Color and aroma floated in trails of incense across the room. A black tunic with an eye embroidered near the heart hung from a coat rack. The silk sheets rustled as a woman slid to the edge of the circular bed. Standing up and revealing her nakedness, a tattooed snake coiled and shone on her back, running from her lower back up to the nape of her neck.
Laikara filled a brass pitcher with water, placed it over the burner, and summoned a flame from a lit stove. Strong, masculine hands caressed her shoulders, but she shook them off.
"You will fight today. Why are you still here?"
The man stepped back and lay down on the bed again, his intimacy barely covered by the silk, his face resting on his open palm.
"I am of the opinion that the pleasure of battle cannot compare to the pleasure offered by a good woman."
"The day you find a good woman within my four walls, I'll scream to throw the intruder out," Laikara said. She set down a porcelain cup and poured a milky-white tea streaked with flesh-colored strokes.
Laikara sat on the bed, holding the steaming cup in her hands. She took a small sip and licked her lips. She made no gesture to offer Axiel any, nor was he interested in tasting it. The sweetness of pink tea was common in brothels, as well as in highborn houses that wished to cover up the shame of euphoric nights.
"Have you decided who your rival will be?" Laikara asked without looking at the Knight of the Rose.
"I am still pondering it."
"You better. Showing off your skills will make it easier to find a new benefactor far from Stoicus."
Silence settled in the room. Laikara glanced at Axiel out of the corner of her eye. The knight remained distant, staring at nothing. Laikara spoke again.
"If Hilda hadn't exposed you, sooner or later I would have. It's your fault for playing King Consort, Axiel. You knew from the very beginning it would bring you trouble. Don't blame the world, blame your own foolishness. Queen Gineber was not made to be just another of your lovers."
Axiel stayed quiet. Laikara narrowed her slanted eyes.
"Stop doing that," Laikara said.
Axiel finally looked at her and gave her his most charming smile.
"Doing what?" the knight asked, playing innocent.
"You are repeating fencing forms in your head over and over again."
"Am I?"
"Yes, and I know exactly why you do it, but that doesn't make it any less irritating."
Telepathy. Being the head of the oracles in Stoicus, Laikara possessed qualities and studies in that branch of magic, but it wasn't as useful as people assumed. A person's thoughts were often erratic, scattered, repetitive, and strange—like a runaway boar unable to decide where to bury its tusks. A mage specializing in telepathy needed a lot of practice, concentration, understanding of the target's personality, and plenty of supporting material to extract anything useful from a person.
Axiel, like many who did not know exactly how such magic worked, shielded his privacy by repeating phrases or images in his head. Meanwhile, others, like Hilda, simply kept their minds blank.
"I have no interest in spying on you, Axiel. You are a realistic man. Accept Marc's mercy when your turn comes, and go very, very far away."
"Actually, I had the stupid idea that you might run away with me…"
Laikara laughed and shook her head.
"You're right, that is a very stupid idea. Get dressed and leave. I have a lot of work to do."
…
Three hours past noon (an hour later than the previous day), the arena stands were full again and the trumpet signaled the start of the first bout. Marcus stood in line with the rest of the warriors, riding the thunderbird. He cast sporadic glances at Wolfen, but the silver adventurer acted as if he didn't exist.
Axiel shattered his lance against Patricia the Orc's shield. He threw her off balance, nearly knocking her out of the saddle, but the imposing woman managed to stay upright on her warhorse.
Reaching the other side of the lists, Axiel dropped the broken lance and accepted a new one from the red-coated soldier serving as his squire. He turned his mare around and charged again.
Four more lances were broken before Axiel landed a thrust to Patricia's chest. Patricia fell, but her hand gripped the splintered wood of the enemy lance, dragging Axiel down with her.
They rolled in opposite directions and got to their feet. The orc panted and sweated, while the human kept his breath controlled.
Axiel raised his rose shield and drew his rapier. Patricia discarded her ruined shield and swung her flail.
"I don't like used goods!" the orc exclaimed, glaring at the captain.
Axiel angled his body and pointed his rapier at the orc. He backed away, keeping his shield close to his chest. It was obvious to many that the captain had adopted a cautious approach, though just as many others, like Princess Gineber, thought the Knight of the Rose would finish the fight in a blink.
Patricia roared and charged forward, the spiked ball spinning over her head. Ten paces away, she swung the flail. The chain stretched.
With a dull thud, the spiked ball dented the rose shield, forcing Axiel to bend his knees. The flail's sphere pulled back to gather momentum. Axiel leaped left to dodge the second strike, and swung his rapier to deflect the third. The spikes nearly tore his throat out on the fourth blow, but he avoided it by leaning his back entirely out of the way.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. The princess covered her mouth with her hands. Marcus scratched the back of his neck in confusion.
