Odo, Burmin Trivvis, Weaponlord, Nixa N. Dorenz, and Amoret advanced under a banner of encouraging words, though not for them. “Even it up!” Kindo yelled. “This is where you make the bets worth betting!” With such support from their comrades as that did Team Not Very Good prepare for battle.
“Odo's a Cleric, so he can heal. They have a Reaper, a Warper, a Warrior, and an Elf. That's all the bases covered, right?”
“You're so considerate, Master Eten.” Skaya, however, reserved her consideration for her employer's household. “Too bad only Odo is at all strong.”
Orston took a few practice swings as he waited for his party to join him. Cantrell Uwendis came forward, the elismith for Alvin's society who wielded a hammer and the wisdom of experience. Beside him walked his nephew, Jervis Uwendis, a slayer who unhooked his chakram from his belt without looking, because nothing is less cool than looking at what you do. Worthiest of regard was the fourth. That mysterious man hid his face under a mask that spread a great silver T over his eyes and nose. The rest was in blue. Two swords crossed on his back, and he reached back to unsheathe them from underneath. The sword instructor of the strongest slayers, Master T, readied himself.
“I need clarification from crusaders before I lay any bets,” Luerre Voine said. “Does Beowulf hype up everyone like that? Or is Master T special?”
“Certainly the answer to the first question must be no, but a third must be considered. Is the game itself the font of his enthusiasm rather than these slayers? That, I cannot say.”
“Thank you, Asmodeus. That clears it up some. Not all the way, but every pond needs a little muck to give it flavor.”
“Must you, Count Voine?”
“I don't prepare everything I say ahead of time to disgust you, Duchess Enk. The comparison came to mind and I said it.”
“Are minds something that need muck, too? Is that it? I simply don't know how to respond to these frightful notions.” Darlotte Glofal shivered as though that action were a stage direction in the script.
A petition circulated to break up the main bouts with an exhibition match between a prince and princess of the Tasgan Federation, but before the Glofal vs. Voine proposal reached the requisite number of signatures, whatever that was, Odo gripped his mace and started the fight. He gave Orston a bit of the old S1, who stumbled back before responding with a mighty swing that no doubt involved some skill worth a whopping eight points, or even twelve.
Burmin Trivvis won over the crowd by yelling “Death of Horses!” and thrusting his halberd at the boldest target, Master T, who in turn wrangled the crowd to his side by leaping straight up and landing on the halberd's blade. The officers understood that maneuver even without a skill name. Which was Lightfoot. It also negated AGI penalties on aquatic battlefields, Beowulf explained.
While Master T bullied the Rare Reaper, SR Weaponlord experienced something novel, which was dying and respawning back on the hill where he entered the game in the first place. Enjoy the run, dummy! Nobody but his own angry brain was there to tell him that as he started back. Jervis recovered his Warrior-killing chakram and switched to a more valuable target, not that he knew which of his foes had strength and which lacked it. Nixa N. Dorenz had exhausted her active skills, and before Brenlond Lash, Lightning Strikes Twice, or Ladies Strike Thrice came off cooldown, the slayers sent her to the hill of shame.
Amoret had been filling Jervis with arrows since the moment Weaponlord engaged him. She finished the job, which wound up being the only kill the invaders managed in that fight. Both sides roared, hooted, and generally carried on. “All tied up,” Alvin said when he thought he might be heard. “Speaking of numbers, uh, your groups are bigger than ours.”
“Sure are! Thanks for noticing. Next!” Quircy faced her army, leaned back low as if about to pass under a pole held horizontally for the purpose of entertainment, and pointed toward the slayers.
“Um, uh, Matthias?” A dignified gentleman nodded and strode forth, which something only people of a certain level of confidence and ability can do, while everyone else simply walks out.
“Matthias Sten Stonell and Brigid Onyx Vasion-Stonell, two nobles who at times exchange in secret the duties of their rank for that of their occupation of old to the woe of dragons,” Beowulf informed his comrades.
Matthias's spin won him a fight against the brutal crew of Dr. Stezlinstein, Boxer Andit, Nimue, and Carmilla which followed Gaelvry Bride, an enchanting spectacle to the crowd of slayers. “Dude, no way, is she an alt? Why can't we have those?”
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“What's wrong with skins, Evan?” Orston asked.
“You just don't get it. Listen, bro. Scatter some azrion dust on a sword and it won't tickle a dragon. You gotta forge it that way from the first to the last. I bet that bride's got different lines, different skills, different everything.”
“That's true! Blinding Celebration!” Gaelvry and her gang proved nobles should keep their heads bowed when a queen and her retainers roll on by, provided the queen was a Quake Warper used to sitting not on thrones but in the A or S tier, depending on how many Ses high the tier list in question went. SSSS? She might have been a B in that one. Unless it was a list exclusive to bridal alts, of course. Who was going to beat her? Anstralia? Aerywe? Nobody even used those versions except for thematic reasons.
