abel [https://imgur.com/gfZpXk6.png]

“Hey, how you doing?” Brian asked, kneeling beside him as their panels vanished. Another two on two round which ended in surrender.

“I’ve been better,” Abel said, reaching out his hand but catching himself before he could touch the clothes wrapped around his leg. Someone had taken off an extra layer of clothing and wrapped it tight around the wound, though he couldn’t remember who as his mind had still been shaken, body filled with adrenaline.

Someone else had told him not to touch it, as he would hinder the healing process. That person had lost their next fight and disappeared from the room. If losers were sent to the stands, they were going to be disappointed when they saw him attempting to fight in his next round.

That had been a long time ago. Abel, sitting against one of the hard walls, nursing his leg, had been watching each contest as it appeared on his panel. He rested his eyes during the brief intermissions between contests which got the crowd roaring above them. He was anxious for his next fight, but it seemed as though his victory against the tiger had won him a longer grace period than most.

Brian, squatting before him, had a worried face on. “You shouldn’t push yourself. This festival, the competition, it’s not worth that much. It’s not worth your leg and it’s certainly not worth your life.”

Abel managed a smile. “Are you telling me to give up?”

“Damn straight, I am.” Brian smiled back but his eyes were serious. “You can barely stand.”

As though it were a challenge, Abel pushed himself up against the wall behind him, then pulled himself to his feet, putting all of his weight on his right leg. His left thigh stretched and strained, and he could feel fresh blood sliding beneath the cloth tied around it, but he could stand.

Brian shook his head. “Okay, you can stand. But you can’t walk or fight.”

With a groan, he took a step forward, his left leg threatening to buckle beneath him, searing pain escaping the wound along with more blood. He took another step, then another, never moving too far from the wall beside him.

“You think you’re proving something?” Brian asked.

“To myself, yes,” Abel said, lifting his sabre up and rounding on Brian. “Try and hit me.”

“What are you talking about?” Brian said, then glanced around the room at the dozen competitors left. “I stand no chance at all. Someone else would be better for this.”

“Just swing and try to hit me,” Abel repeated. “I want to test something out. It’s not a fight, I just want to try a move.”

Unsure, the man lifted his longsword and gave a big shrug of his shoulders. “Head on?”

“I told you to lower your weight, didn’t I?”

The man readjusted his positioning, switching his hands on the sword. “Here I come.”

He swung the blade straight down, as though to crack Abel’s skull like a melon. The distance between them was too far for the blow to have maximum impact, but it was the best he could get from a mock fight. He lifted his sabre to ricochet the blow to the side, sending it out of Brian’s arms and clattering to the floor. The others in the room were now watching them.

“Swing harder,” Abel said evenly. “I need to make sure my leg can handle the stress of a full blow.”

Wordlessly, the man grabbed his blade, retook his position and swung the blade down. Abel’s left knee buckled, but the result was the same, the blade falling to the floor. He tapped his bad leg with the tip of his sabre, giving a small smile. “I’m not sure how well it will hold in real combat.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“You’re thinking about fighting?” Someone else in the room asked, a woman named Linda. Abel shrugged, not sure of the answer himself. She gave him a look of disbelief. “Really?”

“I’m trying to talk him out of it too,” Brian said, bending to grab his weapon again. “But he’s-”

And then he was gone. A panel appeared before his eyes, showing Brian in the pit. He was still bent over, his longsword in his hand. “Not listenin-” he continued, before he realized what had just happened and he cut his sentence short.

Across the pit from him, a familiar face. Bernard.

As was usual, he ran, carrying his glaive under his arm like a musket until he closed the distance. Then he lifted it up above him and swung it down.

Brian widened his stance and put a hand across the flat of his blade, bracing against the strong force of the blow but managing to deflect it away from himself and take a few steps back. The others in the room gave a quiet cheer.

Bernard slid his hands further down the glaive’s shaft, giving him more distance, then started forward again. Brian, having listened to Abel, didn’t attack, instead waiting for his opportunity. He stayed back, treading the sand under his feet. The two began to circle one another.

The glaive swung out, testing, the pointed end a foot from Brian who flinched as it cut the air before him. Bernard tried closing the distance, swinging again, but Brian escaped its deadly reach once more, backpedaling the sand.

Frustration showed on Bernard’s face and he slid his hands high along the shaft, fingers close to the long blade near it’s tip. He ran at Brian, brandishing the weapon almost like a hatchet, letting the excess wood swing around him carelessly as he brought the blade this way and that, trying to sever some part of his opponent, but Brian was quick on his feet and he brought the sword up to meet any blow that had a chance of meeting flesh.

Bernard’s arms began tiring, his swings slowing down.

Now, Abel thought. Before he can change his pattern again.

But Abel had taught him well, and he seemed to notice the signs of fatigue in the man. He lifted his sword, bringing it up to swing at the man’s hands. It had become a common tactic in the contests, to disarm and cause surrender.

The blade cracked against the wooden shaft, close enough to cause Bernard to drop the weapon, the glaive landing in the sands. Brian lifted his sword out, warningly.

Bernard didn’t speak. He looked up at Brian a short moment, then quickly reached down and grabbed for his weapon again.

“Just give up,” Brian said.

He swung his longsword down at the glaive, an attempt to scare Bernard away from it, but Bernard didn’t move an inch and the blade caught his hand.

He let out a yell, tightening his grasp on the glaive despite the injury.

“Give up!” Brian said desperately, his sword falling to his side as he looked at the blood beginning to flow down the man’s hand. “You’ve lost!”

Anger flashed over Bernard’s face. In a single motion, using his bad hand, he brought the point of the glaive up and drove it towards the man’s stomach.

Brian tried to move, but he was too slow. It caught him in the chest, piercing him through.

A gasp echoed through the room. The sounds of the crowds above quieted to near silence for the first time. The two men were standing motionless for several moments, the entire arena frozen.

Bernard pulled back his weapon, blood pouring out both sides of the wound as Brian dropped to the sands with a rasping sound.

Several moments passed. Both combatants remained in the pit. Bernard’s breathing was haggard, but he got to his feet, leaning some of his weight on the glaive. He was staring down at the man who was hardly moving.

“Why isn’t he coming back?” Linda asked the room. “Why are they still there.”

Until surrender or death. Those were the rules for victory in the contests they were involved in.

Brian tried crawling, leaving behind a pool of red sand. He was whining, or maybe he had a punctured lung. He couldn’t surrender if he couldn’t speak.

At least that’s what Abel assumed. Before Bernard started walking towards him, glaive in hand.

Brian saw the approaching figure and stopped his crawl.

“I’m already dead,” he said, his voice a whisper barely escaping his lips. They carried through the arena, through the room Abel sat in “No use prolonging this any more.” He didn’t seem to be behind the words. He was speaking to himself.

Bernard’s face betrayed no emotion as he looked down at the man lying on his stomach, bleeding out. His hands tightened on the shaft of his weapon. He was ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Hey Abel, I hope you fuck this guy up,” he said, trying a laugh, his body being sent into a spasm. “Don’t lose to this shit.”

As though the words were spurring him forward, Bernard brought the glaive up and down. The blade made contact with the man’s neck. A moment later, the panel disappeared.

The room was left in silence.

The sabre vanished from Abel’s hand.

When Abel brought his gaze away from the panel, he saw the others' weapons were gone as well. And against one of the walls, silently and unexpectedly, the door which led out into the arena’s high-arched hallways had reappeared.

Twenty minute intermission.