing up his fellow warrior. “Sometimes, you must make your own opportunities to achieve victory.”
Valentin tilted his head as he watched the spar turn into one of attrition. As the empty strikes piled on, one of the students showed that they had the superior stamina. They managed their stance resolutely while the other began to relax their knees.
With a flourish, the fresher student landed a true blow to their opponent. The flat end of the practice spear landed heavily into the stomach, driving the loser to the ground with spluttering breaths. Victorious, the standing student offered their opponent a small bow before returning to the ring of students.
“Was there nothing there that was impressive?” Valentin asked Cathmor and Caera. “Should I ignore their remaining fights?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as they win,” Caera answered petulantly, unhappy that she was reversing from her original position. “They may have dragged the fight on to make me cry from boredom, but, to their credit, they didn’t take any real hits in their victory.”
“It would be worth it to watch to see if they can continue to win,” Cathmor agreed. “I will go find out what their name is.”
“Do our unfortunate trio all lose if you find someone instead?” Caera inquired as they watched Cathmor bound down the stands.
“I’ll give them credit if they find the same people I do,” Valentin replied.
The fights continued quickly. Despite the seemingly slow pace of the previous fight, it had, in truth, taken no more than fifteen minutes to conclude. After a little over an hour, the first round concluded and the second round began in earnest.
Now that the strong fought the strong, it became clearer to see who managed the first round the best. Those that fought tooth and nail to reach this level were quickly dispatched by those that were not burdened with wounds. Spectators pointed out the ones that caught their eyes and quietly discussed who would be worth their offers.
Valentin could see Kerwin, Mannix, and Guain desperately moving around the academy grounds.
Kerwin traveled directly to the grounds to watch the fights up close. He slowly took large laps around the grounds to inspect each of the four groups equally. With a piece of charcoal, he wrote notes upon his forearm.
Mannix, seeming to have reverted back to his disguise as a Deggan, spoke with a small group of dark blue coated men and women at the corner of the training grounds. Valentin watched one of the presumed instructors hand Mannix a scroll in exchange for a portion of Mannix’s coin purse.
Guain had yet to descend the stands. Instead, he seemed to be traveling from spectator to spectator, drawing up spirited conversation with whoever he met. Each of his words, smiles, and small gestures seemed to be natural and without much thought, filling Valentin with a peculiar feeling of jealousy.
Each quadrant quickly entered their finals. Valentin only watched the one directly in front of him. An instructor stood between the final two warriors in the group and shouted out their names for all to hear.
“Daron Fynne!” The instructor pointed at the flighty warrior Valentin had watched.
“Ready, instructor,” Daron replied, taking his stance. He bounced his spear from hand to hand in anticipation.
“Kallan of Breedun!” The instructed called, gesturing to the girl that stood opposite of Daron. She dropped low on her haunches, her spear held out at a bizarre angle.
“Ready, instructor!” Kallan roared in anticipation.
From the corner of Valentin’s eye, he saw the woman warrior he vaulted over lean forwards in anticipation. The ink roses on her fingers rippled from clenched fists.
“Begin!”
As soon as the instructor hopped backwards, Kallan sprang forwards at a speed Valentin had not seen in the prior two rounds. Daron sidestepped to the weak side of the charge and tapped the butt of his weapon into Kallan’s shoulder. It was not a powerful blow, but the wooden weapon would have been felt even through Kallan’s padded shirt.
Kallan quickly swung her weapon across her body. The movement lacked the reach to threaten Daron as he took a step forwards in another strike. Kallan twisted her weapon and deflected the blow to shoot harmlessly away.
They continued to exchange attacks. Unlike Daron’s previous bouts, Kallan stayed on the forefoot the entire time. She unleashed attack after attack tirelessly while Daron could only sidestep, deflect, and return indecisive return blows.
“She’s a feral one,” Caera observed with an approving smile.
“Yet, she’s losing in terms of wounds,” Valentin retorted calmly. “With true weapons, she would be bleeding from at least six different places.”
“Isn’t that something that can be tempered with training?” Cathmor asked. “It’s true that she would bleed out on the battlefield, but she holds the overwhelming advantage in this spar. That must be worth something.”
