Mortal gods, p.15
Mortal Gods, page 15
“From what I gather, Dorothea's has wandering eyes.” His pale eyes scanned the room of patrons, most of whom had fallen to complete silence, and diverted their eye from Mangus. “The boys Khamari keeper is his protectorate, sworn to defend him till victory or death against the armies of tyrants not seen since the Daemon War. And yet, you stroke her anger… over a whore?” The man said, stepping up from his stool.
The tension in the room tightened and the moments ticked painfully slow. Behind Mangus, Arianna helped an enraged Avari to his feet, blood trickling from his lip where Mangus connected.
“Try that again!” Avari raged, but a sharp look from the stranger put Avari’s anger out to pasture.
The man placed three golden coins on the bar behind him,
“For the broken furniture, Siiro.” He said with an apologetic glance over his shoulder to Mr Lemuer.
“Leave.” He growled at Mangus.
The blonde haired man hesitated, but there was something in the stranger’s voice that chilled Adrian, even though he was sure he was helping him. The blade retreated from Adrian's neck, leaving a small red dot where it had dug in and Mangus backed towards the door. The anger was evident on his face, but he had been embarrassed by yet another thwarted attempt at exacting his misguided revenge against Adrian.
“You’re the stranger Pauper told me about” Adrian said, not waiting another moment.
“Tomorrow.” The man said quietly. He made for the door, but Adrian leapt forward and grabbed his arm.
“What do you want with me?!” Adrian snapped.
“The war is coming, Adrian.” He said simply and shuffled his arm free. Before Adrian could protest, the old man stalked out of the tavern quickly and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 7
The Fifty-Fourth Cycle
Adrian
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice boomed from the podium above. “Welcome to the eighteenth annual games of commemoration honouring all those who fell.”
As the voice prattled on, Adrian surveyed his opponents. The bigger men, clad in metal armour from head to toe looked the most daunting prospects on the face of it, but in the Orannian heat, they would soon wilt in prolonged battle. It was the small and nimble looking characters that Adrian was more interested in.
“...For the lives of the brave and the fallen that we shall never forget!” The crowd erupted in forceful cheer, some competitors battering the shields with war hammers and sword hilts.
The thundering bangs went straight after Adrian's temples, still throbbing gently from the shots of fire whiskey and tankards of ale. Before he left for the ceremony, Adrian had checked himself over with Pauper. His reflexes were fine, his mind was solid, but he still felt sore form the fall he had taken in Grayward. It wasn’t a major problem, but enough to remind him to be cautious.
“Now, since there has been an increase in numbers of participants from across the realm this year, the purse has increase to a whooping ten golden crowns!” The man said, and the crowd cheered again.
The purse made Adrian think maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea he was entered after all. But then he remembered he still didn’t know who entered him. The man at the podium stepped away and another announcer began the rundown of names of the first round of challengers. Adrian's was called against Perrin Brightfire, but he couldn't see the reaction of anyone in the crowd to suggest it was them. The crowd began to break away towards the outskirts of the town, where the arena had been constructed, and Adrian caught sight of Pauper and the man from Mr Lemeur’s, staring at him from the balcony of the Inn.
Adrian wanted to march up to their room and kick the door in, but his name had been called relatively early in the long list, so it meant he would be up almost immediately.
The crowd whooped and cheered manically, waiting for the action to begin. From the outside, it was a dull roar of collective voice, but as Adrian made his way through the tall iron gates into the arena fighting pit, the voices became more personal. Men and woman he had seen on a daily basis were now screaming and cheering his name. Adrian had sat through the opening three bouts listening to the rousing reception the crowd afforded the competitors, but when he stood to make his way to the pit, there was a different roar.
He could feel their joy at seeing him. On this day, eighteen years ago, the war ended. For many life resumed, for others it didn’t. Adrian’s life started on that day. To some, that meant something. To Adrian it meant he was alive and that was it.
