11 tugs on the strap of her helmet angrily. She played right into Censa’s plans, but she knows there’s no one to blame other than her own selfishness.
You wanted to straddle the line between duty and desire. Look where that got you. Unable to have either.
Footsteps thunder from above as spectators take their seats in the coliseum. The city's western sector has the least amount of citizens, but judging from all the noise, 11 guesses there must be at least a thousand people here to watch the tournament.
Compared to the noise above, it is quiet where 11 is.
She and the other competitors are waiting in the underground section of the arena, hidden from the crowd. All the contestants have already been separated into four groups, so there will be four pairs of people sparring against each other in the first round. 11 is put in a group of twenty people, all kept behind a locked gate. Solid walls block line of sight between the groups, but 11 can see through them just fine. There are about twenty people in all the other three groups, adding the total number of competitors to eighty.
No one is talking. Everyone is making final adjustments to their gear. Some are pacing around nervously.
Heavily armed knights patrol just outside the gates, probably to deter anyone from starting a fight early or trying to sabotage something.
If anyone was stupid enough to think like that, they'd never make it as a captain.
11 glances around at the colorful array of people standing around her. Adventurers and the common folk, some are clearly more prepared to kill than others.
But then again. There are lots of fish in a big pond.
A knight steps up to the gate holding 11's group. He takes out a roll of parchment and starts to shout names.
“Lorance Fishilton of the Shazzaw Isles!”
A scrawny man weasels to the front of the line. “That’s me,” he says, holding up his trident.
“You’re up first,” says the knight. “Mullgan Stonefist of Elfendale!”
11 feels a rough shape squeeze past her legs as a dwarf hurries to join the scrawny man. “Here,” he grumbles, lugging a mace behind him.
Together, the dwarf and the man are directed to a wooden platform thirty feet away.
“Standard rules,” says the knight. “No S-rank spells. You may yield at any time. Victory goes to the last two people standing.” He pulls on a lever and a hole opens in the ceiling. The platform rises, taking the two combatants up into the cheering crowds.
Soon, sounds of fighting echo through the arena. Even underneath the action, 11 can hear the shouts and curses clearly. The men around her seem to be enjoying it, but she has no stomach and goes to find a lonely spot near the back of the group. Sitting down on the dry dirt, she goes over her options.
If she can somehow break a promise and run, there is no doubt Censa will be beyond herself with fury, even vengefulness. The Lady of the Guild may even send people after her. If that ever happens, it isn’t a stretch to conclude 11 may never be welcomed into Kesrock ever again. Her dream of opening a cafe here will be demolished, if they haven’t been already by Yue’li’s kidnapper.
Of course, going after Yue’li is still the one thing 11 wants to do the most. But going against her own word is like trying to rewire the processing units inside her brain. It’s near impossible.
Near impossible.
If Skynet could rationalize human extermination, then surely I can convince myself that breaking a promise is within the boundaries of my directive.
11 is already plotting a course to the nearest gate when a young boy approaches her.
“Goddesses have blessed this day,” he says, leaning with his back against the wall. “I meet you again at last, my lady.”
“Do I know you?” says 11.
The boy looks pained, but the expression is gone with a flick of his sumptuous, sandy hair. “You’re not to blame,” he says. “You barely had time to look at me before I was welcomed into the Guild with opened arms. No doubt you were too preoccupied with the results of your own test.”
“Oh,” says 11. “You’re talking about the Attunement exam. Right… Bilae Austere from Preulle, I remember.”
The boy’s face lights up. “Ah-ha, so my handsome face did stay in your mind.” He bows deeply, which turns a few confused heads this way.
“As yours did in mine, my lady.”
11 gives the boy a grimaced smile and turns away. She tries to ignore him, but Bilae continues excitedly.
“I knew from the moment I brushed shoulders with you, our paths were meant to cross again.” He drags a gauntlet hand through his hair, somehow managing not to tangle it. “It seems the goddesses have answered my prayers. May I know my lady’s name?”
“We’re supposed to be opponents,” 11 reminds the boy. “It does neither of us any good to get friendly.”
Unless this is all a part of some tactic.
Bilae chuckles and, despite 11’s protest, takes her hand and kisses it. “How could I take up arms against a creature as beautiful as you?” he says. “Should we ever find ourselves facing one another, I wish it be a ballroom, not such a dirty and bloody place such as this!”
More people are looking their way now. Some of them look like they want to drag Bilae into the arena right this moment.
A loud clash rings through the coliseum, followed by roars and cheers. A few minutes later, the ceiling opens and the voice of the announcer echoes through.
