Beam POV: Day 84
Current Wealth: 299 gold 30 silver 41 copper
I’d fought in front of crowds before, in fact I’d probably still had more fights before an audience than without one, even after my months in Redacle. That was the natural state for a career Olympian. I’d spent the entire day of the tournament’s beginning wondering what feeling it would evoke in me to see the assembled masses staring and calling out as announcers dropped names and fighters readied themselves out of sight.
As it happened, the feeling was absolutely nothing at all. I might’ve known. I was a fish in water, here, a bird in the air, a writer in the middle of an over-extended metaphor. I was in my element.
But I wasn’t fighting. Life just wasn’t fair, sometimes. We’d been given word that Argar was to go up first out of us all, which told me that Shango had probably been right on the money about the organisers choosing based on alphabetic order. It was lucky he had been, too, because we’d not even come close to finishing a suit for Helena yet. A lot of the hardest parts, the most time consuming, we’d already started practising and preparing, but even so it’d be a close thing to have her armour ready by the next day.
Argar, despite finding out he’d be thrown into the ringer with nothing but a few piddly millimetres of normal steel, didn’t seem particularly worried. Then again, I’d yet to see any real evidence that he was capable of being particularly worried.
“Never been a man who can beat me.” He said, confidently. “‘Cept you, on account of you cheating.”
I sighed. Apparently my levelling up and weapon conjuration violated some previously unobserved rule of engagement, and as a result discounted all of my wins over Argar ever. Somehow that didn’t seem fair, or make me feel his confidence.
“You ever heard the saying, “Pride comes before the fall”, Argar?” I asked, not really expecting him to have. He just shrugged.
“Hear it all the time.” He grunted. “About half the fights I’ve won ended with someone tossing it at me. Never fallen, though.”
I had half a mind to bring up the vampire, but that was a bit of a touchy spot for him. And mentioning his relative effectiveness against the Dead Edge would just have been cruel.
“Alright, let’s see a few swings.” I said instead, watching as Argar hefted his axe and started hacking away as if the air had insulted him. It was impressive, watching him move, almost surreal. Seven feet tall, four hundred pounds heavy, every inch of him muscled like a bull. Magic had given me strength beyond the limits of mere flesh and blood, but there was something about the raw physicality Argar brought to a fight that was just terrifying to see.
Advantage us, a terrified enemy was half beaten. Solitaire liked saying that, I could only assume he’d gotten it from some book about historical warfare or integrated circuits.
“Good luck then.” I said to Argar at last, slapping him on the shoulder, and slightly hurting my hand against his plate. I must’ve been more nervous than I thought to use such an excess of strength, but Argar only grinned more broadly before tipping his visor down.
“Luck is for people under seven feet tall.” He laughed, tone only slightly marred by its passage between the metal grate.
I didn’t watch Argar step out from the contestant’s area, as much as I wanted to, but instead headed back up to where Solitaire and Shango had stashed themselves. The noble’s box.
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A long walk rested between me and it, punctuated by many stairs, and I’d donned a set of chainmail under my clothing just in case the Dead Edge got balsey. Even still, I practically sprinted my way to my brothers and barely even felt out of breath in doing so. My bodyweight felt increasingly slight these days, preternatural strength making a mere two hundred or so pounds less significant than it had once been. It felt wrong. I’d still not retained all the musculature and bodily efficiency I had on earth, and yet I was stronger than ever. Much stronger. Moving so easily it was like living under low gravity, like my flesh and blood were being slowly replaced by something lighter. And the speed…That was something else, too. Something almost unnerving.
Once I reached the place, I was struck by an inexplicable wrongness. I stepped into the noble’s box and found myself surrounded on all sides by enclosed seating areas. One section seemed to be a kind of common room, where a dozen or two people stood around and chatted, many more were split off into separated, miniature lounges. Sofas strewn out, foodstuffs laid about for pickings, wine and other such drinks displayed invitingly. It reminded me most of those Roman living rooms I’d seen art of, with the people laying sidelong as they chatted, eating grapes and whatnot.
Still, that inexorable disquietment remained. Gnawing at me, grating on my nerves, scratching my spine. It was everywhere and nowhere, imperceptible but unmissable. And after a few moments spent standing around gawking like a moron, it hit me.
The place was clean.
Now, I had been in Redacle for a while, but three months isn’t enough time to go native. The very concept of cleanliness had not yet become alien to me. A public place as well-maintained as that, though? Well, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t have me stunned like a gutpunch.
“Oi!”
Even in a generic mediaeval-euro fantasy world, I knew of only one man British enough to use that greeting. I followed Solitaire’s voice, finding him staring at me from one seating area, gesturing for me to move over. I acquiesced, hurrying and soon finding the others in my sight. Shango and, of course, Phelia, the reason we were even allowed in an area like this.
“What’s up?” I asked, eagerly. I hadn’t been gone long, maybe a few minutes, but give my brothers a few minutes to work and they’d turn tables like spin tops.
Solitaire answered me first, his grin nearly splitting his head.
“We’ve figured out the betting.” He said, quickly. “Turns out it’s not actually that difficult, they came over and invited us. I suppose things needed to be kept simple for-”
Shango coughed, Solitaire paused, and then continued more slowly.
“-For those few people among this particular class of guest who might, by some perspectives, appear less intelligent than those of a more challenged and tested lifestyle.”
He glared at Shango, taking a moment before continuing.
“Anyway, that’s not the cool part, the cool part is I know who Argar will be fighting next. Someone called “The Soldier”.”
I eyed him, finding a genuine surprise at the revelation, but not a particularly strong one. I’d known, after all, what happened when one gave my brothers a few minutes to work.
“How did you learn this exactly?” I asked. Solitaire shrugged in an Ozymandaian display of modesty.
“I used my giant brain to ask a few questions, make a few logical leaps, and follow it all to a guy who knows a guy who’s in touch with a few of the organisers. Apparently they have loose tongues, but then again you know how their kind like to-”
Shango cleared his throat, pointedly, once more. This time I was glancing at Phelia when he did, and saw the glare that shot towards Solitaire from her.
“-Their kind being overpaid executives of course.” Solitaire amended, about as enthusiastically as Henry the Eightth’s ass wiper. “And the long and short of it is, I know who our friend will fight.”
“Do you just have the inherent ability for criminal activity?” Phelia asked, politely. Solitaire turned to her, just as sweet.
“Did you manage to fit all of Shango at once last night, or are you still working up to that?”
She went red as a sunburned tomato, and Shango himself just about convulsed. It took me a second to realise what was being referenced. My first thought was congratulations for my friend.
My second, of course, was amazement that it’d taken him so bloody long.
“So who is this Soldier?” Phelia asked, not meeting any of our eyes.
Solitaire grinned wider than he’d grinned yet, sitting back and savouring the moment of expectant silence before he replied.
“I have no fucking idea.”
