CHPT. 3

A few hours later, thoroughly convinced and even excited, Jormand made his way down the streets back towards home. The wide, grey streets of the city proper seemed so oppressive compared to the docks with the tall, barren buildings on either side and dark stone streets. It was fashionable to keep an austere facade and save decorations for indoors in Maerin and it kept the buildings cold and foreboding even in the bright afternoon sunlight.

The foot traffic grew more and more sparse as Jormand neared his destination, giving way for lavish chariots drawn by ornamented horses and sedan chairs carried by sweating porters. He drew less stares now that he was wearing proper clothes, a sturdy but quality pair of boots along with his loose breeches and a well made, if plain coat over a loose linen shirt. He did not quite look the part of a lord but the improved attire along with a prolonged appointment with a washbasin did a lot to keep suspicion away. As the tall walls and bronze fitted gates of Derran manor came into view down the street, Jormand was feeling markedly better from when he had awoken. He was still tired but his head was clearer and the brisk walk did his sore muscles some good. He was let into the gates quickly with no complaint from the single guard in his dark livery and soon he stood in the large entrance hall.

In the middle of the day, the room looked sparse with white plastered walls and an empty long stone table in the center. He knew it could be transformed entirely at a moment’s notice but as he looked at it, it was almost austere, a thought that gave him a chuckle. The only hint left of its usual grandeur was the chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling, all silver and ornamented with golden candle holders at the ends of the seemingly infinite arms. That chandelier would never move, it was not only impractical but the lord Martim Derran would not allow it, he insisted it be there anytime anyone at all could catch a glimpse of it. The ornate piece reminded his guests he was still dangerous. After all, it had been taken from one of the Monarch’s one estates before house Derran had sword allegiance. Jormand still found it surprising he was allowed to keep it.

Jormand quickly walked across the grand hall, through the double doors that led to the kitchen. All was quiet now, the staff would not be preparing dinner for some hours yet but Jormand was able to snag some of that morning’s bread and some cured sausage from the larder on his way through. He quickly ate the bread and gnawed on the tough sausage as he left the kitchen, heading back towards the south wing of the manor. He walked quickly down the hallway, nearly running, only slowing when he passed a servant busy about her work who gave him a respectful nod. He was still intent on his sausage and did not notice. He skirted around the tiled courtyard, keeping to the shaded walkway and the protection of the shadows as much to avoid anyone nearby as the hot sun. Just as well he did as he saw a group of people standing across from him dressed in finery and drinking what looked to be wine. He made sure to avoid them.

He arrived at his rooms without incident and upon downing the last of his sausage, he threw himself onto the bed, sinking into the downy mattress and easing his still stiff muscles. The early afternoon sun cut through the window and cast warmth over him but despite it, he began to drift off to sleep, his eyelids becoming progressively heavier with each deep breath he took.

He awoke hours later to the sound of his door being thrown open loudly. He sat up groggily and found himself looking directly into the face of his father, lord Martim Derran who was apparently not at all pleased at what he saw.

“Jormand,” He said curtly. “I see you’ve returned.” Nothing more, he did not say much when he was unhappy but his expression was enough to show that he meant to make a hard time for Jormand.

“Yes, father, I have.” Jormand responded mockingly. He was still feeling spontaneous and empowered from his surprisingly fruitful argument with Galier earlier.

“Do you care to explain exactly where you were or what happened to your clothes?”

Jormand immediately sighed, he had known this was coming, but it was still not something he had been looking forward to.

“I was at the Captain’s Cat, father,” Jormand said, it was not entirely a lie, he had been there for part of the time at least. “I left my clothes there, I did not want to wear the same for another day.” That part was a lie, but Martim would forget in a few days.