“She hasn’t been hurt badly enough,” Valentin commented after Kallan take another blow to the arms. “I worry that her bad habits would need to be relearned through more brutal methods than most.”
“Do you dislike such a strong and honest way of fighting?”
The trio turned their heads to see the tattooed warrior encroaching on their conversation. She stood up and settled herself next to Cathmor. Cathmor tensed up at the proximity but calmed after seeing Valentin’s lack of reaction.
“I like strong warriors,” Valentin argued, gesturing towards the rampaging Kallan. “But I prefer warriors that live far more. Haven’t you heard the saying that the strongest warrior is the one who survives all their battles?”
“A noble like you should focus on hiring guards and leave the true fighters to me,” the woman scoffed. She kicked her feet out and leaned around Cathmor to look directly at Valentin.
The warrior stared at Valentin for a moment with an impassive expression. He could see the coldness of a seasoned fighter in her eyes. Feeling that she was determining his strength, he returned the look and locked eyes with her.
“I have misspoken,” the woman conceded with a shrug and a grin. “Instead of correcting your foolishness, I should be overjoyed that such a talent would not have such a fool as their master.”
As Valentin watched more, he furrowed his brow at Kallan’s obstinate fighting style. Something did not quite make sense with the way in which she carried herself. Her movements, while quick, were still too sluggish to accomplish their intended effect. Her target was always a half-step out of reach. Yet, she continued to attack in such an ineffective way. If only she had an additional burst of power, if only she were just a quarter of a second quicker, she could hit him.
This caused him to realize something else, a component of sparring that he took for granted after the years with Hrost.
“They’re not allowed to use favor,” Valentin remarked aloud.
“Of course not,” the warrior said with a grin. “There is no need to kill each other in a spar. The academy would lose silver for every student they cannot sell.”
“Do you know how much favor the students possess?” Valentin inquired.
“Without paying the druids a large sum, no,” the warrior answered. “But you can tell by how they fight.”
“Then she must be very blessed with how powerful her moves would need to be,” Cathmor remarked with a tinge of envy.
Daron’s lack of decisive blow forced Kallan to continue to charge fruitlessly towards her target. As minor wounds and exhaustion built up, Kallan attacks became wider and heavier out of frustration. These were far easier to dodge as Daron effortlessly stepped out of the way of the obvious attacks. However, Kallan did not adjust, she simply gritted her teeth and assaulted with attacks that had no chance of landing.
Suddenly, a crisp attack came through, faster and stronger than any that Kallan delivered during the spar. An audible sound of snapping wood echoed through the training area. Splinters and woodchips that used to one be part of the same whole scattered into the spectating students and ricocheted off of their armor.
Daron, his weapon turned to dust, raised his hands in acknowledgement of his defeat. However, Kallan moved to swing once more. While her opponent was now unarmed and had no intention to fight back, who could fault a fighter who won without landing a single hit from going too far? Valentin knew that she had no clan name while her opponent did. She clawed and fought and suffered and lost only for her unscathed opponent to surrender without much fuss, winning or losing irrelevant to them. It was only right that he hurt as well.
However, the instructor had no intention of allowing Kallan to obtain the victory she truly desired. They arrested her wrists in their grip and spoke some words that no one in the stands could hope to overhear.
With a slump, Kallan fell to her knees, her energy completed consumed and extinguished. The defeated Daron leisurely strolled off to the side.
“What a perfect defeat,” Valentin commented, an impressed tone crossed his lips. “Never before have I seen a loser in such good condition and high spirits.”
“I find something about him infuriating,” Cathmor admitted. “Anyone with pride should have at least tried to fight with fists instead of surrendering pathetically. Who would want to stand in battle beside someone that wouldn’t fight to the last?”
“Why would you allow yourself to be pummeled in a spar when you don’t have to?” Valentin retorted. “I don’t believe that a person would be so quick to forfeit their life if there was truly something at stake.”
Valentin, noticing the lack of commentary, glanced to his side and saw the warrior with them chewing angrily on her fingernails. Her darkened countenance funneled directly on the carefree loser who laughed with his cohorts while the victor stayed despondently on their knees, unable to continue in the tournament. She mumbled her aggression beneath her breathe and bared her fangs at a target that would never notice it.