"That flail looked short, but it's actually as long as a whip," the young soldier said.
Pit, standing beside him with his arms crossed, shed some light on the matter:
"It's orc magic."
"Magic…? From orcs…?" Marcus didn't even know such a thing existed.
"I don't know if that's the exact name, but yes, it's like the magic of our sorcerers and the divine powers of the priests."
Magic was usually tied to intellect, hence why many scholars considered it absurd for a race as simple-minded as orcs to possess it, sparking heated debates on how to categorize such power, or theorizing it was some kind of Ki. Pit explained it like this: If there were two identical carts, one painted red and one unpainted, and an orc drove the red cart believing that being red made it faster than the other, it would become reality.
Marcus's eyes hadn't failed him; Patricia's flail was short, but because she fiercely believed her strikes would reach Axiel, they did.
"I still don't fully understand it, but it sounds terrifying," the young soldier commented.
Pit nodded in agreement.
Jimbo, floating nearby in the secrecy of his invisibility and soundlessness, listened and his jaw dropped.
«That's literal reality control! Way too broken!» He looked at Patricia with newfound respect. From what he had heard, it seemed the only limitation to such power was imagination.
The huge downside was that orcs had very little imagination and an inability for abstract thought, like numbers. Orcs were pure muscle, but not entirely brainless. On the battlefield, Patricia seemed quite imaginative when it came to keeping Axiel on the ropes.
The flail caved the shield in again and got stuck. Axiel gritted his teeth beneath his helm as he felt a spike pierce his skin. Patricia yanked, tearing the shield from its straps, raised her arm high, and hurled the shield far away. Someone in the stands managed to catch the deformed circle.
Blood slid down Axiel's arm, camouflaging itself with the red of his armor. The captain straightened his back, pointing his rapier at the orc once more. The slender blade glowed and vanished, carried away by the wind like thousands of petals. It was a beautiful spectacle, but one that made Marcus swallow hard.
Patricia managed to cover her face with her arms before the petals crashed into her. In a second, she felt thousands of cuts searing her like fire, but instead of intimidating her, it enraged her. She leaped, soaring four meters into the air.
She fell toward Axiel. In front of her, the crimson light petals returned, grouped together, and formed two lines half a meter wide and five meters long. In mid-air, she twisted her massive body, passing between the lines, the tips of her mane getting sliced off. She kept spinning and landed on one knee while swinging the flail.
The spiked ball kicked up dust and straw as it slammed into the ground. Axiel, on her right, extended his arm and struck her forehead with the empty hilt. Patricia didn't even feel it. The orc's hand grabbed the captain's helm and squeezed.
The metal shrieked and warped under the orc's grip, but the petals were faster to gather. The woman's eyes widened and her entire body paralyzed as the length of the rapier protruded from the back of her neck.
The stands fell silent.
Axiel planted his foot on Patricia's chest and pushed, freeing the rapier and staining the ground with a bloody mist. The green woman fell.
The second captain was declared the winner. He had to pull hard to remove his helm and greet the crowd; Patricia's hand had distorted the ornamented metal.
Princess Gineber shrieked with excitement. The crowd cheered and applauded. All bets had been in favor of the Knight of the Rose.
Queen Gineber gave Axiel a small, meaning-filled smile.
The priests received help from several soldiers to carry Patricia's heavy body away, intending to revive her. Marcus followed the priests' cart with his eyes before turning back to Axiel.
"That woman is impressive. She almost defeated our second captain," Marcus said.
"I'm not so sure," Pit muttered.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I feel like the captain wanted to put on a bit of a show."
Marcus remembered how Axiel had pulverized the forest assassin; it had been remarkably fast. Perhaps Pit was right, and Axiel had decided to take the jousts easy to show off and give the people what they came to see. Marcus managed a bitter smile, because in comparison, he had to give 100% just to scratch out his first victory.
"Yesterday, for a moment, I thought I could be the champion of this tournament. But now I realize that was an illusion."
"Don't pressure yourself over that, Marcus. You came here to fight for your honor and the honor of your sister. Everything else is secondary," Pit said.
Marcus nodded. He knew Pit was right. He couldn't lose sight of what was important.
The combatants for the second bout were called. Goro IV went first, his gold-plated armor so polished it hurt to look at. He was the spitting image of pride, especially when he announced at the top of his lungs that his grandfather had emerged undefeated from the war against the rebel kings.
«Give me a G! Give me an O! Give me an R! Give me another O! What does it spell? Goro! Goro! GORO!»