“Yes, well, I suppose…” Martim stammered, apparently surprised at the rational explanation, unable to justify his anger yet still chewing his words heavily. “That is to say, there is a banquet this evening at Ealhold manor and your brother and I have some important business to attend to elsewhere so you will be going.” He did not pause even a breath for Jormand to react. “And I know what you’re going to say but I will not hear it. You are as responsible for this house as Ketrim and I and it is time you…”

Jormand cut him off bluntly, reveling in his father’s lack of composure. “I had already planned to go, father.” He said sweetly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“You had? Well then, I, umm…” Martim fumbled for the words, unable to keep a surprised look from his face. “Very well then, be sure you are not late.” He spat out the last few words as if they were a cutting remark but clearly had lost what high ground he had thought he had.

With that, he turned on his heel and left as loudly as he had come in and Jormand flopped back onto his bed, letting out a long, tired groan. From the look of the sun, he had but a few short hours before he would need to be going and he would have to find something to wear. Somewhere.

He had not meant to doze off again but he was awoken when his door opened again, this time a short servant peeked in, his eyes just barely showing through the door frame.

“Lord Derran, your father requested I bring you something appropriate to wear for tonight’s event.” He spoke with a quick voice and did not step into the room, instead standing just outside. In his hands was a bundle of dark cloth which he quickly placed onto the floor just inside the room before turning to leave at a pace just a touch too fast down the hall. So the staff was still afraid of him then. The thought made Jormand smile viciously.

The pile of clothes were a surprise to Jormand, far from what he had expected for a noble party. He found a pair of dark green trousers he would not have been surprised to find in an arming room, a tight, light, linen shirt and a quilted jacket of the same color as the trousers, stitched in silver thread for the colors of his house. It evoked military garb to him and even with its lavish construction, Jormand thought it would offer him a little protection. Could the nobles’ tastes really have changed so greatly in the last few months? He thought it was best not to question it and he gladly donned the new outfit, stretching his shoulders and back to get the fit right on the jacket. He laced it up tightly and pulled on his usual boots and belt of solid leather before leaving his rooms and making his way back to the entrance hall.

In the hall he found yet another surprise awaiting him. A small flock of servants were clustered around the doorway and they turned as he entered, giving him slight bows. He nodded to them and was making his way past them towards the door when one of them stepped in front of him, a matronly woman with grey flecking her otherwise dark hair. That would be the new steward, what was her name again?

“Young master,” She began, without the deference expected of the rest of the staff. “The lord Derran requested we outfit you for the evening, if you would please wait a moment.”

She did not even wait for his confirmation but quickly waved over a few servants who carried awkward burdens and another tugging over a chair. Jormand was roughly pushed into the chair with no regard to his protests or his frown and his boots were unceremoniously removed and tossed away somewhere he could not see behind the wall of servants now. He could feel his feet being wrapped in soft linen and another pair of boots being fitted but he was not allowed to look as another servant held his chin up while yet another ran something warm and oily through his hair. A young woman attempted to brush some makeup onto his cheeks but he stared her down and she thought better of it, turning to scurry back into the hall. Eventually, he was stood back up and his belt was torn away and replaced. Then the majority of the staff disappeared back into the hall, leaving him with the steward.

She sniffed judgmentally and shrugged before handing him a silver brooch worked in fine silver into the shape of an elk rearing.

“On your left breast if you please.” Jormand pinned it on but did not cease his unamused expression.

“Good,” She said, sounding satisfied. “Your escort is outside.” She then handed him a pair of gloves, dark leather with silver caps on the knuckles. Like the rest of the outfit, it was reminiscent of military garb, it still struck Jormand as strange.

Looking down at himself, he saw the boots were equally odd, the toes were capped in silver and the thick soles felt to be hobnailed. Even the tall, thick uppers felt sturdy as if made for campaign. He shook his head and smiled with relief, perhaps the nobles had finally seen sense.

The belt was similar, studded with silver and with a loop on the side as to hold a scabbard. One that was sorely lacking but the intent was an interesting addition. He tugged on the gloves and made for the door, happy for the telltale click of hobnailed boots. As he entered the courtyard, he was surprised to find two armed men awaiting him. Each wore a molded bronze chestplate painted forest green and tall, crested helmet to match. The plumes were of a shiny grey and each held a tall, iron tipped spear, even that was a show of wealth, iron being as rare as it was in Maerin. One of them offered him a sheathed dagger which he gratefully accepted and strapped to his belt opposite the scabbard loop. The two men fell in a step behind him as he made his way towards the gate. They marched with the expected decorum of southern soldiers as if to match their uniforms perfectly. In the night, the lantern light reflected off their spearheads with the deadly gleam of well maintained iron. Jormand’s feeling of martial preparation was only heightened.

