“Oh dear,” said Dave, still forcing a smile.

  “Indeed,” agreed Hugh, keeping up his whiskery smile.

  Johan had gone through the weapon’s bouts like a hot knife through butter and had just qualified for the finals all while calling out the nobility as blasphemous before the gods the entire way.

  Before the anticipated awkward conversation with Johan, Dave and Hugh had gone to Dubois to help, to which she’d been receptive. Despite her fair, elven skin, Mother Dubois gave the sense she was made of tough leather, clad in her ceremonial mail with prayers woven in. Her eyes, as sharp as a hawk’s, sharpened more at their words and then relaxed.

  A small explanation later and she seemed relieved that the two of them had figured out that Warrior was insulted by being invoked in a tournament that was a pretext for bribery. So, all three moved to Johan to have that talk and, initially, Dave and Hugh had been thinking to encourage Johan to maybe give a cocky grin after winning? Some fancy footwork during a fight? Definitely raise his sword and acknowledge the crowd after a win.

  Dubois, however, had grabbed Johan by the lapels, shook him and told him to start acting like Hero’s chosen and Warrior’s choice pick. She had let him know in no uncertain terms that the gods themselves had conspired to put him in this tournament as a warning about the consequences of blasphemy and it was his holy mandate to be the instrument of that warning.

  Dave and Hugh had kept silent and nodded along with poker faces at the unexpected intensity of Dubois but none of them, not even Dubois, had anticipated how wholeheartedly Johan would embrace her words. He'd taken those words into his big, farmboy heart and after that, he hadn’t just played the part; he’d become it.

  As customary, once the fights reached the quarterfinals, each fighter was given time to speak before the match. Before Johan, the fighters just stated their name, where they resided, their school or trainer and added some fancy description of how honourable, skilled or badass they were. Then Johan had stepped up for the quarter finals.

  “I am the Chosen of Hero,” he’d said, “given unto Warrior himself to bring the respect He deserves to this tournament. For it is known that the grand prize was already designed upon a competitor before the first blow was given and yes, ladies and gentlemen, in that blasphemy Warrior’s divine blessing was still asked for upon these games!”

  The crowd, normally abuzz with conversation while the fighters talked, went deathly quiet for Johan’s speech. He continued.

  “This is a blasphemous insult to the god of martial challenge! But Warrior has selected me to correct this mistake and give those blasphemers a path to forgiveness. To my opponents I say, my blade is the will of the god Warrior and with Him as my strength, I will carve a truth into this arena: That false piety shall not be allowed to be a cloak for greed. Let those who face me know, they do not stand against mere steel, but against divine judgement!"

  The crowd was burbling now, some pointing to the clergy of Warrior who were staffing the event. He was saying this in front of the bishop of Warrior and the bishop wasn’t intervening.

  “As proof of my divine mission,” continued Johan to the louder and louder cheers of the common folk in the crowd. “Proof that one need not blaspheme Warrior to satisfy Trade, I submit to you my own challenge,” he glanced at Dave who poured every coin, essence and awakening stone he had into a large brazier that had been carried out by two of the bookkeepers on staff. “Such is my faith that the gods have selected me that I have put all the riches I own in a winner-takes-all pot before you. Throw in your coin! Beat me! If you think you are righteous!”

  After this speech, he’d beaten the sixer, Abelard Perrot, in the quarter finals decisively. Perrot was a sword and shield fighter, just like Johan, but unlike Johan’s highly adaptable way of fighting, Perrot was an aggressive pressure fighter. Always coming forward, forcing his opponent to retreat and overwhelming their defences. As he came forward against Johan, even with the suppression collar on, Johan used his great strength and promptly sheared off a third of Perrot’s shield. For the first time in the tournament, Perrot wasn’t the one setting the pace and being forced to retreat. Johan kept up the pressure and soon caught him in the face with a thrust that nobody doubted would have gone through his cheekbone, skull and brain.

  The semi finals had followed a similar template but with more intensity. The speeches of the remaining three nobles had an insistent note of the importance of their own heritage and dignity but were like a rotten gate before the battering ram of Johan’s righteous fervour. When he spoke he dared all who believed this tournament was made in good faith before Warrior to place their goods of Trade in the brazier as he had done once more. The pot was substantially bigger now since his winnings from Perrot were in there too. Johan had played the crowd and personally goaded three nobles, allies of the Reyers, to put their riches in. One of them was from Hugh’s quest and Dave watched with relief and trepidation as the nobleman arrogantly put an awakening stone of harmony in the treasure pile.