Hilda, in the royal box, facepalmed upon hearing Jimbo chanting Goro's name. One of the princes was confused by the gesture and looked at her. She told him it was nothing.
Marcus was focused on his conversation with Pit, but upon hearing who Goro IV's chosen adversary was, he turned his head urgently.
Wolfen the Gale steered his giant wolf to one end of the lists, while Goro took the opposite side.
Marcus took a deep breath and kept all his attention on the adventurer. He didn't expect much from the fight, assuming Wolfen would win; what he craved was to see the adventurer's moves to learn and, perhaps, find a weak point he could use when it was their turn to fight.
The trumpet sounded. The rivals rode their mounts toward each other. At the moment of impact, the crowd jumped in their seats. Jimbo applauded with his hands in the air. And Marcus…
Was left speechless.
Every one of Goro's lances hit the mark and threw the adventurer off balance, while Wolfen's lances never even grazed the golden armor.
It was all clumsy, effortless. But Marcus heard the excitement of the stands and looked at Pit in disbelief. Pit kept his arms crossed, frowning. When Wolfen fell from his wolf, Pit's expression didn't change.
"What is this farc—...?" Marcus said, unable to believe it.
Goro IV raised his hands to bask in the crowd's praise, though any warrior with a trained eye realized this fight was as rigged as the one on the first day.
Colón the Barrel and Richard the Knight of the Clover gathered to fight. But Marcus didn't stay to watch. He chased after Wolfen's long shadow.
…
Wolfen, his lovers, and his slave took an alleyway as a shortcut to the inn where they were staying. The coin pouch on the dark-skinned man's waist was much bulkier than when the day began. He wore his sparse armor, and his wolf walked by his side. It was obvious he hadn't had to pay Goro to ransom his belongings.
"Wolfen the Gale!" shouted a voice far behind.
Wolfen and the women turned around. The wolf growled, baring its fangs. At the beginning of the alley stood Marcus, dressed in his wooden armor, without a helm, frowning.
"What do you want from me, boy? Move on with your life," Wolfen said, making no effort to hide his condescension toward the soldier.
Marcus took a step forward and pointed at him.
"You said you would fight me! It was a matter of honor!"
"Honor is overrated. It can't fill your stomach, get you a good bed, much less earn you land for your children to inherit."
"But coins can. The gold and silver of a bribe!"
"More like silver. The Promise is quite a stingy man, or perhaps he's less wealthy than he likes to pretend." Wolfen smirked.
When Marcus drew his sword, Wolfen's smile was replaced by a look of annoyance.
"Forget about me, little soldier. I already decided to leave you behind. Send my regards to your pretty sister."
Wolfen turned his back on him. Marcus opened his mouth to shout for him to stop, but went silent upon hearing the drawing of a bow.
The archer aimed at him with cold determination in her eyes.
"If you continue with this... I will kill you," the slave announced.
Marcus was struck by surprise. He gritted his teeth and lowered his sword, frustration boiling inside him. Wolfen and his women walked away. The archer threw Marcus one last look before leaving with her group.
Marcus stood like a statue in the quiet alleyway. He struggled to understand that everything had ended so... abruptly. That all his effort and sleepless nights were for nothing. He had imagined the fight against Wolfen a thousand times—hundreds of defeats, and a few victories achieved with blood, sweat, and tears.
But he got none of that.
A large, strong hand rested on his shoulder.
"It's time for your fight... The last one for today," Pit said.
Marcus looked at him and nodded.
In silence, both returned to the arena. Passing the walls into the castle courtyard, Marcus allowed himself to focus on the competition once more.
"Who won the last fight?" the young soldier asked.
"Ser Richard, the Knight of the Clover," Pit answered, adding, "Colón suffered a heart attack when they broke the third lance. He died on the spot; the priests couldn't revive him. He was in very poor health."
In the champions' pavilion, the Master of the Joust's attendants surrounded Marcus, asking where the hell he had been. The young soldier didn't answer, simply putting on his helm (missing a piece of the visor from the first day's fight), mounting the thunderbird, and heading out to the lists to meet his adversary.
The Shadow. The hooded man, instead of a jousting lance, gripped a curved sword from the get-go.
Marcus didn't even register when the trumpet sounded. He only struck the flank of his mount with his heel when he saw The Shadow's headless horse approaching. Marcus's apathy was obvious to everyone. He raised his shield out of sheer inertia.
His heart raced. His muscles tensed. His instinct screamed at the top of its lungs.
The thunderbird snapped its beak and deflected the sword just in time. Both combatants rode past each other. But it was Marcus who was as pale as a ghost upon realizing what had happened.
The Shadow had aimed for his neck.
Without the thunderbird's intervention, he would have suffered a true death.