The Tournament
CHAPTER ONE
Teeth
Vincent
Smythe hit the ground with an audible thump, his slender, elven frame kicking
up a cloud of dust. The crowd roared in appreciation. As a thin flame of panic
started to flare up in his head, Vincent quickly scrambled to regain his feet.
Before he was able to pull himself completely upright, however, he was forced
to quickly parry several more blows, the last one nearly connecting before he
was finally standing once again. David Green, the hairy and muscular wolfen
before him, smiled, a cockeyed and joyful grin spreading out on his snouted,
toothy face.
Before
going into the match that morning, the first match of King Aron’s inaugural Tournament of Trildaine, Vincent had felt pretty
confident about his chances of getting through at least the first round. After
all, he was the most accomplished swordsman his home village of Drenden had
seen in several generations. Tall and lanky, he possessed the ideal fencing
frame; add to that the almost supernatural quickness he had been blessed with
at birth, and it was almost as if he had been born to the sword. Vincent had
spent the past ten years honing his formidable skills, in too many local and
regional tournaments and exhibitions to number, compiling in the process a
spotless record unblemished by even a single loss. The elf was confident in his
abilities and had been sure that he could handle this first opponent without
too much worry.
Now,
as he struggled to parry thrust after thrust, Vincent realized the tactical
mistake he had made. In all of his matches, in all of his training, he had
never before fought a wolfen. How could he have? Wolfen were rare in his parts,
so rare, indeed, that until the match he had only seen one other wolfen in his
life. And, at eighty-five years old, toothless and requiring a cane, that
specimen had hardly been a fighter. So, only moments before, when he had
entered the arena and seen the wolfen striding towards him, he had just assumed
that fighting him would be much the same as fighting an elf, or a human, or a
dwarf. He had assumed wrong.
From
the very beginning of the match, Vincent had been taken off guard by his
man-wolf opponent’s surprising strength. In all his training, in all his years
of fencing, Vincent had never fought someone with anywhere near David’s
formidable strength. From the very first moment of the match, as he blocked
David’s first violent thrust, Vincent had been completely surprised and taken
off his game, and so it was that after only a few short parries the snarling
David had closed the gap between them and been able to shove the elf to the
ground.
Now,
as Vincent backpedaled away from the wolfen, settling into a more defensive stance
to best guard against David’s far superior power, the crowd settled down. This
being the first match of the first kingdom-wide tournament in many years, the
large crowd that filled the arena was understandably excited, and they had
reacted to the first blows of the day with excessive vigor. But, as the two
fighters settled into their rhythms, so too did the crowd settle. Soon, the air
inside the arena was filled with only the murmur of the anxious spectators and
the sharp medicinal clang of the elf’s short-sword and the wolfen’s thinner
rapier clanging harshly against each other.
The
pair of fighters made for a strange picture down on the floor of the arena.
David was covered from head to toe in thick, dark-gray hair the color of barely
burnt charcoal. He wore a stiff, brown leather vest that left his arms exposed
and a pair of matching softer leather breeches. Upon his feet there were no
shoes; David, like most wolfen fighters, preferred to have the use of his sharp
and strong claws for gripping—and, if necessary, fighting. David was short,
especially short for a wolfen, and heavily muscled. Vincent, on the other hand,
was tall and thin, built very typically for an elf. His fair features and
blonde hair made for an almost comical contrast to David’s darker fur and
coloring. Oddly, their weapons reflected the reverse, with Vincent’s short
sword standing in short and stubby opposition to the swashbuckling David’s
long, thin rapier.
After
a few minutes of cautious parrying, with both the elf and the wolfen trying to
get a better feel for his opponent, David suddenly pressed his attack. The few
minutes of swordplay had already made clear to him just how quick the elf was,
and David, encouraged by his early success at knocking the elf down, fully
realized that his only chance at winning was to keep his taller opponent from
using that formidable speed. Nevertheless, David was nervous. The strategy was
one David was largely unfamiliar with; the opponents he was used to fighting in
the woodlands of the Far East, where most wolfen made their home and where he
had spent his entire life, tended to be stronger and slower than he. David,
smaller and lighter than the typical wolfen, was used to being the faster and
more agile opponent, and of using his speed to his advantage. Here, he was
being forced to use what was normally his weakness—power and muscle—as his
strength. And yet, so far at least, it seemed to be working.
Once
again, David had managed to close the gap between him and his opponent, and,
thinking that the same shoving move he had used at the fight’s outset would be
too predictable, he instead feinted—beginning that same shove but, instead of
finishing, lashing out with a hairy, clawed foot in an attempt to catch Vincent
by surprise. It turned out to be a miscalculation. The kick, fast as it was for
a wolfen, required too much time to connect, and the much quicker Vincent was
able to easily dodge it. Then, while David was unbalanced, with one foot still
in the air, Vincent lashed him in the shoulder with his short sword. At the
sight of the successful blow, and the faintest splash of red against the dull
brown sand of the arena floor, the immense crowd roared again, at twice the
volume of before, as David howled out in pain.
Sensing
his advantage, and encouraged by the sound of his opponent’s howling dismay,
Vincent quickly attempted to land a second blow before David could dart away,
looking to swing his short sword back at David again in a tight and narrow arc,
this time aiming for the midsection. But before he could complete the first
slash, David, in a move none of Vincent’s previous 178 opponents (almost all
elves) had tried, lunged with his jaws, biting down on Vincent’s sword arm
before the elf could land the blow. Vincent immediately cried out in fear and
panic as the force of the shorter creature’s charge, and the pain of the bite
on his arm, tumbled both combatants to the ground.