  Then, one suppression collar and weapons selection ritual later. Johan had beaten Georgette Brodeur. This fight had taken longer than the others. Georgette favoured a hanging guard; one with the hilt of her long sabre in the air and the blade hanging forward-down. She had forced a one handed selection against Johan who’d selected the longest and heaviest rapier. Against her slow moving but well balanced counter-slashing style, Johan used a lot of lateral movement, probing at her blade with his stronger muscles and heavier weapon.

  After a few exchanges that challenged them both, Johan eventually succeeded in knocking aside Brodeur’s blade long enough to slash deep into her thigh. After that he’d just returned to circling and probing again until Brodeur’s blood loss activated the arena’s magic.

  Johan had, once again not inventoried his winnings in a clear indication that the pot would be kept for the next round.

  As expected, on the other side of the bracket, Avril Reyer defeated her opponents. Dave had to hand it to her. She was the real deal and although she was insulted by the insinuations of Johan’s speeches, Dave noticed that her own speeches insisted on her own virtues and readiness to fight before Warrior and not, Dave noticed, her innocence.

  Now, it was late afternoon and Reyer was facing off against Johan in the finals of the weapon’s bouts. The crowd was a mix of commoners and nobles, easily distinguishable by the quality of their seats, and all were cheering for their representative and hissing at the other competitor.

  Time was signalled meaning that either competitor could begin the match. Johan was hanging back, giving time for the nobles queuing up at the bookmakers to add to his treasure pile. There were two piles now. Johan’s personal, winner-takes-all pot, that was all his winnings so far, and since the semifinals, an even larger brazier of sidebets had been added as well. It was basically a place where the audience could publicly display who they were betting on by adding to the pot. People were shouting out their bets and tossing in coins and/or valuables from the sidelines. Many a wealthy merchant and disgruntled noble, especially those whose team had already been knocked out of the bouts, had defiantly approached that bookkeeper and tossed in some coins while glaring up at the windows to the social club where the most powerful of the elites watched on.

  Rolling her eyes at the delay, Avril Reyer begun the suppression collar ritual, kneeling in front of the Warrior acolyte to have it snap around her neck and stepping into the ring. Being himself, Johan bowed politely in the style of commoners and knelt to take a collar. Reyer immediately selected a long rapier, glaring at Johan who intentionally took his time, letting the staff move the hovering treasure piles into the arena gates before carefully selecting an identical weapon to Reyer. They both saluted each other with their swords and the match began.

  Although she’d acted impatient mere moments before, Reyer advanced on Johan with a measured step. It was Reyer who opened with a lightning-quick thrust towards Johan’s hands. Although she gave no hint of the movement before it came. Johan somehow read her intentions and faded back slightly, drawing his hand closer to his body and staying just beyond the tip of her rapier before riposting back over the top at her arm, just as quickly as Reyer. She twisted her wrist and caught Johan’s blade on her crossguard but it was a close thing. Johan finished the exchange with his own, now signature, lightning quick, unanticipated thrust that Reyer had just attempted to imitate.

  Johan smiled at her briefly as he leisurely pursued her retreat, Reyer scowled back and suddenly, Dave understood the exchange. She’d attempted to assert herself over him by using his own move to drive him back, but Johan had simply rode the wave of the attack and shown her how it was supposed to be done. Dave smirked now too.

  “Having fun, little hayseed?” said a voice in Dave’s ear.

  Dave’s head whipped around and found a bronze ranked presence right behind him. He used Stop And Think to identify the individual as soon as his vision made them selectable in his UI. It was a celestine woman with polished silver hair named Aurélie Laurent. Epistemology showed that his own notes listed her as on a team from Camargue, to the south, and that her family had good relations with the Reyers. Most tellingly she was wearing a cruel smile. It seemed like the nobility had moved to quietly intimidate him. Dave formulated a plan and let time flow around him again.

  “FUCK OFF!” shouted Dave into the held-breath atmosphere of the arena. Several people closeby looked at Dave in confusion, including Laurent. “I’m betting on Johan and this woman is trying to intimidate me! Blasphemer!”