“Are you from Breedun as well?” Valentin inquired curiously.
“Why do you ask?” The warrior asked defensively, her sour mood making her a far less pleasant conversation partner.
“I understand rallying behind a person that you wish to recruit into your forces,” Valentin replied, glancing in the direction of the slowly rising Kallan. “However, it is rare to become so attached to a person in such a short time. It’s for that reason that I wonder if you have a far more personal connection.”
“Kallan won’t be joining my ranks,” the warrior responded, failing to answer the original question.
“You are going to let a talent you love so much be taken by someone else?” Valentin pressed suspiciously. “It forces me to consider the possibility that there is something undesirable about her.”
An initial wave of rage emanated from the warrior before winding down into a simmer. She scratched her hairline as she pondered how much she truly wished to say.
“I can promise you that there is nothing is wrong with Kallan,” the warrior guaranteed with a stony expression. “I won’t be bringing her with me because I don’t not wish for her to be in Vessaire for a while.”
“Why not?” Cathmor asked immediately. “What’s happening in Vessaire?”
“You’re from the land where flowers bloom?” The warrior asked warily.
“From my heart sprouts a bouquet,” Cathmor answered without hesitation, tapping his chest with one hand. “I have kin in Vessaire still.”
While Valentin felt Caera shake to stifle a chuckle at Cathmor’s earnest words, the warrior offered Cathmor a serious nod. She returned Cathmor’s gesture and leaned in closer to speak in a low voice.
“Then you have chosen a good time to leave,” the warrior said. “Vessaire’s only Storm Heir, the slovenly Rorigan, was sent away on royal business and will likely not return for several cycles. Word from Bhláthin is that the High Tiarna only managed to negotiate security of their own standing from the Storm Sovereign while their greatest asset is away. As long as nobody makes a move on Vessaire’s seat of power, all other internal wars are permitted.”
“Then we will only be seeing red flowers for some time,” Cathmor replied solemnly. “Are you certain that the Court of Roses will remain silent while their lands are impoverished and destroyed?”
“Whoever can manage the land and pay taxes to the High Tiarna will become the new nobility,” the warrior confirmed. “The armies of Bhláthin will preserve their strength and obliterate the upstarts that fail to uphold the obligations of their predecessors. Mustering now will only leave their throats exposed. The lesser clans and prominent brigands have already begun skirmishing on the outskirts of the larger towns.”
“Has the Lauden clan acted?” Cathmor asked urgently.
“You from Caltriven?” The warrior inquired in response.
“Near it,” Cathmor answered noncommittally, his eye contact briefly flickered elsewhere.
“It was tense when I passed through,” the warrior answered. “However, it is an important place. There are rumors that even loyal retainers wish to expand their influence if they have the power to do so. If I were you, I’d find a way to get you loved ones out of the region while everyone is still sizing each other up.”
“Now that Kallan’s in this state, I don’t need to be here any longer,” the warrior said as she stood up and adjusted her armor. “If you are the ones that end up hiring her, she’s an earnest girl. Don’t let that get her killed.”
“Wouldn’t she want to go home if she knew things were so dire?” Valentin asked before the warrior could depart.
“If she goes back with me, she’ll be forced to kill people she’s known since childhood,” the warrior replied with a sigh. “I’m not influential enough to shield her from the worst of it and I fear that she does not have the personality suited for such conflict. If she must kill, let it be strangers. Now I must go, before I am accidentally spotted.”
“We will not keep you any longer. Thank you for your company,” Valentin said with a grateful nod.
As the warrior left, the semi-finals were beginning. No longer divided into quadrants, the final two rounds were prominently displayed in the center of the training grounds. The spectators cheered loudly in anticipation of the climax spars.
However, the first bout would be disappointing. Without any energy and nursing numerous injuries, Kallan was led around by the nose by her opponent. While she showed a valiant amount of tenacity, her opponent was in far too good of condition and lacked the same weaknesses that Daron showed. All these blows were ferocious and merciless. It would only take a little over a minute before Kallan crumpled to the dirt.
“Our victor is Raghallach Daggenfirth!” The Master of Adharc Gorm Academy exclaimed to overwhelming applause.