Outside the gate waited an open chariot, pulled by two horses, wide enough to fit all three men. One guard took up the reins while the other cradled his companion’s spear as well as his own. To Jormand’s shock, there were a pair of wide, bronze plated shields in the chariot as well. Was his father expecting conflict tonight? Jormand felt a worm of anxiety push its way into his gut. The new outfit was suddenly a little less securing for him. It had been a long time since there had been open hostility within the empire but Jormand had been absent from high society for longer than it would take for conflict to flare up.

The ride to Ealhold manor was uneventful. The streets were empty of nobles and commoners alike until they neared the manor. Similar chariots as well as carriages and sedan chairs were parked outside the gates, horses and porters missing although several guards bearing different crests stood watch all armed and armored as his own. That was odd. His guards stopped the chariot and one took care of the horses as the other took his post. They paid no more mind to Jormand which he appreciated, walking into the gates alone with a grin. If the guards did not follow him, his father was probably not expecting anything and if Martim Derran could be trusted for anything, it was for being prepared. Jormand felt safe enough without his escort.

Inside the austere walls was a transformed courtyard. It blazed with lanterns reflected by polished silver mirrors to fill each and every corner with fiery light. It was mostly empty but here and there stood a knot of two or three nobles all dressed in ornate gowns or tailored jackets, talking in hushed tones or laughing in a refined, meticulous manner. Many paused to give Jormand a surprised look. Likely both for his appearance and for his being there at all. He certainly stood out with his strange attire and untouched face. Each other attendee he saw sported a full face of makeup, after the fashion he was familiar with. Lips touched with deep red or covered in green or blue or purple. Eyes shaded in dark colors or ringed with bright hues. Their faces looked to be painted on vividly and gems studded their hair and necks. One lord he passed even had a gem studded eye patch although whether to hide an empty socket or for show, Jormand could not tell. Another woman’s long jacket was studded with gems surrounded by a nearly invisible nimbus, the fortune on show there was nearly unimaginable, even to a noble house. The only piece of jewelry Jormand wore was his ring underneath his gloves. It was sturdy bronze, not gaudy and for him it was practical more than anything. He would never be caught without the small soulstone but he did not feel any need to show it.

As Jormand made his way into the main dining hall, he drew even more looks. Many eyes were shocked, some others clearly unimpressed and he heard whispers following him and he caught more than a few coins changing hands. He again felt apprehension coming. He always got looks, what with the way he dressed and his reputation, but this was far more than usual, far more than simple derision.

Jormand was more than relieved when he spotted Galier across the room, chatting with a noblewoman dressed just as flamboyantly as he. Galier wore a bright red jacket stitched in gold with birds in flight tonight. His makeup matched with what looked to be gold on his lips and a halo of red ringing his eyes. Galier had always known how to fit into the noble fashions, even pushing their limits sometimes with his gaudy outfits. He gave Jormand a restrained, polite smile and excused himself from his companion before walking over to meet him.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show!” He exclaimed, clasping Jormand’s arm firmly. “And now I’m beginning to think you know more about tonight's events than you’re letting on, are you going to be competing?”

Jormand was confused but some of the earlier reactions he’d witnessed began to make sense. “Competing? I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

It was Galier’s turn to be surprised now. “You don’t know? I assumed, since you’re dressed like that,” He gestured to Jormand’s outfit with one hand clad in red silk up to his knuckles. “Lady Ealhold is putting on quite the show tonight. She’s imported warriors from the tribelands, you’re sure you haven’t heard?”

“I’m sure. My father had this ready for me when I was leaving…” Suddenly a shock of realization hit Jormand. His father sending him instead of his brother, the nearly utilitarian outfit, the sturdy fighting boots. “He signed me up didn’t he.”