  The woman raised her hands in stunned denial.

  “No, I’m just -”

  “No, he’s with Johan’s team, I saw him earlier,” said a bronze rank runic, pointing at Dave. His UI identified him as a merchant, étienne Flamant.

  “What’s her name, Dave?” asked Hugh loudly, who’d torn his eyes off Johan and leaned over.

  “Her name is Aurélie Laurent and her family has close ties with the Reyers!” said Dave loudly, taking the hint.

  Laurent scowled at Dave.

  “You’ll regr-” she interrupted herself, glancing at Hugh, promptly gathered up her skirts and left.

  “I fucking hate these people,” muttered Dave, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the fight. “What’d I miss?”

  “Not much,” said Hugh, his own eyes back on the match. “My Lady says they’re still just probing.”

  Dave nodded and stared at the contest with the rest of the stadium. Johan was using his superior reach to apply pressure and keep Reyer from initiating her own offence but she was retreating intelligently to Johan’s weak side and spiralling away from him as she went so as to not get backed up against a wall. Occasionally she would counterattack but from what Dave could see and the mutterings of conversation around him, Johan was matching her speed, reading her feints and not letting her take the superior angles on him.

  “I think he’s trying to piss her off,” muttered Dave in Hugh’s ear. “Maybe get her tired?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know,” said Hugh. “How can you tell?”

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “It reminds me of something people do in unarmed combat,” said Dave. “Find an advantage and keep pushing it until your opponent reacts or sometimes you find something they’ve trouble dealing with and you keep doing it until they get tired and then push it really hard so it gets through.”

  “Indeed, something just changed, though,” said Hugh, gesturing at what Dave was also looking at.

  Johan had changed his footwork and was no longer pursuing Reyer in a circle around the arena but was moving to his own left as he went, herding her towards the wall. Understanding this, Reyer reversed direction to go the other way but Johan danced out that direction as well, following her with the nimble footwork that was so surprising in a man of his stature.

  The fight slowed as Johan backed Reyer up against the wall with light touches of blades and deft footwork that was a language between the fighters that Dave couldn’t follow. Then it was like he blinked and Reyer moved to a bind with Johan, a weak position for the smaller person as Dave understood it, but as Johan applied pressure, she used her smaller stature to duck her body under Johan’s hands and brushed past him, regaining the centre of the ring and drawing her blade across Johan’s leg as she ran. The cut was weak and didn’t make it far through the thick fabric that the fighters wore for the bouts but the bloodied cloth around the shallow cut marked the largest injury anybody had gotten all tournament on Johan.

  Smiling and gesturing at the mark on his clothing in respect, Johan once again pursued Reyer but this time with a more frantic pace. He smiled and laughed as he crossed blades with Reyer as though the cut she’d landed had invigorated him. Johan thrust his blade forward in a blur of speed and precision, his strikes came faster and with more force that sometimes rocked Reyer’s footing. He seemed to be dancing on the balls of his feet as he fought, each step calculated to keep Reyer guessing where he’d be next. The crowd first murmured and that murmur became a roar as he executed a series of rapid thrusts and parries in a long exchange with Reyer.

  After side-stepping and brushing by Reyer after a particularly aggressive thrust, Johan switched his sword to his left hand while they pivoted back towards each other. Reyer glared at him suspiciously but Johan just smiled happily and resumed fighting. The crowd reacted with a collective sense of curiosity. Normally switching to one’s off-hand mid-fight was something done during a mutual break in action or done within fighting range to intimidate a lesser opponent but Johan had carefully picked an opportunistic moment to do so, suggesting strategy.

  Johan advanced on Reyer with his left arm out, holding the rapier. Reyer held her ground and met Johan at this new angle, testing him. Johan thrust, she parried. He thrust again and she parried. Johan did a double thrust, stepping left as he did so across the line of Reyer’s sword arm and lowered his rapier. Reyer slashed savagely diagonally down from her high parry towards Johan’s neck, out to her right. And both fighters were instantaneously covered in a protective bubble when the false edge of Johans blade flicked up into Reyer’s wrist.

  The same move he’d won his first fight with, but with his left hand.

  “WINNER! JOHAN SCHMIDT OF WARRIOR!”

