A cold north wind blew through the arena, bringing with it the occasional snowflakes. Nothing that might get in the way of the event though, otherwise the various Warlocks on watch would move into action.
The stands were packed with cheering spectators, though this time a larger portion of the seats was reserved for the nobles. Colorful banners from all sorts of noble houses hung heavy from the walls. Earlier in the morning, they were all treated to the opening events. Four mock battles where two equal forces commanded by the students fought to see who came out on top.
After almost a full year, Jon was back to where his life at the academy started, once again fighting to secure his future. Across from him stood a lithe woman in thick plates. Her sandy blonde hair stopped short of her neck, and a golden harp was engraved on her polished breastplate. A lobstered gauntlet held onto a closed helmet while the other gripped the hilt of a sharp longsword that shined a sky-blue.
Jon’s own longsword didn’t lose in sharpness as he spent the previous night working a whetstone against its edges. His upper body was protected by a blue gambeson and a sky-blue cuirass on top of that, the same pieces of armor he bought with Marleya all those years back. They fit a bit tighter now, especially the cuirass which he failed to close all the way, leaving a small but noticeable gap on his sides.
Jon and Mysa stood at 10 meters from one another, both standing at the edges of a large circle in the sand. Around them, there were sixty-three other circles, each with two contestants standing on each side. The first-years would be fighting first, then the second-years, so on and so forth.
From the same place of honor as last time, the old herald stood up and waited for the crowd’s noise to die down. He waved to his right, where all the other important nobles were seated. “Now, to commence the tourney’s main event, lord Jorvan Olsandre, Duke of Somerford, ruler of Alistown, and commander of the Ashen.” He led the cacophony of applause that followed.
Lord Jorvan Olsandre stood up from his seat, a thick chair covered in velvet and built to resemble a throne. He waved to his subjects. “Today we are about to watch the start of one more Winter Tourney,” he proclaimed, his voice imposing itself above all of the noise. “Standing down below at the sands and ready for combat are some of the most promising students of this generation. They will all be fighting for a chance to write their names down in history. The rules are the same as any other tournament, and a participant will be declared loser if they step out of the bounds, become incapacitated, or if they yield. So, without further ado, put on your helmets.”
Mysa’s face disappeared inside of her helmet. Jon’s eyes, nose, and mouth still showed through a large opening in the shape of a T.
The duke raised his hand up high and every one stood at attention. His booming voice reached Jon at the same time as the hand came down. “Fight!”
The only sound to be heard at first was the echoing of the duke’s shout. Then came the roar from the stands, drowning out the clashing of weapons.
Jon and Mysa walked forward, sword tips pointing directly at each other. She attacked first, stabbing at the obvious opening in the helmet but finding nothing but air. She brought her overextended arm back as quickly as possible, though not enough to avoid a solid hit to the gauntlet that almost disarmed her.
She didn’t attempt anything as risky from them onwards, too worried that the next counter-attack might be more successful. This gave Jon all the space he wanted to attack. His blade whistled through the air, leaving half-a-dozen bright marks on her plate but failing to find a gap to stab through.
Mysa was unable to properly defend herself, each attempt at deflecting Jon’s blows arriving a second too late and every attack of her own missing Jon’s body by a large margin. The differences in both cultivation and weight made him noticeably faster than her.
For the first time in a long while, he remembered what it felt like to be the one permanently on the offensive. To make a move and feel his body effortlessly respond. To not fear an attack because he could easily see it coming and step out of its way.
Gradually, Mysa began losing ground under the constant onslaught. With each passing moment, she edged closer to the limits of the circle. Her plate was strong but not impenetrable, and she had to know as much. If she stopped trying to defend herself, it would become much easier for Jon to find a gap in her armor. On the other hand, she was bound to be pushed outside the circle if she didn’t do anything.
That’s why it didn’t come as a surprise for Jon when, at the last moment, she lowered her head, turned sideways, and charged, hoping to ram into him with her shoulder.