Galier laughed in that laugh all nobles trained for, barely moving his lips. It struck Jormand that if Galier did move his face too much, the gold would crack and the idea both amused and bothered him. It was austentatious even for Galier.

“Well my friend, tonight seems to be turning out more interesting than we planned for.” Galier said, positively gleefully at the prospect of Jormand fighting for his entertainment. “I suggest you speak to lady Ealhold, she ought to be around here someplace.” He then turned and walked away, back towards his earlier companion who still stood waiting for him with a more than polite smile and two goblets in her hands.

Jormand shook his head in confusion, but he felt invigorated, this party might be interesting to him after all. After so many nights spent fighting lowlifes and thugs, an actual challenge would be welcome. He smiled a thin lipped smile as he made his way through the crowd/

Jormand walked about the hall several times in search of lady Ealhold but caught no sight of her whatsoever. He did catch a glimpse of lord Vaeor Kalagor, to whom he still owed a few debts, speaking with lady Perelotne Balthus but he deftly stepped away from them and blended in with the crowd before he could be spotted.

He eventually found lady Ealhold’s husband, lord Tegrimm Ealhold in the back courtyard, speaking to another man dressed plainly in padded leather. Another combatant, he assumed. Jormand waited for their conversation to end before approaching, nodding respectfully as he did so.

“Ah, lord Derran. Your father informed me you would be attending, after such a long absence! And competing no less!”

The northern lord had integrated well into Maerinen society, he wore an extravagant black jacket over a silk shirt and wore the soulstone on his finger that most northmen wore, it was set in a worked silver ring alongside a few other gems.

Jormang gave a polite smile and nod. “It would seem so. Tell me, is the lady Ealhold nearby? I was told I ought to discuss my competing with her.”

Tegrimm paused and held a confused frown, as if Jormand should have known the answer already. “I am afraid she is away at another appointment she was unable to change.” He said cryptically before moving on briskly. “But your position has already been confirmed, you will be fetched when the games begin. I’m afraid I can offer you little more information. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are others who have not yet confirmed I must hunt down.” Tegrimm left with the confused expression still on his face.

What am I missing? Jormand thought to himself. Then he remembered his own father’s vague excuse. Business. Martim Derran never missed an event such as this. Was he in fact here, conspiring with the lady Ealhold in some back room? Jormand thought it unlikely. Even though they were both northern houses, or perhaps because they were, they never got along as well as others. Relations were cold at best.

Jormand pushed it from his mind. The machinations of Maerinen politics were nothing he wanted any part in. Instead, he made his way towards a building he did not recognize in the middle of the now smaller courtyard. It caught his interest immediately. It was huge and round, taking up the majority of the courtyard. The outside was made mostly of arches carved fancifully and repeated along the perimeter. It looked to him to be an amphitheater, the one Galier had told him about no doubt. That would be the site of the “games,” he’d bet on it. The building was lit from the inside, spilling warm light onto the tiled courtyard. The effect was to make the outside dark and forbidding though he could see it was plastered white just like the rest of the manor. Inside, the walkway was tiled as well, unbroken from the courtyard floor.

There were few guests near the theater, even fewer as he rounded the structure to the side where a large wooden door was set on the wall inside the walkway. At the door stood a pair of men, each in padded tunics and holding cudgels. They gave Jormand a respectful nod as he passed, only a courtesy, they did not invite conversation.

The only other guest he encountered was on the far side of the theater, facing the back wall of the estate. In front of him was another courtyard a few spans down, tiled just the same as the rest. There was a shallow pool of clear water and scattered lounging chairs. This would be where more intimate gatherings would be held. Jormand continued walking around, meaning to pass this stranger by but as he was rounding the theater he heard the man call out.

“Stay a moment.” The stranger’s voice was gruff but demanding.