Adrian had watched on as the locals who had entered the tournament fell one by one in pitiful attempts. Gus, the stall hand at the fishmoungers, fell to a Merc from Seroyah. Lydus, the Apprentice Smithy to Merick, was smashed by a retired Knight from the Freemarches and Jeffry, the fat slob who practically lived in Mr Lemuer's tavern was disqualified for being to drunk to compete. Watching from the stands, hidden among the faces of people who lauded him made it look easy.
But now, stood here naked to their judgement, Adrian felt a growl of nerves and a twist of fear tie into a knot in his stomach. The yellowing grass had been covered thoroughly by sand, imported from the southern beach in Oraan. How they manged to get it without a fight from the Zahra tribe was a mystery to Adrian. It was soft below his feet, and crumbled which was not a great sign for Adrian. Pauper had always taught him the value of movement on a duel, and any moment spent lingering in one spot was a moment that could get him killed.
“They cannot hit what they cannot catch!” She would say.
The crowd began booing vigorously at a heavily armoured Knight who marched into the arena, wearing a steel breast plate, leg guards and heavy greaves. The sight made Adrian smile. To many, he must’ve looked a fool, grinning at a man in daunting plate and mail. But Adrian seen past its aesthetics and examined the Knight. The uneven sand made him shaky on his feet and the breast plate pulled him from side to side when he tried to move, and in the heat, he would soon run out of steam. Adrian stepped forward to meet the Knight in the centre of the pit, flanked by an official who held a red flag and a blue flag in each hand.
“You're red,” He said, “You're blue.” throwing a red ribbon towards Adrian and a blue one towards the knight opposite. He caught it and tied it around his left wrist. The Knight was bigger than he first appeared, the armour most likely adding a few inches, but never the less big is big. He had a face littered with freckles and a strand of red hair that fell just beyond his helms reach.
“When you score a hit, I will raise your flag. Reset to positions when a hit is scored. Three hits’ a winner.” The Official moved closer and spoke more quietly. “No punching, biting, spitting or kicking. This is a game of swordsmanship, gentlemen. Understood?”
The Knight drew a huge bastard sword, two-handed and fierce. It would had been even more fearsome had it carried a sharp edge. Adrian gripped onto the hilt of his own broad sword, feeling for the grooves that his fingers had woven into it over the years of training with Pauper. Three loud cracks went up and the crowd cheered in excitement. The Knight plunged forward and brought down the heavy bastard sword with a furious thud, but Adrian anticipated and moved. He stepped to the side, thrusting himself a little harder that he would normally have, compensating for the poor footing.
The Knight heaved at Adrian again and missed badly as his feet shifted from under him, leaving his side exposed. Adrian gently tapped the metal of the Knights armour with a flick of his sword and the official threw up the red flag. The heat beat down as though it shone through glass at them. Adrian felt it toast his skin, so he could only imagine what being inside a metal suit would feel like.
Adrian reset to the original position, but as soon as he did, the Knight charged in and lobed a blow at his head. Adrian ducked easily and whipped his sword at the stomach of the Knight, echoing a blow off his armour to a huge roar from the hundred strong crowd. He felt good. He had never had people cheer for him before. When the red flag returned to the official’s side, the Knight lunged in again with three quick stabs of the big blade. Adrian deflected the first, feeling the weight of his opponent’s strikes, dodged the second and pre-empted the third by thrashing his sword off the helm of the Knight which knocked him from his stride.
“Winner!!” The official cried out and the crowd roared with him. The faces that showered him with adulation where vast, like little flies dotted all across the stands, each one to a man smiling and hooting. The warm feeling inside Adrian halted with a shudder, when his eyes fell across Pauper and the stranger from the tavern.
Both were stony faced, thrashing out words between them as they gazed watched. The official ushered Adrian and the Knight, through the metal gate. As he passed, two more competitors stalked past him. At first Adrian had to take a second look but was shocked when he realised the first was Tyros Ryme. A Merc from the Freemarches, he was the winner of the Royal Tournament in Seroyah last year, where the standard was much, much higher than Redbridge.