Jon raised his sword, pivoted on the right foot to evade, and slashed down at her legs as she passed him by. The thin metal protecting the back of her knee crunched and she fell down on the sands with a pained grunt. Jon fell on top of her immediately after, one hand pinning her sword arm down. The tip of his sword slid inside the gap between the helmet and the gorget, stopping after entering a couple of inches. From there, he needed only a little bit of force to shove the blade in and give her a new breathing hole.
Mysa’s sword fell lifelessly on the sand as she released her grip on it. “I yield,” she said in defeat.
“A good fight,” Jon said as he returned to his feet and offered her a hand. The woman was a noble, and he’d prefer not to be ambushed by another one of them this year. Self-preservation was as good a reason as any to be courteous.
She slapped his hand with the back of her gauntlet. “I can walk on my own, halfbreed.” With some difficulty, she stood up, recovered her sword, and limped away.
***
On the second day of the tourney, Jon was placed against Sabas of Ironvale, a 3rd level Crusader and a commoner. The man was lightly protected. A mail curtain extended itself from a regular steel cap atop the man’s head all the way down to his shoulders where it overlapped with the mail shirt he wore. His left side was protected by a round, irontree shield with a metal rim displaying a brown horse galloping on a red field as a sigil. Jon recognized it as belonging to the Honns, rulers of Ironvale. Likely, the man had squired to a knight in their service.
The arena only had thirty-two circles in the sand this time, half of yesterday. The other half, meaning the ones who lost on the first day, would be fighting later in the afternoon.
When the duke’s hand finally came down, Jon took to running and lunged at Sabas with a stab, all of his momentum focused on the tip of his sword. It hit the shield with a dull thud, and the man was pushed back a step due to the impact. Jon didn’t waste time waiting. He yanked his sword free and jumped back to avoid an incoming slash at his arm.
The horse’s head now sported a hole almost an inch deep, though not deep enough to stab through. It would require Jon something like an axe or a hammer to get through that shield. Either that or he could bypass it entirely.
Jon circled around Sabas, always towards the man’s right side and away from the shield. Their swords rang together as both tried to bypass the other’s defense. Jon slashed at his shoulder. Sabas met it with a slash of his own and then used the shield to deliver a savage blow to Jon’s head.
The helmet stopped the worst of the attack, but his head still rocked back. He gave ground and Sabas followed after him, slashing down at his body. Jon raised an arm to defend himself. The sword cut through several layers of the gambeson covering his forearm as well as leaving a numbing pain.
Sabas raised his sword for another slash and Jon dove forward, slamming into his shield and wrapping an arm around the man’s waist. He felt a hard blow on the back of his helmet, then another on his shoulder as Sabas used the pommel to strike back. Holding strong under the attacks, he twined a foot around the man’s legs and pushed with all of his strength.
It was a move he learned neither from Marleya, who certainly wouldn’t approve, nor his mother Dene, who certainly would. Rather, it was something he learned in elementary school while fighting other kids. It wasn’t noble but it was effective.
Sabas fell to the ground, and Jon’s sword plunged down soon after, aimed at the man’s chest. There was another thud as the damn shield once again appeared in the way. Jon put a foot against it, wrenched his weapon free, and stabbed down again, this time aimed at Sabas’ sword arm. The first riveted link on the chainmail instantly broke open, and two of the four other links connected to it stretched to the point of the rivets coming apart. A small opening, but enough for the sword to pass through.
Bright red blood leaked out from the wound and pooled into the sands. Sabas thrashed around, trying to free himself. All he managed was to open the wound even further. With one arm pressed between his chest and the shield, and the other one stabbed through, there was nothing more he could do. The sands shifted underneath him and his body started being swallowed down into the ground. Jon quickly stepped back, and a smile formed on his lips as Sabas disappeared.
The smile receded somewhat as he turned his attention to the longsword in his hands. It was quite a versatile weapon, which was another way of saying that it didn’t excel at any particular aspect. It couldn’t puncture through plate like a warhammer, lacked the reach of a spear, and wasn’t as agile as his shortswords.
As time passed, Jon would no longer be facing inexperienced and poorly armored opponents. After getting what he wanted, he would need to rethink his choice of weapons.
Good chapter!
TFTC!