Jormand turned to look back. The stranger was looking directly at him with a hard gaze. The lantern light reflected off his dark eyes. He wore a heavy coat with little ornamentation that hung nearly to his knees. Over the railing in front of him was a bundle of draping fabric. A cloak? That was strange for summer, even in the evenings. The stranger beckoned him over and Jormand slowly complied, eyeing him warily. He did not have the look of nobility. He wore no jewelry and his clothes were plain and dark though certainly well made. He smiled kindly with darkened lips. He wore little makeup, only a touch on his lips and a slight shadowing around his eyes, though that could have been shadows from the lanterns. His face was weathered so severely that no amount of makeup would cover it. It seemed he did not even try. His hair was turning grey at the temples but he was not old. Far from it. He was built like a soldier. Square shoulders filled his coat admirably and thick arms showed inside the sleeves. He turned back to look over the far wall as Jormand approached.

“A beautiful view, isn’t it?” He asked, though he did not seem to expect a response as he continued without stopping. “There’s something about the stars…”

Jormand followed his gaze out over the wall to the dark sky. Above the weak lights of the city were untold millions of pinpricks of light. Jormand had never really cared for the stars aside from their use in navigating but looking out now, he could see what the strange man meant. There was something alien about the stars. Alien and yet so familiar. Something he could not quite understand but still something constant.

“Are you competing tonight?” Jormand asked the man. He was surprised to hear himself say it but that would perhaps be an explanation for this man’s understated attire.

The stranger laughed and shook his head as if it were a grand joke. “Me, no no, I won’t be.” He did not explain what was so funny, instead he moved on quickly, still staring into the sky. “The stars never change. No matter what tragedies of man they see, they never change.” He sighed heavily with a content smile. “Remember that. Nothing seems quite so important with respect to the stars.”

Suddenly he turned to face Jormand and grasped his shoulder, squeezing. “Remember.” He said in a low voice before turning and striding away, leaving Jormand to look after him in confusion.

Amazed at the rabble that had been let into the manor, Jormand continued his circuit around the theater. He passed a door again, much like the one he had passed before. The guards wore the same simple uniform and carried the same cudgels and nodded to him the same way. He passed them by and eventually found himself back where he had started, the tiled courtyard now even more crowded with chatting nobles. There was little for him to do but to wait and he had no desire to engage in small talk so he struck off into the crowd in search of Galier again. This time he noticed a few more attendees dressed strangely. Here was a man wearing an ornate leather jerkin over a padded tunic, there a man with an outfit similar in style to Jormand’s, though much more decorated. He even spotted a woman with incredibly ornate greaves strapped on under her skirts. That one gave him a little chuckle. Even their armor was pretty much jewelry, it was almost impressive. None of them were familiar to him though they all had the build of hardened soldiers. That was interesting, Maerinen nobility tended to keep soldiering outside the manors as an unspoken rule.

He found Galier chatting with another man next to a table covered in plates containing all manner of food. An entire roasted boar took up the middle of the table, surrounded by fruits and small pastries. Before approaching his friend, Jormand took a plateful of meat and pastries.

Jormand waited a few paces away as Galier talked, occasionally hearing snippets of their conversation. It seemed Galier was not missing the chance to make some money on the night’s entertainment. Apparently he had set up quite the bet with this fellow and each of them seemed to think they had the far better chance. When the other man walked away, Jormand took his place in an instant.

“Hello again!” Galier said, still keeping up his polite noble demeanor. “Enjoying yourself I hope?”

Jormand nodded in response, he was surprised to find it was no lie, he was excited by the prospect of the coming night. “Do you know who else is competing? I haven’t seen anyone I recognize who looks prepared.”

Galier shook his head. “No I haven’t seen anyone I know. From what I’ve heard, a lot of the fighters are brought in from house guards or soldiers. Distant relations and the like, I think it's important to them to win. They brought the best they could muster.”

That brought Jormand a little pause. He was confident he could beat any of the Maerinen nobility he had met, they lived soft lives. But it had been some time since he’d fought battle hardened soldiers, or anyone aside from a tavern brawler. He found himself absently stroking the sheath of his dagger.