Adrian wished he had been there but he heard how Tyros had won a narrow victory in the final melee against Jorrin Halfpin, a former commander in the old Vacarian Empire’s army. He dressed similar to Adrian, with a dark brown leather breast plate and tight britches, covered in leather leg guards. In his scabbard, he wore a fine broad sword, with a blunted edge that had three small emeralds run down its hilt. His shaven head was sun kissed, bordering on raw but within his beady eyes was a certain focus. He walked right past Adrian, without a glance, marching towards the sand ahead of his opponent. To look at Tyros, and then this man, it was a clear miss match. The man's ratty clothes sagged from his body and he walked like a prisoner being marched to the noose.
“Good job!” Arianna said jogging forward from the crowd of people who gathered. The Knight Adrian beat, glared at her, but stormed off into the rabble, without a word.
“He made it easy.” Adrian replied quietly.
“I definitely saw Pauper crack at least a grin from the crowd!” Arianna jested.
“That's not what I saw.” Adrian said, recalling the stiff looks on both her and the strangers faces. “What’s Tyros Ryme doing in Redbridge?”
“Apparently he intends to do some world tour and win every Tournament in Thaurel. Hes won in Seroyah and Qalm so far. Thnk he’s heading to the Freemarches after this.”
“He’s good enough to do it.” Adrian sighed.
The crowd roared and the metal gate swung open again and out walked Tyros, stone faced, victorious.
“That was quick?” Arianna said. Adrian cast a look over Tyros' shoulder to see the red splatter of blood cast over the sand, and the man he faced, being dragged by the legs from the arena. The red streak chased him all the way through the gate, as the view of a nasty gash across his face and throat.
“Take him to Eoric!” One of the men dragging his ankles called.
“Eoric is competing in the tourney.” The other replied back.
“The take him to somebody who can bloody help!” The first steward shouted. He dropped the beaten man's leg to the ground and stalked back into the arena, while the blood continued to spew from his wound.
“Should we help?” Adrian said, edging towards the blood.
“And do what?” Arianna replied, “He needs a doctor.”
Before Adrian could muster any more concern, a rabble of officials dressed in black jerkins laced with yellow trimmings, rushed around the man and hauled him to his feet.
“Come on lets go back to the podium, they should’ve put the board up by now.” Arianna said.
The short walk back into town was a blur of people eyeing Adrian strangely, and some even shaking his hand or patting his shoulder. This was what Adrian had hated about the small tight knit community that was Redbridge; everybody knew him. Of course he enjoyed it when they cheered for him at a distance, but the face to face interactions of those who swore he should be honoured by his birthdate, those were trying.
The board they had build was vast; at least twelve feet wide and eight feet high, with fine, educated handwriting smoothly penned into boards with each competitors name on it. It was a standard tournament tree, depicting who would face who when and if they progressed through the rounds. Adrian scanned the board searching for his own name, and found it near the top right of the board. He had just dispatched Perrin Brightfire, who’s board had been decorate with a large red cross.
“Alden Carak.” Adrian said when he had found his next opponent.
“Never heard of him.” Arianna replied.
Adrian looked again at the board, only this time he searched for Avari and found it on the left side of the board.
“Avari won!” She exclaimed. He beat... Kyrin Dowd.” Arianna said when she found it.
“Thirty-two entries.” Adrian said when he finished counting the names.
“Four more rounds for glory!” Arianna said, jesting again.
But that warmth Adrian had felt swell within him had long since began to dim since the cheering crowd had been left behind.
“Look.” Arianna said, pointing to the very top of the board at the left hand side.
“Mangus? I didn't know he entered.” Adrian said.
He was on the opposite side of the board, so the only way that he could exact his revenge was to meet Adrian in the final.
“No, not him,” Arianna dismissed, “him.” She had wandered to the centre of the board but pointed right. At the bottom of the board there was no name. Well no real name, instead it only read “Knight X”
“Who's you suppose that is?” Arianna said. Adrian shrugged uneasy, seeing the mystery knight was in his half of the draw. “We should go back.”