That battle went to the Commandment of Hero, Holy Legend Army, Paradise the Enchant, and Always Leveling Titan coalition, or CoHHLAPtEALTC, but SED, or Slay Every Dragon, did not despair. Alvin sent up his best slayers, and his worst, and the middling ones, who tested their foes with their weapons and their courage. After six battles, the score at three all, Alvin Renzis knew only he could decide the fate of his handkerchief. He drew his radiant brand, adjusted his baldric, and wore determination like a mask with a T on it.
“This is it.”
“Looks like it.” Quircy shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and scanned the slayers left and right. “Yup! Your guys have all gone, and that means they can't score points. Tant pis.” She pivoted and looked over the invading horde. “I think we might be able to rack up a few more, though.”
“What?”
“What what is what?”
“I sort of thought that, uh, the number of battles would be limited by our numbers. Not yours.”
“Oh? You weren't 'sort of' wrong about that. What kind of leader would decide some of her people don't get to do anything on this trip? And why? Because a polar bear said so? I'd tie myself up in a sack and lie in the corner until I remembered to consider other people's feelings if I thought about trying a move like that. Is that really how Slay Every Dragon does things? Hmph.”
“Well, no, it's just, I kind of . . . I'm sorry.”
“That's all right. I won't tie you up in a sack. The bear will decide what to do with you. Spin spin spin!”
Then Mentor Tendradius Pux thrashed him, which ended any opportunity for the slayers to push their score over three. The wisdom of Quircy's program became obvious to both sides, because who wanted to go back and slay some boring old dragons instead of watching, no, experiencing Darlotte Glofal's angry medical procedures? Not Evan Wheelwich. Maybe Brigid Onyx Vasion-Stonell did, but nobody asked. The bouts continued till the last group had its chance.
“Ouch!” Clyse said, sincerely, with all her heart. Puck's group failed to win renown against Orston Cuy's party, and that failure froze the score for all time at 14 for the invaders and 3 for the locals to the despair of Alvin Renzis and the indifference of most, who had forgotten about the overall competitive aspect in favor of laying down big bets on individual matches.
Quircy Rau, though, had not forgotten. “I'm feeling elephantesque today with all this memory. Does anyone have those kitchen spices Plundering was pricing earlier? Ah! Thank you, Youl. With you in a second, Alvin!” While the named slayer watched, shifting from foot to foot as well as between fear and horror, Quircy swept tops and lids off a handful of little jars and lowered her nose to take a big whiff. “Here it comes,” she declared, handkerchief lifted and ready to receive its payload. “Ahh . . . ahhh . . .”
A lady in a ball gown whose hair had been cut short in a manner appropriate only for someone others might describe as spunky slid out from the ranks, flipped on her back in front of Quircy, and unleashed her camera. “These shots'll do great in publications I'd rather not name,” Lasva said while rising to cover every angle, camera clicking all the way.
“Achoo! Thanks for lending me your hanky. Here it is, safe and Quircy-tested!”
Alvin's composure survived the slapping of a wet handkerchief right in his open hand, which gave evidence of his heroic qualities as vivid as anything that happened in Slay Every Dragon's story, as far as any foreigner aside from Beowulf knew. That outstanding fortitude kept his spirit and body intact, prepared to deal with future blows such as when Quircy started talking about “terms” and “the instrument of surrender.”
“Do you have that drawn up for us, Metatron? Great! You won't find anything more regular than that,” she said, waving a paper in front of Alvin as if it were some sort of monogrammed handkerchief. “Not in our update schedule, anyway. Read it if you want, but basically, you admit you lost, consent to the construction of a fort in your territory to guard the spawn area, and agree that if your slayers leave your game, they'll operate under us. So we can conquer other games. Together!”
“Oh, dude! You'll let us come along even though we lost? Sign it right now! Use my blood as ink if you gotta!”
“Come on, Evan. At least let me read it. Huh. I don't have a, uh, pen on me, and, um, don't run off with all that blood, all right?”
“Got it.”
Some of the other slayers seemed, if more restrained, almost as pleased. Stanley Sten Stonell expressed the views of the less obviously degenerate natives when he said, “Sounds like a fun adventure. Most of all, I like the implications. You're going to tell us all about how you got here, and I don't just mean the methods. There must be some crazy stories in there. And about your elements, which sound intense.”
“Lua will handle that last part. As for the rest, get ready for a pool lecture. Ready set go!” Quircy raued off in the direction of the compound, followed by fun-lovers of every game. Nobody stayed behind in the Titanmarked Fields, since the titans had failed to mark it with either pools or tracks. With hurdles!