Jormand continued to question Galier about the games but the answers he got were much the same. Lord Ealhold had been tight lipped about it apparently, that or Galier had been unable to unearth anything. Still, occasionally something useful came to light. There was a prize, for one. Not many seemed to know, it was a secret meant to be kept amongst the contestants as a reason to perform their best. That got Jormand’s attention though, it would mean fierce competition from any soldiers in the mix and Jormand himself would not mind it. It would be good to have his own support for once. Though once he sold his found stone, he may not need it.

They eventually moved on to speculation and continued their conversation until servants circulating through the guests told them the time had come. Jormand was directed through one of the side doors on the theater he had seen before into a small hallway and then through another door into a wide, low room. On the walls stood racks of ornate weapons and armor, each piece painted with the arms of house Ealhold. When Jormand arrived, only a few others were present. A man stood in the corner next to an anvil and a cold forge wearing an apron. A smith? The other two were in the middle of the room, a man wearing a long, padded coat and the woman from before, now her greaves were matched by a full harness and a helmet tucked under one arm. He did not bother approaching them.

Jormand waited in the corner opposite the smith as others slowly filled the room. There were a few exceptions but the vast majority of contestants he saw were burly men of average height for Maerin with little to say. Soldiers then. Occasionally he saw one who could be a lord or lady and once he spotted a youth so scrawny Jormand doubted if she could hold a spear. She was quickly swallowed by the crowd. Many of those present spent their time going over the weapons on the walls, some talked in low tones, mostly those of clearly noble status but all were impatient, Jormand could tell. Once, Jormand was approached by a woman who was clearly not a contestant. She carried a sheet of paper on a wooden brace and balanced a pen in an inkwell beside it. She asked for his name which he quickly gave and for which event he was there for. He was unsure what to answer and after a few moments of looking over her paper, she looked back up at him wide eyed and exclaimed “All of them?” He nodded apprehensively and she moved on to another. After that Jormand began to worry more, none of the others seemed to have signed up for more than two and he had no idea how many there were nor what they would be. He was confident in his abilities but he did not think he could keep himself up to his standards for too many of these events. He forced the thought out of his mind, resolving to take each one as it came.

Eventually, the wait was over. The woman called for everyone participating in the first event and a group of maybe ten men stepped forward, including Jormand. The rest appeared to be soldiers and lowly ones at that, they wore simple tunics and sandals and they all gave Jormand strange looks. The group was told to go prepare and when Jormand asked one of his fellows what the event was, he received only a strange look and a mumbled curse about nobility. Jormand followed the rest of the group to the wall and selected a broad shield, a short spear and an ornate helmet. He had stepped back and was going over the spearhead with a critical eye when the woman called them forward again. He looked up to find his compatriots bedecked in full sets of bronze plating, some with more than a few weapons shoved through belts. He turned back towards the wall but was pushed forward out the door into the hall by the others. They walked a short distance and then through another set of doors into a wide, flat area where Jormand smelled the cool night air again. His group was greeted by deafening cheers and he realized they had exited onto the floor of the theater, covered with beige sand well illuminated by reflected lantern light. His group immediately spread out, making distance between each man and Jormand began to have an inkling of what was about to happen.

He quickly turned around but the doors were closing behind him. Galier had hinted at what was to come and now he realized why that woman had been so shocked. He looked around at the other men, each eyeing one another appraisingly. He had heard bloodsports were popular in the capital back across the sea.

Lord Ealhold stood on a balcony slightly set above the tiers of seating. There were two chairs, one no doubt for the lady Ealhold which was noticeably empty. As he raised his hands, the crowded theater fell quiet. He shouted something Jormand did not hear. His heart was beating too fast and he was too intent on the man nearest to him who was eyeing him hungrily through the shadowed visor of his helm.

He heard a shout and the man charged him, shield forward and head ducked behind, his spear reaching around the side. There was no target for Jormand to see. He jumped to the side just as he passed and without thinking whirled about his spear, ramming it through the man’s back. The crowd raised a wordless shout and he looked up to the crowd of nobles yelling and waving hands. He turned towards Tegrimm who seemed unconcerned and then back to the stage floor. Another man lay on the ground bleeding now too, aside from the one Jormand had put there. He was still shocked but there was no time to think.