“Mullgan Stonefist and Anthony Maydan move on to the second round!”
More cheering as the platform lowers. Only the dwarf is standing on it. His armor is splattered with blood and one of the spikes on his mace has chipped off. He stumbles off the platform almost like he's drunk. A knight helps him through a door in one of the far walls, closing it behind them.
“Where do you think they take the victors?” asks Bilae, watching eagerly as the knight with the parchment comes up to the gate again.
“Outside,” answers 11. “They get to rest at the guild until tomorrow’s semi-finals.”
The knight starts shouting for two other people, who push their way to the gate.
“Ah, as beautiful as she is knowledgeable,” says Bilae. “A rare find indeed.” He reaches for 11’s hand once more but 11 pulls away.
Her rejection doesn't seem to faze the boy at all. "If my lady so desires," he says, "she can put down the blade and come live with me in the western city of Preulle. My father owns an estate with over a hundred slaves to toil for her troubles, day and night.”
Against her better judgement, 11 snorts. “You don’t want me there, trust me.” She slips away from Bilae and moves to the front of the group, wanting to put distance between them. The two fresh competitors are led to the platform, and with another roar of cheering, they ascend into the area.
Bilae finds her soon enough. “How about this,” he says. “If I win a seat as one of the captains, then my lady shall be so kind as to grace me with her presence at the cloaking ceremonies after?”
“You’re assuming you win your match today,” 11 says. “And you’re also assuming we don’t face off against each other tomorrow. Besides, a wager requires me to win something if you fail.”
“Does my lady have something she’d like of me?” The grin on Bilae’s face will look sly on an adult, but is somehow endearing on this boy of fourteen.
11 finds herself opening up to him. She even starts to enjoy the distraction. “Let me think,” she says, pretending to think hard about it. "Alright, I got it. If you lose your match, then you'll go back to Preulle as soon as you can, and live out a long and happy life surrounded by your family and uh… slaves.”
Bilae flips his sandy locks and says, “I accept this wager. It will not happen, of course.”
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A scream cuts through their conversation. From above, an announcement is made of the two victors.
The knight with the parchment pulls the lever. This time, no one is standing on it.
“Next competitors,” he says, glancing at his list of names. “Elevena Windborne of Kesrock?”
11 raises her hand. “I’m here.”
The knight reads the next name. “Bilae Austere of Preulle?”
Bilae’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “I am here.” He glances over at 11, and must be seeing her alarm because he smiles and takes her hand again. "Do not worry, my lady. I will protect you up there. You have my word."
“Up you go,” says the knight, letting them both out the gate.
“Um,” says 11. “Can I get a refresher on the rules?”
The knight leads her and Bilae to the platform. “Standard tourney rules apply,” he says. “Poke ‘em with the sharp end of your sword till no one is left to do the same to you.”
“But what about-”
“Up you go.” The knight yanks on the lever and the platform raises into the opened sky.
At first 11 doesn’t understand what’s happening. The world unfolds into a moody sky thick with grey clouds. Every direction she looks there are people, some seated, others standing. The coliseum is Romanian in design, with marble walls encompassing a wide circle of dirt. Spots of blood and broken pieces of armor litter the arena. Bodies are being dragged away, some with their limbs hacked off.
11 feels fingers of unease crawling down her back. She looks around the spectator stands more carefully, and finds Censa Thornrose sitting up above in a booth with Danton Ralish and Sir Jernal Kanson. There's someone else sitting beside the lady, a thick black hood covering his face.
It can't be... Ned, can it?
11’s attention is drawn away by the sound of whining mechanisms. She and Bilae stand in the southmost section of the arena, and as she watches, three more pairs of people are raised onto the other three sections.
A voice starts announcing each person as they draw their weapons.
“On the north side stands Lord Vesslon of house Wolfen. Besides him is Lancer Edge of Kesrock!”
The two men step off the platform. One is dressed head to toe in gold-plated armor, while the other looks like he cobbled together a set out of scrap. Ironically, Lancer Edge is holding an old steel sword while Lord Vesslon has a spear made of redwood, complete with fancy tassels on the pointy end.
“We may have many directions of fend off at once,” Bilae observes. “It shan't be a problem, but does my lady know of any tactics that may be useful nonetheless?”
“Sure,” says 11. “Stand back and let me deal with this.”
Bilae laughs. “You are indeed someone worthy of my attention, my humorous lady.”
The announcer finishes introducing everyone, ending with, “Let the melee begin!”