  “Oh, shit!” said Dave loudly through a grin as the stadium roared, the expensive seats in outrage and the others in jubilation. “That’s going to bruise some egos!” he shouted in Hugh’s ear over the noise. “Beating her with the same move he used at the start.”

  “Did he indeed?” shouted Hugh. “Oh, I suppose it was like that, wasn’t it? The same cut? Yes, indeed.”

  “Where the fuck are we going to sleep tonight?” asked Dave, laughing despite himself.

  “Holy ground is holy ground,” yelled Hugh between shouted cheers. “We’ll be fine in the cathedrals.”

  “Okay, how are we getting there?” asked Dave loudly.

  The noise of the crowd was lessening from a solid constant that occupied the entire eardrum to merely very loud celebrations or complaints as Johan and Reyer were thawed from their full body shields and healed. Reyer picked up her sword and, although glaring, had the dignity to go through the ritual of the formal bow and exit from the ring correctly.

  Upon formally exiting the arena himself, with his suppression collar removed, standing silhouetted in the tunnel leading to the working parts of the arena like a painting of a demigod, Johan summoned his sword into his hand and raised it above his head to the crowd once more. He stood like that, shifting left and right as though to personally thank everyone for coming and, before overstaying his welcome, retreated down the tunnel.

  “Let’s get back there with him, grab one of the staff, tell them to ask Dubois to find us and plan how we’re going to avoid assassination tonight, yeah?” said Dave.

  Hugh nodded.

  Earlier that day, élise Dubois adjusted her robes, the emblem of Warrior glinting on her sash in the soft light as she stepped into the comforts of the arena social club. The room’s mood was alive with music and the poised discussions of nobles, a stark contrast to the fervour of the crowd outside. Her eyes quickly found Baron Franchet, amid a group of aristocrats and flanked by flunkies. She approached him like one who has a god on their side.

  "Baron Franchet," élise called, her voice clipped yet calm. "I must insist on a moment of your time. It concerns the will of Warrior and his clergy."

  The Baron looked up, curiosity lighting his eyes at being spoken to so by a mere bronze.

  "Of course, Mother Dubois," he said patiently, excusing himself from the group and joining her in a quieter corner of the room behind a privacy screen. "How may I assist you?"

  "It concerns the tournament and the will of Warrior," élise began, her tone measured and serious. "The clergy of Warrior views the original motivations of this tournament as an affront to the values of Warrior."

  Franchet nodded, his interest piqued.

  "Go on."

  "Your desire to thwart the ambitions of the Reyers and the Craftsmen's League aligns with Warrior's wish to see this tournament be a true test of martial skill," élise explained. "Although you have loyalty to your esteemed peerage and the crown, deference to the gods comes first. Don’t you agree?"

  “The gods can be fickle,” mused Franchet. “Where one frowns another smiles.”

  “Just because Warrior does not play your mortal games does not mean he is ignorant,” snapped élise. “You have the opportunity to please my God, thwart your political rivals who mean to steal your trade opportunities, to embarrass them publicly and there will be an awful lot of money in it for you. Now stop fighting Warrior when he is trying to bring gifts!”

  "And what do you propose is my role before Warrior?" Franchet asked testily, changing tack and leaning in as though doing her a favour by acquiescing.

  "Your role is psychological," élise said. "Feign solidarity with your fellow high born and be outraged with them that the one who represents Warrior is low born.” élise ignored the scowl and undisguised aura flow that suggested he wouldn’t be feigning those emotions. “Lead them make great bets on the noble fighters against Schmidt. Make whatever excuses you need to keep them betting, especially the items on this list from these people.”

  élise handed over the list she’d gotten from Hugh.

  “Knowledge wants them,” said élise in response to the baron’s raised eyebrow. “Just make sure that you’re the one handing over the bags of coins when placing the bets so that you can secretly write Schmit’s name down for the bets of your own supporters.”

  “You seem overly confident that this villager will win,” said Franchet, looking down his nose at élise. “Share with me this confidence and I will do as you say in Warrior’s name.”

  She hovered for the characteristic moment while Warrior spoke and then continued.

  “Schmidt was trained by a swordmaster named Greenwood. Ask one named Lord El’Afar about past gladiatorial champions of the empire to hear her name and bend the conversation there naturally. El’Afar speaks highly of her abilities. She’s one of his top ten.”