Alden Carak was no warrior. A plump man in his thirties without that look. When the red and blue flags fell, Adrian took a measure of mercy. His strikes were clumsy and slow, his form was poor and his movement was non-existent. It was a wonder he made it through the first round. Adrian made short work of him, sidestepping and tapping his shoulder three times to earn the victory, and as they had before, the crowd went feverish for him.
Sat in among them with Pauper and the stranger, he prepared to take in Avari's bout with Ser Berrick Tweed, a former Knight of Hyule, who now held loyalty to none but the coin.
Avari wore similar leather to Adrian's but without the Hyulian eagle on the chest. He even moved remarkably similar. Ser Berrick was a fine swordsman, experienced enough in real combat to know to abandon his heavy plate and mail for boiled leather in this envirment.
“Come on Avari!” Arianna shouted from a row back. Her voice drifted onto the sand with the hundred other voices, and mangled into a roar.
“Can he win?” Adrian asked Pauper.
“Anything is possible.” The stranger answered, but Pauper drew a long look at Adrian.
The roar went up and the flags came down. Avari and Ser Berrick circled one another cautiously, scanning for a weakness to exploit. Like a lion stalking prey, Ser Berrick cut off the open sands and backed Avari up towards the wooden frame of the area.
“Keep moving!” Adrian shouted, but his voice was lost in the riotous noise of the baying crowd. Instead, Avari found his back pressed against the splintered wood and his path cut off. Ser Berrick lunged forward with a calculated slash and their swords screamed the familiar theme of battle. The red flag shot up as Ser Berrick whipped a wicked blow off the ribs of Avari.
“Keep moving!” Adrian shouted again. “He's got to keep moving!” He repeated in exasperation to Pauper.
Adrian was on his feet now, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He felt worse now than he did when he competed himself. Avari punched the spot on his leathers where Ser Berrick had landed his blow, in a show of defiance. The former Knight pushed forward again, and again Avari let him cut away the ground, eating through the space Adrian knew he needed.
“Don't back up!” Adrian roared. The duel trundled just below them, and Adrian burst out of his seat.
Ser Berrick thrashed down a mighty blow that Avari defended, only barely. Its force pushed him off balance and the Knight cut his leathers again as the red flag shot up. Adrian leaned over the wooden frame angrily, and slapped Avari on the head, “Hoi!”
Avari shot an angry glance upwards, but softened when he seen Adrian.
“Don’t let him back you up, you're faster than he is so use the space!” Adrian bellowed. “Push the tempo, make him miss and he’ll tire!”
To think Avari’s ears were painted on would not have been such a ludicrous suggestion to see him now. He walked back out onto the sand and allowed Ser Berrick to bully him back against the boards. The blows reigned down on Avari, each one deflected even more marginally than the last. Adrian returned to his seat, hard pressed to watch anymore.
“You taught the boy well.” The strangers said, smiling at him.
He waiting for the metal clangs to end and the crowd to roar a little louder; the signal that his friend had been put out of his misery.
“You should go, you're on next.” Pauper told him.
Adrian took a final glance at the sand and saw that Avari had, at the very least, managed to work his way out of the pummelling against boards. Every false syllable and wild cheer from the crowd made Adrian's heart dance in his chest. Although it was just a tournament, one look at Tyros’ opponent told him that you could still be seriously hurt. He tried as best he could to block it out and focus on the next opponent, until it dawned on Adrian, he had no idea who that was. The metal gate that led to the sand fighting pit was barred and manned by the two officials that Adrian had seen drag off Tyros' victim. Standing on the outside listening in made it even worse to imagine what was going on inside the area.
The roar from the crowd crashed against the gates and they flew open. Adrian held his breathe, hoping beyond hope that Avari wasn't too badly beaten up. But to his surprise, it was Ser Berrick who stormed from the arena first, but he was furious.