The crowd roars. Names are chanted. A few roses are thrown in the gold-armored man’s direction. 11 watches as the lord picks one up and sniffs it, earning him girly screams from the crowd.
11 does have a plan. But it doesn’t involve fighting so much as avoiding it.
“You don’t want to kill or maim any favorites,” she says, echoing what Censa told her during one of their secret meetings. “It will win you no followers.”
“Wise,” says Bilae, unsheathing his blade. It is a smooth piece of folded steel, shining white in the overcast light. On his other arm is strapped a wooden buckler. He goes into a battle stance.
11 surveys the arena. All the contestants have stepped off their platforms. No one is making a move as they study their opponents. Then without warning, the pair on the east side starts charging towards the northern contestants, locking them into combat. Swords clash and golden armor shrieks from exchanged blows. Lancer Edge moves to slash. Lord Vesslon covers him with an overhead stab of his spear.
“Incoming!”
11 turns to see Bilae blocking off a blow from the west. It comes from a burly man with hair flowing out from under his iron helmet. Another man sidesteps around to stabs at Bilae, but 11 is there to deflect it. The burly man reaches for her but Bilae shoulders him away.
“Nicely done,” says Bilae, falling back next to her. “I’ll take the-”
“Please stay a safe distance away,” 11 says, then dashes right up to the two men and disarms them both with a series of rapid sword swings. The men try to catch her with their hands but 11 darts out of the way, severing their belts in the process so their armor falls off.
The crowd goes wild. Cheers and laughter flood the arena as the two men hobble away, tripping over tattered pieces of their clothing and gear.
11 steps back next to Bilae, ready to deflect any more attacks. She expects some degree of gratefulness but the boy is frowning at her. “I was capable of killing them both,” he says.
“I believe you,” 11 says. "Where’s your helmet?"
“I do not use one,” answers Bilae. “It hides my face to on-lookers.”
“That’s incredibly stupid. You’re going to end up a vegetable.”
“One my lady hopefully likes to eat,” Bilae says, smiling again. 11 slaps him lightly on the arm.
“Be serious.”
Over by the north side, the two defenders have successfully cut down their attackers and are advancing towards 11 and Bilae. Lord Vesslon, his golden armor now blotched red, moves slow and steady with the assurance of someone experienced in battle. Besides him, Lancer Edge's strides are wide and confident. There’s a crack in the side of his crude helmet, so he yanks it off and tosses it to the side.
Without the cover of a hood and a dark alleyway, the man looks nothing like 11 always imagined him as. Sharp-nosed and handsomely stubbled, the man belongs on a magazine cover.
Until he opens his mouth.
“I’ll take the girl,” he says through crooked front teeth so big they look like a bee had stung them.
“Just as well,” says Lord Vesslon, and charges at Bilae with his spear brandished out in front of him. 11 stands ready to guard the boy, but Lancer Edge is suddenly on top of her, swinging down his great sword with both hands. She steps out of the way, feeling the air ripple as the blade crashes into the earth she was just standing on.
The crowd goes wild. Some are still cheering for Lord Vesslon. But in the chaos of noise, 11 thinks she hears her name too. Swinging her sword, 11 aim's for the weakest edge of Lancer’s blade but the man moves fast, turning his grip to block the blow. He comes at 11 with fast, powerful strikes, varying his blows with a wild rhythm 11 cannot predict. As she deflects his blows, 11 keeps an eye on Bilae. The boy is holding his own ground, but with the disadvantage of a sword against a spear, it’s only a matter of seconds before he is run through.
Just as she thinks this, the boy's footing slips. His stance falters. Lord Vesslon takes the opening and lunges, slapping Bilae's sword away with a crack of his spear.
"It is over!" shouts the lord. "Yield, boy. You've done well."
"Never!" Bilae shouts back, pulling out a dagger and continuing the fight.
I need to help him.
Ducking from under a sideways slash, 11 tries to kick at Lancer’s shins. Her leg sweeps through empty air. She looks up to see the man descending on her and brings up her sword to block.
A metallic scream rings out as her sword is severed, Lancer’s blade following through to bite into her shoulder. Luckily, her armor is thick enough to stop the blow going through but the greatsword has stuck deep. Lancer yanks his sword back, drawing 11 into him. She crashes against his chest and is held in a death grip.
“This is for Zoldan,” the man snarls through his massive front teeth. “This is for my brothers.” He lets go of his sword and wraps his hands around 11’s throat.
11 doesn’t know what to do. She cannot harm this man. But if she doesn’t, he won’t let go.
