James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian couldn’t help but gape a little as they walked along. Thousands upon thousands of people were packed into the stands; it was a writhing sea of colour like he had never seen before, could not have imagined. There was the low rumble of countless excited voices in the air, and the atmosphere itself seemed alive, buzzing with anticipation.

Finally their escorts reached another set of guarded doors, these ones closed. There was a quick discussion between the two pairs of soldiers, and then they were being guided into a side room, isolated from the crowd and completely empty. A small window gave them a view of the arena, but only when standing right up to it.

“You will wait here until after the final bout,” said one of the soldiers. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. He evidently didn’t want this delay getting back to Nihim.

Taeris frowned, looking displeased, but he obviously decided it was not worth risking closer examination by forcing the issue. “Very well.” There was a pause, and then Taeris added, “You may leave us.”

The soldiers, clearly relieved there had been no reprisals for the delay, fled gladly.

Wirr glanced at the window. “While we’re here….”

Davian was already moving. “Agreed.”

Taeris and Caeden soon joined them, and the four stood in a line along the elongated, paneless window, leaning forward against the ledge it provided. In the centre of the arena were two men. One stood relaxed, almost casual as he sauntered around in small circles, swinging his blade through the air to test its weight and balance. He was slim, lithe, and looked much the same age as Davian.

His opposition was a giant of a man. Muscle rippled along his arms with every movement, and the sword in his hand looked more like a rapier than the broadsword it actually was. His face was crisscrossed with scars; it was difficult to tell, but he looked older, possibly in his early forties. He stood stock-still, staring at the other man as if watching his prey.

“They’re not wearing armour,” Davian noted in surprise. Both men wore simple pants and loose-fitting shirts which were open at the front; there was no protection to speak of. Their swords glinted in the afternoon light.

“The edges of the swords are blunted,” explained Wirr.

“Surely that’s still dangerous?” asked Davian.

“It is a swordfight,” noted Wirr.

“It’s very rare anyone gets killed,” interjected Taeris. “Broken bones are usually the worst of it.”

There was silence as they watched for a few more seconds. The crowd outside had hushed as something was being announced, though the voice was too muffled from their position to understand.

Wirr squinted at two large banners draped from a far balcony, evidently representing the two finalists. “I think one is an Andarran. I recognise the sigil… Shainwiere. I think.”

“Which one?” asked Davian.

Wirr studied the two men in the arena. “The younger,” he said eventually. “Lord Shainwiere would be too old to be here, and I doubt he’d have the skill anyway. It must be his son.”

A trumpet sounded, signalling the beginning of the fight. The crowd roared as the combatants began circling each other warily, feinting occasionally with their feet but otherwise simply sizing up their opponent.

“Our man’s a bit smaller than the other one, then,” observed Davian dryly.

Wirr shrugged. “Strength is important, but it’s usually the quicker, smarter man that wins.”

The two men were still circling, but suddenly Shainwiere flew into action. He launched himself forward in a blur of movement; his sword flashed again and again as the other man blocked blow after blow, moving quickly backwards as the younger man threatened to come in under his guard. When the swords touched there were sparks of light; Davian could almost see the large man’s eyes go wide as he desperately tried to follow the arc of Shainwiere’s blade. Some of the crowd leapt to their feet, and a rousing cheer echoed thunderously around the stadium.

Shainwiere had broken off the attack; Davian could tell even from this distance that both men were breathing heavily. The larger man did not wait long before responding, though. He came forward in a rush, swinging his enormous sword as if it were light as a feather.

It was Shainwiere’s turn to move backward, though when he retreated he did so smoothly, cat-like, as if it had been his intention to do so all along. Despite the blaze of sparks, he seemed to be blocking his opponent’s blows almost lazily at times, though Davian had no doubt that it must have been taking every ounce of his strength and concentration to do so.

Without warning Shainwiere stopped retreating and dove forward, evidently picking up on some flaw in the other man’s footwork. Even from this distance Davian could see the surprise in the big man’s eyes as Shainwiere’s sword slashed across both his legs; Shainwiere rolled and came to his feet behind the massive man, watching as he slumped to his knees, mouth open in a bellow of pain that was lost beneath the roar of the crowd.

For a second Davian thought the fight was over, but the big man forced himself to his feet and began circling again, his smooth motion showing no sign of his injury.

Swords clashed again and again; minutes passed as the two combatants fought. With each engagement the crowd seemed to roar louder, with more fervour, and before long Davian realised that the cheers were heavily favouring the larger man.

“They don’t want an Andarran to win,” murmured Taeris to no-one in particular, as if reading his thoughts. “The Song’s not supposed to be about politics, but there’s a lot of bad blood between the two countries right now. It would be a slap in the face to Desriel if Shainwiere got the victory here.”

As he spoke, there seemed to be a slight shift in the battle. The muscular man pressed forward at a furious pace; rather than breaking off as he had done previously, he kept up the offensive, his sword a blur as Shainwiere backed away desperately. Just as it seemed he could attack no more, the man gave one last, heavy blow, the force of it knocking Shainwiere’s sword from his grip and sending it sailing out of reach. The younger man’s shoulders sagged, but he clenched his fist and held it over his heart, a sign of both surrender and respect. The crowd screamed its approval, and then it was over.

Davian looked at Wirr with a disappointed expression, but his friend seemed relieved, as did Taeris. Caeden just looked thoughtful.

“Good,” Taeris muttered to himself, turning away from the window. “Time to get out of this place.”

If he had been expecting an immediate audience, though, he was to be disappointed. It was at least another hour, well after the presentation to the winner had been completed, before the door to the hallway outside finally opened again.

Taeris groaned under his breath as a tall, thin man in a red cloak swept into the room. “He’s from Tol Shen. This may be more difficult than I first thought,” he muttered to Davian.

The Elder stopped when he saw Taeris, staring hard into his scarred face for several seconds. Then he gave a sneering laugh. “Taeris Sarr,” he said with a smile that held a complete lack of warmth. “I almost didn’t recognise you. So you’re still alive. I always thought we got rid of you a little too easily.” He examined Taeris disdainfully. "What happened to your face?"

Taeris stiffened, but ignored the insult. "Administration were… not kind, before I escaped," he said quietly. “We’ve had our differences, Dras, but I hope we can look past them today. I need your aid. We have nowhere else to turn.”

Davian watched Taeris silently. None of them had asked their companion how he had come by his myriad scars, but Davian had wondered - and now he knew. Another on the list of sacrifices Taeris had made for him.