Raghallach, instead of bowing, reached down to help Kallan to her feet. He assisted the limping warrior to the sidelines while they were replaced with two new students. The champions of the upper two quadrants, Valentin had seen nothing of either. He could see that both were in good condition and were likely not pressed considerably by their previous spars.
“Now, we have a fixture that I imagine many of you will have been waiting all day for!” The Academy Master called out. “On one side, we have one of our most technically gifted students. She gained fame by winning the newcomers tournament five cycles ago and holds numerous accolades in the art of horse riding. Now, she tries to end her illustrious academy career with a tournament victory. Tara Killináth!”
A rumbling applause rained down on Tara. The tall woman planted her spear into the ground and waved at her supporters while with a smile. A smear of charcoal was smeared across her eyes to prevent glare. Once she had done a rotation around the grounds, she donned her helmet returned to a composed posture.
“On the other side is a man with favor that could rival a Storm Heir’s!” The Academy Master began, immediately seizing Valentin’s attention. “Considered the future of our region and our most promising student since our Academy’s inception. The third son of the Tiarna of Allbost and last cycle’s runner up. Roarke Agren!”
A larger barrage of applause rained down on Roarke. Unlike Tara, Roarke took a far longer time waving towards the crowd that surrounded him. He stopped to face the upper seats of the stands and took a deep bow.
“So he is not the most technically sound of the students,” Cathmor remarked haughtily, seemingly emasculated by the adulation and position of Roarke. “If he was a true prodigy, he should have won everything.”
“What use is technique if he can turn your skull into liquid at will?” Caera questioned.
The fight opened aggressively. Both combatants came at each other with great ferocity, their wooden weapons making loud thuds that carried over the field. However, a gap in speed a technique could be seen by those with a discerning eye. If Roarke landed an attack, Tara landed two. If he landed two, she landed three.
“This is the sort of competition that Kerwin faced when he won his tournament in Croismor?” Valentin wondered aloud.
He found that the lack of favor made it all the more difficult to gauge the value of the combatants. Even if Roarke was on the back foot in this skirmish, would his favor not be enough to crush Tara in a true battle? How much ability did Tara possess? Her moves were far less informing than Kallan’s. Even Raghallach did not leave much to be read from.
“The brute is gifted with natural strength,” Cathmor replied dismissively. “An unfavored slugfest like this could see him beat a Storm Heir.”
Valentin’s thoughts immediately drifted towards the other spectators on the stands. How many of them were planning to bid on a student? What qualities were they paying attention to when seeking a valued warrior? Performance results? How they conducted themselves in battle, even in defeat?
More savage blows and thuds released into the air amongst the cheers and groans and gasps of the crowd. Each swing and movement of the body brought breathlessness to the audience. At such power, any of these strikes could be the final one. Unlike the rest of the observers, Valentin cared little about the result of the event. A highly favored noble and a seeming martial prodigy were not something that Valentin had the funds or influence to obtain.
“Let’s leave,” Valentin announced to Cathmor and Caera. “I’d like to find a decent table at the bidding banquet before the seats fill up.”
“Are you not interested in such a high profile bout?” Caera asked. “What if this duel ends up going down in history and your version of the story is about how you left partway through? People will think you bleed cold.”
“Whoever manages to walk away from this spar victorious will have nothing to offer in the finals against such a fresh opponent,” Valentin explained. “Besides, it is not as though the results matter to our bidding strategy.”
Two mighty impacts pulled the trio’s attention back onto the fight. A weighty blow to the ribs brought Roarke to his knees, his weapon lying helplessly on the ground. However, there was not much cheering from the crowd. Tara whimpered in pain as she clutched her elbow. The limb leaned strangely in the wrong direction. Off to the side, the awaiting finalist frowned in displeasure over the eventual anticlimactic conclusion.
As druids and apothecaries flooded the training ground to attend to the two treasures of Allbost, Valentin and his attending warriors made their way down the stands.
In between the injured students stood the Academy Master. A concerned expression crossed his face as he wondered what the special guests in the box of the grandstands would say to him once the event ended. He swallowed and looked amongst the deflated spectators. An uncomfortable quiet now gripped the event.
“Raghallach Daggenfirth is the champion.”