He squeezes, grunting with the effort.
“My lady!”
With a shout, Bilae breaks away from Lord Vasslon and sprints over. He brings his dagger down Lancer’s back. Sparks fly as the flimsy armor breaks. Lancer howls and drops to his knees, allowing 11 to escape. She doesn’t have time to say anything. Picking up her broken sword she leaps over Lancer and Bilae, cutting through Lord Vasslon’s spear as the man stabs at Bilae’s back.
Lord Vasslon’s shock renders him immobile. He brings his severed spear up to his face and stares at the perfect cut, as if not comprehending how any of that just happened.
11 lands. Hearing the sounds of a struggle, she looks behind her to see two bodies wrestling in the dirt. Lancer Edge has Bilae pinned beneath him. The boy is trying to squirm away but he is trapped under all that weight. Lancer reels back a fist and pummels into Bilae’s face hard.
11 hears the crack of a nose breaking. She launches herself at Lancer Edge, tackling him to the ground. But the man is strong and anger makes him stronger. He yanks 11 off of him and throws her away, then pulls out a knife and turns to Bilae. The boy is still on the ground, covering his bleeding face.
“It’s over, boy!” Lancer shouts and plunges the dagger down.
The blade is stopped, inches from the boy’s face.
Lancer’s eyes grow wide. “You’re mad,” he whispers, staring at the knife stuck hilt-deep into 11’s outstretched palm. He lets go and staggers back. “You’re mad!”
11 pulls the knife out of her hand. It hurts like hell but she makes sure not to show it. Pointing the blood-stained knife at Lancer she says coldly, “I am. And do you know what else I am?” Without giving him time to answer 11 zips around him, too fast for him to turn. She kicks at the back of his knee and as he kneels, she grabs his head with one hand and positions the knife at his throat.
Silence stretches out across the coliseum as everyone holds their breath, including Lancer Edge.
11 leans close and whispers into his ear, “I’m sorry.”
She can tell by the sharp intake of air that this is not what the man is expecting to hear.
“I’m sorry for throwing you into a wall,” she goes on, keeping her voice so soft only she and Lancer Edge can hear it. “I’m sorry for hurting you and your friends. But I do what I must.”
Still keeping the knife to his throat, she waits for his answer.
Lancer chuckles humourlessly. “Don’t we all,” he says, then raises his left hand slowly above his head and announces in a loud voice, “I yield.”
11 relaxes. The crowd cheers.
“You will not!” Bilae grabs 11’s hands from behind and drags the knife across Lancer’s throat.
11 screams and drops the knife. Bilae goes for it but she pushes him away and rushes to help Lancer. The man has fallen on his face. When she turns him, blood squirts from his neck and into her eyes. She shoves her palms against Lancer’s throat, blinking back the stinging pain and fighting the urge to flee.
Ribbons of red seep between her fingers, mixing with the blood from her own wound.
“No, no no.” 11 pushes harder, nearly crushing the man’s larynx but the blood keeps coming, bubbling with the man’s dying convulsions. She watches in horror as Lancer’s eyes begin to roll back and gurgling sounds bubble from his blood-filled mouth. She shuts her eyes against the horrible sight.
“Don’t die,” she pleads. “Please. No more.”
Despite it all, she feels the man’s life draining. A few feet away, Bilae has picked himself up and is looking at 11 like she’s gone insane.
“My lady should not taint her beautiful fingers with that scoundrel’s blood,” he says to her. “The man tried to kill you first.” He starts coming over but 11 shouts at him.
“You’re a monster! This man had yielded!”
The boy looks wounded like he's the one on the ground. “But, my lady-”
“Get help!”
Bilae’s boyish face hardens. “I will do no such thing,” he says, and turns swiftly away towards the platform.
11 looks around for help, but even the gold-armored lord is nowhere to be seen, having left behind the severed tip of his spear.
“Anyone!” 11 shouts to the spectators, at Censa in the observing stands, but no one is moving. “Someone, help!”
They’re watching, transfixed like they’re all waiting to see what 11 will do next.
They’re waiting only to announce the winners.
Desperation takes hold of 11. Her eyes burning from blood and tears, she does the only thing she thinks can help. She lets go of Lancer and races over to Lord Vasslon's spearhead. Grabbing it, she presses it against the opened flesh of Lancer's throat. Then in an act of pure recklessness, she grips the steel and starts overheating the nanobots inside her own blood, forcing them to boil her from the inside.
Alarms blare inside her head, muffling everything except the sound of Lancer's drowning screams, and the crackling of singeing skin.