  Despite his silver rank control, Franchet felt his eyebrows raise a fraction. El’Afar was a bit of a fight fanatic. Duelling, bouts, gladiators, teams and even jousting or peasant wrestling, El’Afar had been watching it for as long as most silver rankers had been alive. Great fighters populated his memory so, being in his top ten was remarkable.

  "Ah, I see,” said Franchet, his eyes gleaming with understanding. “Villager, but trained properly.” He pressed his index fingers against his lips. “I thought Schmidt moved well but I didn’t believe it was… well, never mind now. It seems I’m in Warrior’s debt getting out early and now I get to salvage what satisfaction I can. If anyone questions my class loyalties I can at least display Schmidt’s champion heritage, and salvage some honour there."

  élise nodded, satisfied. "You know their weaknesses. Make them overconfident. Bet big."

  Franchet nodded, turned swiftly to the privacy screen and lowered it abruptly.

  “If that’s all you have to say, Mother Dubois then I wish you good day,” Franchet said with stiff formality.

  “It is, Baron Franchet,” said élise, inclining her head politely. “I shall take my leave of you.”

  Baron Franchet inclined his head the barest minimum for politeness as élise left his company and stalked towards the group he’d been talking to earlier that contained Everard Reyer, Lucia Romano of the Craftsmen’s League and other high ranking nobility. He seemed to bristle as he went, his expression one of barely contained indignation. His voice, however, was carefully controlled as he began to speak, deliberately speaking loud enough that all present knew he intended élise to hear.

  "Gentlemen," he began, his tone sharp with barely restrained ire, "I no longer desire to talk of trade. I’ve just had the displeasure of an audience with one of Warrior’s clergy, and I must say, the arrogance of some individuals knows no bounds!"

  The other nobles, already sensitive to the presence of élise Dubois in their midst, turned to him with raised brows. Her presence was like a rotten egg at a party. A clear discomfort to everyone in the room but élise, standing by the bar and ordering a drink, made no effort to hide her pious, condescending demeanour as Franchet continued.

  "Can you imagine the gall?" Franchet continued, his voice growing louder, "This must be some kind of test of faith, ladies and gentlemen! There is no other explanation. That a god as powerful as Warrior would only send a mere bronze to our presence and presume to lecture us on piety! And worse, she had the audacity to suggest that this upstart commoner, this… Schmidt, is somehow Warrior’s chosen instrument!"

  “Well, of course, old boy,” said Lord Reyer, rolling his eyes theatrically. “We invited all the real competitors within Dominion’s grace. Warrior’s token peasant is just all he could find in a hurry!”

  The room was now fully attentive to the chortling rulers and bankers, the scattered groups of chattering nobles turning their attention to the two parties who were, moments ago, locked in tense discussion about trade rights. The nobles both lightened up to this new development and simultaneously bristled at the Warrior clergy in the room. Dubois made sure her presence was like salt in a wound, her calm and confident demeanour a stark contrast to their growing outrage.

  "In fact, what is this insolence?” Franchet demanded, his voice rising in fervour. “Are we to take seriously that Warrior could find no one to represent him among us?”

  “Hear, hear!” called a lady that Reyer only recognised as one having a ministerial position. “This is clearly Warrior acting alone, putting some peasant brute where he doesn’t belong!”

  “Well said,” said another more sedately. “It wouldn’t be the first time that the clergy of a god went too far outside their patrons’s sphere. Remember that news from a few months back about that town in South Berberia? That scandal with Healer?”

  There was a general murmur of ascent.

  “The other gods will aid us, if we but pray,” announced Franchet amid the hubbub. “I say we call upon those gods to aid us against Warrior’s lack of respect for his boundaries and ask them what they think.”

  élise took a slow sip from her glass, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction as Franchet stoked the flames of their pride and carefully directed the conversation to let the nobles talk themselves into believing simultaneously that from Warrior, this was a test of faith, the he acted alone without the blessings of the other gods and that the the local Warrior clergy were outside their mandate.

