Fort Bastil’s festival drew large crowds, occurring every six weeks during thinning of the second moon. Because it had hosted many of them before, the steward and organisers had the preparation of the festival down to a fine art. Within two days it was transformed from its large grey bulk into a celebratory establishment that lost some of its intimidation with all the banners and flags waving from every conceivable post, pole and even from the narrow windows.

The marketplace swelled to three times its usual size, travelling merchants knowing that the Bastil tournament was a grand place to turn over a tidy profit in the four days that it ran. Accommodation disappeared overnight and tents and carts with canvases stretched over the top littered every pocket of available space. Some merchants turned their carts into their stalls and simply slept behind the counter, doubling as security.

Weaponsmiths also arrived, eager to either sell their wares or repair the weapons of warriors hopeful of taking home any kind of prize from the fighting rings.

So while Judd felt rather awkward in his borrowed armour, at least he didn’t stand out.

The helm was styled so that the cheek pieces came forward but did not meet, allowing for a narrow channel upwards that turned into a horizontal slit for Judd’s eyes. The gorget, or neck piece, had clasps at the back of his neck, the two pieces of metal forming protective links between the helm, the shoulder guards, or pauldrons and the breastplate and backplate. On his upper arms were the rerebraces and on the lower were the vambraces and putting the two together over each elbow were the couters, each piece tightened and fastened into place by small catches on the inner and shielded side of the body. Judd’s mail glove had been replaced with two gauntlets with wide cuffs that rested over the ends of the vambraces.

He wore a tasset which was a little like a knee high skirt with layers of metal and open at the front which might have looked like a tempting place to thrust a sword but it was covered with chain mail, linked beneath the line of the tasset and giving the warriors even more freedom of movement. The upper leg guards, or cuisses were strapped into place then the calf armour called greaves. Oster’s feet were smaller than Judd’s but thankfully his metal shoes or sabatons were only meant for the tops of his feet and up around his ankles, made from more layers of metal to allow for movement. Judd wore his regular boots beneath and strapped the sabatons over, allowing him the comfort of wearing his own shoes. He had his own tunic and trousers on as well but it was almost all completely covered.

The armour was mostly dark grey except for a line of etching around every edge which had been painstakingly filled with a thin ribbon of silver. The effect was simple yet striking.

“Thank you again for the use of your armour.” Judd said sincerely.

“Figured you’d have a better chance of surviving with something more fortifying than…would you stop fiddling with it?”

He forced his hand down from his vambrace and sighed. “I know I’ve trained in it…but it still feels a little odd.”

“Good…cause it ain’t yours.” Oster grumbled, hobbling beside him. “It was mine when my spine wasn’t bent like a fishing rod caught on a reef.”

Verne flanked Judd’s left and Aalis remained in the farming community.

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Judd sighed and looked up at the fort. “I wish Aalis could have come.”

“She’s safer where she is,” Verne muttered, dodging around the press of the crowd, “and she would have hated this.”

“I know, but…ow!” Judd glared at Oster. “Seriously?”

“Stop looking behind you and be in the moment of where you are.” Oster grunted.

“Yes sir.”

At the gates into the lower bailey they found the registration officers and Judd announced his desire to compete in the fighting ring.

“There will be three rounds of preliminary fights,” the man said in a bored tone, “which will determine where you rank in the lowest tier and fought with padded weapons. You will then be informed of when and where and who you will be expected to fight tomorrow.”

“I understand.”

“Those who succeed on the lower tier will be informed of when, where and who you will be expected to fight on the following day in the middle tier. Out of the middle tier, only four warriors will ascend to the final tier where their numbers will be drawn at random into two matches. The two winners of these matches will fight for the title of champion.”

“Got it.”

“Make your mark,” Judd did so and received a blue bandana with the number thirty two sewn onto it, “and be ready for the ringing of the first bell.”

Judd then stepped aside so Verne could approach the man who raised an eyebrow at the young man with the bow strapped to his back and his quiver on his hip.

“Archery contest.”

“I never would have guessed.”

Once registered they moved into the lower bailey and found a place against the wall to prepare. A large rectangular space was pegged and roped out, taking up a large portion of the lower bailey but left enough space for spectators and food vendors to squeeze around.

“When you’re called for the preliminaries, you’ll be paired at random,” Oster explained, “judges will watch your fights and decide where you rank with your skill.”

“I’m hoping I do well.”

“Don’t.”

“What?” Judd looked at Oster in surprise.

“Don’t give away too much too soon. No matter how badly you fight, everyone goes into the lowest tier.”

Judd nodded. “Right.” He sighed and wriggled his shoulders. “I don’t see Dalain or Sir Alaykin here.”

“And belittle themselves by watching the nobodies fight?” Oster huffed.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Judd admitted, “I mean, I’m not sure if you’re even allowed in the fort anymore after your dismissal.”

“Trust me, lad,” Oster sat on the bale of hay beside Judd, “I don’t look anything like I used to.”

Judd and Oster watched the lower bailey fill to almost overflowing. Half of the crowd were competitors, each of them warming up or calming down in their own way.

“Oster,” Judd said quietly, “how did Dalain get you fired? Did he lie or start rumours…or beat you in the ring like he did me?”

“Nothing like that. He simply told Alaykin I was too old.”

Judd blinked. “Too old?” Oster nodded. “But that’s…that’s…you’re not old!”

“You need your eyes checked?” Oster glared at him. “Judd LaMogre, my skin has age spots and my hair is going grey. My body clicks a thousand times when I get up or down and I rise three times a night to pee.” Oster shook his head. “Dalain told Alaykin the truth when he said I was old…”

Judd paused, his mind chewing over Oster’s confession. “So why do you want to get back at Dalain for what he said?”

“Just because it was true, didn’t mean I had nothing left to offer.” Oster’s voice became hard and angry, uncovering the hurt beneath. “I knew I wasn’t getting any younger…but I had twenty years of experience…of training arrogant sods like Dalain who could only see the value in getting ahead and not helping others to become better. I still had so much more to give…” Oster looked at his wrinkled hands and sagged on the hay bale. “But Alaykin only heard Dalain say that I was old…that I was an embarrassment to Fort Bastil…”

“Now I really want to squash his face into the dirt…” Judd said angrily. He was surprised at Oster’s calm hand on his own.

“Don’t ever do that, lad.”

“What?”

“Take someone else’s offense as your own. Making offense your motivation will only cause you to become bitter and angry.”

“You’re telling me that part of the reason you’re helping me isn’t to get back at Dalain just a little?”

Oster pulled a face. “Maybe just a little…” The bell rang and he forced his legs to straighten so that he could stand up. “Come on, lad…it’s time.”