Another man had turned to face him, shield up and just peeking over through the T-shaped visor of his helmet. What came next was all instinct. The man lunged forward, his spear seaking Jormand’s chest so Jormand leapt back, batting away the strike with his shield. His opponent expected the counter attack so Jormand instead shifted to the side, towards the other man’s shield arm. His opponent quickly turned but overcorrected, turning too much to the side and leaving his weapon hand unprotected. Jormand took the opening, jabbing at the man’s now unguarded wrist. His thrust struck home and he felt a shock in his spear as it dug into bone. The man gave out a wordless cry and collapsed to the sand, pinning Jormand’s spear beneath him. Confused, jormand looked up from the bleeding man to where, behind him, stood another with blood on the tip of his short, stabbing sword.

Jormand’s hand burned from the rough wood being wrenched out of it so violently but he had no time to dwell on it. Two more men had turned towards him now, each covered in heavy bronze plating and carrying wickedly sharp spears. The closed in on his sides and so, with a soft curse under his breath, Jormand charged forward, towards the man with his sword who had turned to face a new opponent. He braced his left shoulder and right hand against the wide shield and hunkered down in preparation for the impact. Jormand collided with the man shield first, ramming into the small of his back. His surprised target lurched forward into his own opponent and all three fell to the ground but Jormand was prepared. He snatched up the sword now fallen to the ground and with it quickly dispatched both fallen men with quick stabs to the neck. The blood spurted into the sand, quickly soaking it and then creating small, red rivers in the sodden mess. Jormand did not linger.

With his newfound weapon in hand, he turned to face the two men hunting him. To his surprise, they were the only ones left standing. Around him the stage was littered with corpses, each surrounded by a smear of marred, crimson sand. That was bad. Each opponent he had faced had been unskilled but two at once? He slowly backed away, hoping the two would turn on eachother but they remained focused on him.

Jormand kept his sword and shield at the ready and continued to cautiously retreat, shuffling backwards so as not to trip on anything. His mind was racing. It had been a long time since he had fought anyone seriously. Months at least, perhaps a year or more. All of his instincts told him to run. Fighting two opponents more than doubled his chances of defeat. Easily. His only hope was for one to turn on the other, evening the odds.

As he continued to retreat, he judged by the passing of the silent crowd out of the corner of his eye that he was nearing the edge of the arena. His pursuers suddenly slowed and began to fan to the sides. He was near the wall then. They had all the advantage. The man on his left was limping slightly, a cut dripping blood down his leg was likely the cause. It was the only edge Jormand had so he took the chance, silently cursing his father for putting him into the situation. Searching behind him with one boot, he felt his hobnailed sole touch the wall. He crouched for a moment, focused on the man to his right who suddenly froze and raised his shield in a guard. The disc of painted bronze had several long scratches on it as well as a large chip on the edge like an axe might make.

Quickly turning his attention with as little a tell as he could, Jormand sprang to his left and just in time. While Jormand’s attention had been turned away the limping man had made his move and closed distance. Jormand turned just in time to deflect the spear heading for his ribs. It clattered first against his shield and then against the wall as its bearer followed through with the attack.

Jormand leapt forward to push the advantage around the limping man’s shield arm. He aimed low with his sword and scored a cut on the man’s already bleeding left leg. He stumbled back with a curse, whipping his shield up to block Jormand’s next attack. But the attack did not come. Instead, Jormand pushed forward. He had not had time to tether the broad shield he carried onto his arm so he was sluggish but his opponent was wounded and off balance so he braced in the sand and heaved his shield against that of the wounded man. The limping man fell back against the wall, his injured leg buckling beneath the force of Jormand’s assault but the lack of resistance threw Jormand forward as well, clattering to the stage floor atop his opponent and just as good he did for not a moment later, the other man’s spear sliced through the back of Jormand’s padded jacket, scoring a small cut across his back.