As
soon as they hit the dusty earthen floor of the arena, kicking up a willowing
and gritty cloud of dust at impact, David released his grasp on Vincent’s arm
and quickly darted away, coming again to his feet. In the heat of battle,
neither fighter noticed the delirious crowd’s roar of excitement, or the sight
of that many people rising as one to their feet. Trying to ignore the pain in
his arm and hoping that the leather armbands he wore were tough enough to
prevent the wolfen’s teeth from having broken skin, Vincent also backed away.
Warily, the two fighters circled each other, each shaken by the other’s
successful first strike.
Again,
the crowd slowly quieted down and watched, but with renewed and eager
anticipation. The pain in Vincent’s bitten forearm was intense—so intense that
he found himself unable to handle the short sword. As he circled his opponent,
Vincent took the sword up in his left hand. As for David, he was making an odd
mewling sound from deep in his throat and hoping that the shoulder wound he had
received wasn’t bleeding too badly. After a few rotations, David, wary of his
bleeding shoulder and realizing that he might not have the strength for a
protracted fight, again initiated a strike, coming in with his sword at
Vincent.
Quickly,
Vincent brought up his short sword to block, hoping that the extensive
practicing he had done fighting with his left hand would be enough. Sweating
profusely, from both exertion and fear, he was once again forced to backpedal,
as the now openly snarling wolfen used his superior strength to slash again and
again at the elf. Almost without realizing it, Vincent was starting to panic.
He had only barely been able to defend the wolfen’s earlier full-on attack, and
he had then been using his good arm. As the panic grew, Vincent’s movements
deteriorated and became sloppy. Within a few moments, David’s furious parries
started to slip through the elf’s defenses and glance off his leather armor.
Feeling those blows, and seeing the fire in the wolfen’s eyes, Vincent lost his
battle against the fear that was trying to overtake him. As David continued to
attack, Vincent suddenly turned and ran. The crowd roared in angry laughter.
Cries
of “Fight! Fight!” and “Coward!” stung the air with the buzzing of an angry
swarm of bees, but Vincent did not hear. He simply ran. Seeing his opportunity,
David threw his sword aside and dropped to all fours, speeding after his
opponent in long, loping bounds, moving like the wolves all wolfen were only
recently evolved from. Within just a few short yards, he was upon the fleeing
elf, and in one mighty leap he was in the air. David slammed into Vincent’s
back with a heavy thud, knocking both fighters to the ground. Before Vincent
even had a chance to respond, the speedy wolfen was astride him, with his
strong, muscular jaws lightly clamped around the elf’s throat. The roar from
the crowd was deafening. Just as David tensed his jaws, only a mere fraction of
a second before he would have bitten down hard, Vincent disappeared.
The
crowd roared its approval as David, slightly dazed, stood. After a moment, a
moment in which the noise from the stands only intensified, David remembered
himself. Turning, he found the king and queen’s royal box, located at the
northern end of the arena up on the second level. The king and queen were
standing and warmly applauding him. David bowed deeply, three times. And then,
as the crowd continued to applaud and cheer, David turned and walked out of the
arena.
* * *
“Cutting
it a little close, aren’t you, Gregor?” the king asked. The two men were seated
in the royal box, which gave its inhabitants the best possible view of the
action. King Aron was dressed in his most elaborate royal finery, a deep purple
cape spilling off his shoulders and accentuating his broad and muscled chest.
All around the king and his court wizard the crowd continued to roar, having
fully enjoyed the first bout of the Tournament.
“The
lad was never in any danger, sire, never any at all—my teleportation spell
whisked him away before things could get, well, ugly,” said Gregor, the king’s
court wizard, remembering the somewhat disturbing image of the wolfen’s teeth
clenched around the elf’s throat. “Come now, did you really think I would lose
a fighter?”
“No,
no, just—well, that one would have been particularly gruesome,” said the king.
“Let’s not feed the crowd’s baser instincts, shall we?”
“I
thought it a wonderful fight, quite spirited,” said Queen Marda, sitting to the
king’s left and dressed in the same royal purple finery as her husband. Red
ringlets of hair bounced off the pale lavender cloth of her gown as she laughed
and applauded the standing and bowing David.
“Well,
yes my dear, but still,” said the king, still slightly blanched at the thought
of the wolfen actually biting down on the young elf’s neck.
“Now,
now Aron, don’t ruin the fun,” the queen said, smiling at her older husband.
“The sun is shining, the crowd is happy, the fighters are fresh and eager.
Come, my king, let us rejoice! The Tournament has begun!”
“You
are right, my dear; Gregor, you have my full and absolute trust. Let us carry
on, shall we?” And with that, King Aron rose to his feet, the crowd silencing
instantly as they saw their king rise. In a full, deep baritone, King Aron
addressed the arena.
“Citizens
of Trildaine, welcome guests, and all who have traveled far to be here today; sing
praises for young Master David Green of the wolfen! May his people take special
pride in their son today, for he has the distinct honor of being the victor in
the first match of the first Tournament of Trildaine to be held in many a year!
And congratulations as well to young Master Vincent Smythe of the elf clan of
the Horbadia. He fought bravely and well. Now, my people, enjoy the breaking of
your fast, for it will not be long before the second match of the Tournament
begins!”
