Chapter Thirteen
The Arena of Fort Guardian
The Arena lay in the shadow of the keep, as though it hoped only to be seen only by those who knew where to find it. The structure was a perfect circle, standing about a third as tall as the fortress walls, and while it seemed to share the same style and stone, a darkness clung to it which seemed unrelated to the shadows cast by the great keep.
Oliver and Michael followed Sarah closely as they approached the great steel portcullis on its face and watched as it lifted away.
As the rattle of iron chains sung, Michael muttered, “The provincial citadel in Istol has a gate like that... but its bars must be half as thick as these ones.”
Sarah unconsciously set her hand on her sword and said with a smirk, “There was a big argument over whether they should be thicker.”
“Can’t believe anyone was against that,” Oliver mumbled, palming his sword too, leaving Michael behind and more than slightly unnerved.
They stepped through the entryway and found that the inner workings of the Arena seemed just as bizarre as the outside. The fighting floor was covered in a thick layer of sand, all roughly about the size of an amphitheatre stage. Placed evenly from one another, five smaller iron gates were inserted in the walls, each sealing off their own cell filled with a surprisingly thick shadow despite the brightness of the day.
As Michael and his two new companions stepped onto the sand he looked at the bars of the cages and hesitantly asked, “What are in those?”
Sarah was paying little attention as she looked up into the empty stands and said, “Nothing yet. Oli, where’s Jack?”
“Probably down below. A class starts in like twenty minutes so he’ll be prepping for that. I’ll go see him.” Oliver jogged back to the portcullis and tugged on an iron lever to its left. A rope-ladder was released from the stands above. He scampered up and in the seating before he disappeared down a hatch, into the innards of the Arena.
Michael looked down at his feet and wondered what exactly was down there. A cold sweat had begun beading on his temple and he wiped it away, turning to the young woman. “So, are you from Bawdion too?”
Sarah untied her hair and did it back up into a tighter bun as she said, “Was born in Arcavelot. Province, not the city.”
Michael tsked. “I was about to take out my boot polish and get to work...”
She snorted and tightened her sword-belt. “I’m… from Otylia- I know, I know-”
Michael threw his hands up, unserious. “That’s hardly better.”
Sarah waved him off dismissively. “I haven’t been back in some time. My father lives and works there. But you mentioned Bawdion, so are you from Ariaton or Istol?”
“Istol. Nice sword, by the way,” Michael said, looking idly over the well-crafted sheath. She stepped closer and he realised it was dark leather but detailed with an intricate pattern of flocking birds.
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She smiled brightly and slowly drew out a weapon unlike anything Michael had ever seen. It was primarily polished steel while also masterfully edged in pale gold, and the entire blade gently curved in a shallow serpentine. The handle was wrapped in tight dark-tan leather, finished with a decorated etching on the pommel, though Sarah seemed hesitant to show it, and beneath the blade was a slanting guard. Michael would’ve thought the sword was ceremonial if Sarah didn’t move it like in was an extension of herself.
As she did so, warming up her arms, wrists and shoulders, Michael noticed her knuckles were dotted with old scars. In fact that were so old they were practically invisible.
“How long have you been here at Fort Guardian?” Michael asked, doing the math in his head.
Before she had the chance to answer, Oliver gave a shout and leapt from the high stands as though jumping off his bed. He landed in the soft sand below, rolling up onto his feet and said, “Jack will be right out.”
Sarah frowned and said, “Did you tell him he doesn’t have to keep watch?”
“He said he preferred to keep an eye on all the new recruits for their first few rounds.” With that, Oliver pulled out his iron broadsword and began walking himself through his various stretches, limbering up his body.
The longer Michael watched him, the more he recognised just how thoroughly he understood swordplay and his own body. He noticed Sarah do the same, both flourishing their blades in very odd, deliberate ways which he knew had nothing to do with showing off. They were able to pivot their arms, elbows and wrists in such complex ways, all while the blades moved alongside them that he come to realise they were practising close-up combat. In order to battle shoulder-to-shoulder, the flourishes helped them bring their blades around with speed and strength. Michael realised it mean he could strike what was in front without harming those beside or behind them.
Heavy footsteps sounded from above and what Michael turned to let him utterly in shock.
Striding to one of the viewing rails was a broad figure in thick-plate armour with overlapping faulds on his waist and dark tassets and greaves on his lower half. All engraved with dull but beautiful Old Riniglacian characters. But one armament stood out above it all. An axe-shaped helmet with a dark crest stretching overtop and single wide slit in the facade.
Michael stared in awe. “That’s a Javen warrior!”
Oliver and Sarah shared small grin before she lightly added, “Actually, that’s Jack. He’s Supervisor of the Arena and Warden of the Murk.”
Due to the full cover of his armour, Michael couldn’t make out a single detail of the man, but songs and stories played in his mind. He’d read as much about the Javen of Riniglacia as he had of his own country’s history.
“And-” Oliver amended, “one of the finest warriors in Talisatia.”
Sarah made a sarcastic, scrunched Goes without saying face.
The Javen warrior picked up a crossbow and easily cranked back the heavy-string, loading in a grim steel bolt. He leant on the guard-rail and made a casual gesture to the trio. “You will face three opponents.” His words were simple, flat and hard like iron. “If at any point, you require assistance, make it clear. I’ll provide cover or come join you. Stand Clear! Front Gate coming down!” He pulled a bronze lever and the great, entryway gate fell with an urgent crash, sealing the outside world away.
Jack put his gloved hand on a next steel lever and pushed it up with a crank! “Begin.”
Beneath the bright warrior, the first of the iron gates creaked and groaned as it was drawn high up into the stone above, leaving the cell open.
Oliver and Sarah both set their feet, moving cautiously in a mirrored stalk, closing in on either side of the open gate.
Michael quickly pulled his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow in place. “So, are we still content keeping the new kid in the dark? Because while I’m thicker than oak-wood even I know the word “opponent” when used to describe something in a cage probably means monster-”
A dark shape exploded out from the cell in a cascade of pitched, mutilated whinnies.
Sarah and Oliver both dove aside as the creature barrelled forward and Michael was barely quick enough to follow suit, throwing himself into the sand as the great shadowy mass hurtled passed him.
Michael scrambled to his feet and his breath caught in shock at the sight he found.
In essence, the creature was a horse, and one might’ve been forgiven for thinking it was nothing more at a glance. But after two glances, however, one might’ve noticed the eight-inch, razor-claws in place of hooves, or the eyes as red as fired coals, or the fur-covered tendons of darkness in place of solid flesh. From its mouth protruded overgrown, gnashing fangs, like the spine-teeth of a piranha.
It flashed its red gaze at the different members of the trio, twitching and snapping its shadow-bound skull from side to side.
Michael glanced to the two warriors, his heart-racing, and shouted, “I feel like I should have armour on!”
Oliver then broke out of his serious face and snorted. “I knew I’d forgotten something. Nichole’s goin’ to kill me...”
Michael laughed but there was little humour in it.