Surprised by the flash of pain, Jormand dropped his shield onto the man struggling beneath him. He jumped away as a spear thrust pierced the spot he had occupied a moment before. The strike found its target in the wounded man’s belly who cried out pitifully as the spear was torn free, now crimson for a good length down the haft. Jormand’s remaining opponent did not waste time gloating over his kill and turned, falling into a guard stance. Jormand searched around him for a shield. His now lay behind the remaining contestant and no others were within reach. His palms were becoming sweaty inside his leather gloves now and his heart was pumping wildly both from anxiety and excitement. He tried to still himself, there was only one opponent now. He had fought one man at disadvantage, he could do it again. He pulled the dagger from his belt with his offhand, grateful to find the blade was made of hard iron rather than bronze. With blades in hand now, he waited for his opponent to make the first move.

They both stood, barely moving for what could not have been more than a few moments but the time stretched on. Jormand could find no weakness in his enemy’s guard and his heart beat faster every breath. He could feel his shirt becoming damp with sweat. He hoped it did not show on his face.

The other man began to inch forward, one tiny, measured step at a time. The man held his spear in his right hand, opposite Jormand’s dagger and he favored his right leg, taking more deliberate steps and holding faster. Just before he was within reach of the wicked, crimson spear, Jormand made his move. As his adversary’s right foot was in the air, he jerked to his right side, his enemy’s shield side. The move had worked for him so far in the arena but this time, his opponent was prepared. He stepped back and fell into a guard stance again, keeping his eyes on Jormand through his visor. Jormand cursed under his breath. This man would not fall so easily.

Again, both men waited, neither wishing to make the first move. The crowd began to murmur, softly at first but with rising vigor until the sound of it overcame any sound on the stage. Jormand snarled, feeling anger well up in his gut. He would not let this man stand in his way. He was little more than a peasant soldier, a southern peasant soldier at that. Before his forced move to Maerin, Jormand had killed his kind for sport. His days spent fighting in close quarters on the rolling deck of a ship did not prepare him perfectly for the fight but it was preparation enough.

Jormand suddenly charged his hesitant adversary, lunging forward with sword and dagger crossed before him. The counterattack he expected would come, did. The spear sought his heart but he caught it between his crossed blades, redirecting the strike over his shoulder. He felt the wooden haft grate on his dagger and small flecks of dried blood flew off into his face but he did not blink. His charge came to a stop as he reached his opponent who was forced to drop his spear. The man’s hand disappeared behind his shield but Jormand would not wait for him to draw another weapon. With his chest pressed firmly against the cool bronze of the shield, he reached around with his sword and the shriek of pain in response and the dropping shield was enough for him. He pulled the sword back, one edge coated with fresh blood and as he hopped back, he saw the large gash across his foe’s bicep. He could no longer hold up the shield and he was losing blood. Fast.

Jormand’s opponent did not spare a second look for his mutilated arm. He cut at the straps with the axe he had pulled from his belt and they fell free, leaving his left arm to flop uselessly to his side. Then he ran at Jormand, axe raised and lips parted in a scream that could not be heard over the din of the crowd. They clashed with the haft of the axe landing painfully on Jormand’s shoulder. The padding did little to soften it. But Jormand did not have the time to spare. Now nearly nose to nose with his opponent, he could see the blind fury in his eyes and the gnashing teeth. Jormand swung his head forward and the resulting clash as their helmets collided stabbed at his eardrums but he was ready. His opponent was not. He stumbled back and Jormand took the advantage, hooking around the man’s axe and arm to plunge his dagger into the stunned man’s neck. His eyes bulged with disbelief and he let out a pitiful gurgle as he dropped his axe and reached up to his neck. His fingers never made it. The man collapsed to the sand but not before he spit a glob of blood and spittle right onto Jormand’s jacket, marring the brooch on his left breast.

Jormand looked up at the sudden cheer from the crowd. The many gathered nobles screamed with abandon like he had never seen before. Gone were the polite smiles and reserved tones. Over this field of bodies and blood they screamed like gore crows at the feast. It was overpowering and Jormand grinned, looking back down to the stage floor and at his handiwork. Several of those bodies now lying still on the ground, dressed in armor and clutching weapons, were his victims and he was proud.

It had been too long.