  élise let her smugness show in her aura, knowing that it’d make them even more mad. She noted happily with respect to the point of Warrior acting alone that they’d all somehow forgotten or dismissed that Schmidt was a chosen of Hero and merely Warrior’s representative for this tournament and that he also had a friar of Knowledge on his fight team. Still, she felt no need to correct them on that account. She enjoyed her drink and even started on another while the nobles straightened their story out, making sure they were definitely on the side of right in their self imposed narrative until she heatd Baron Franchet’s voice cut above the rest.

  "I say no!" Franchet declared, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. "If this commoner scum and his allies believe they can best us, let them try. And let us make an example of them! We will show them why we are above them. Why Dominion holds us close! Why Trade blesses our vaults! Let’s show them that nobility isn’t just a title, but a force to be reckoned with!"

  There was a murmur of agreement among the nobles, and Franchet seized the moment.

  "Let us raise the stakes, gentlemen," he said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "If the Schmidt boy wants to make winner-takes-all bets on every match from now until tournament end let us join him, and let us call every coin, every essence, awakening stone and magic item that we place into the pot a donation to Dominion. Let Him know that we hold the faith!”

  Baron Franchet reached into his breast pocket and withdrew two velvet bags of silver coins and three awakening stones; of skies, spears and fire, and put them on a large, silver platter. “I’ll be staking a significant sum myself, a show of my faith in our noble fighters of good stock. Let us see if this so-called chosen one can stand against the full weight of our true power, lineage and fortune. Let us leverage our collective power… against Schmidt"

  The suggestion hung in the air for a moment before Reyer, clearly unwilling to be outdone by his rival, spoke up.

  "I’ll match your bet, Franchet. Let’s see how this commoner fares when he’s fighting against more than just what’s in the arena." He swept food off a platter in front of him and put two bags of silver and three awakening stones of his own down. “And I’ll raise you,” he also put down a magical figurine of a mouse, “And, I will donate the work of the people of my house who can discern an iron ranker’s magical abilities!”

  Another noble quickly followed suit.

  "And I. I won’t be bested by some lowborn swordsman." She put down a harmonic essence and three bags of coins. “I will bring the people of my house into the audience so remove the peasant pretender’s support. Let him smile into a crowd of hate!”

  One by one, the nobles pledged their fortunes, their competitive spirits flaring as they sought to outdo one another. The atmosphere in the room shifted from indignation to a kind of fevered anticipation, each noble eager to prove their dedication to superiority.

  élise watched with a satisfied smile as the nobles unwittingly walked into the trap she had relayed but Franchet had set. And Johan Schmidt, with the blessings of Hero and Warrior, would be the instrument of their undoing.

  As the nobles finalised their bets, their conversation turned to Johan with a mixture of contempt and simmering fury. The man who had dared to call them blasphemers, who had challenged their status and questioned their piety, would now face the full brunt of their ire. And élise knew, with a certainty from Warrior himself, that Johan would rise to meet that challenge.

  "May the best man win," Franchet said with a sly smile, raising his glass in a mock toast.

  "Indeed," one of the nobles replied, his voice dripping with disdain. "Though I suspect we all know who that will be."

  The laughter that followed was harsh and mocking, but élise paid it no mind. She did, however, allow her anxiousness about an iron ranker bearing the brunt of a full aristocracy’s ire to seep through in her aura. She knew that by the time the tournament was over, the nobles would be laughing much less and would be feeling vengeful. An iron ranker and his team would be much easier targets than a church. She winced internally, promising herself that she’d do her best to see them spirited away from the city the moment the tournament was over.

  Later that evening after Johan’s win at the bouts, élise was approached by Booker, the team manager of Johan’s little adventuring outfit. The man had an uncanny knack of knowing where people were around him.

  “Booker we need to talk,” she said.

  “Actually, that was why I was looking for you,” he replied, surprised. “You go first.”

  “We need to discuss how we’re going to get your team out of Oullins once the tournament is over,” said élise briskly, cutting to the chase.

  “Actually, that's what I wanted to talk about too,” said Dave, relief flooding across his features. “In fact, more immediately, how are we even going to safely get back to the cathedrals? There are at least four people tailing both me and Hugh and I’m pretty sure we’re not allowed to kill them.”

  “They’re… probably listening in as well, Mister Booker.”

  “I know,” he said tiredly. “But the novelty of this gaming world is wearing off and the aristocracy is making me feel a bit murder-hobo.”