Beam POV: Day 84

  Current Wealth: 299 gold 30 silver 41 copper

  Argar strode out like he owned the place, armour glinting in the high sun, giant body almost silencing the crowd with its sheer scale. I wasn’t entirely surprised, God only knew what kind of awe a man his size would evoke in people who fell short of even average Americans by a good few inches.

  His opponent, by contrast, was…Less impressive. Not a short man, by Redaclan standards, but far from tall. He strolled out in a heavy gambeson with a shield in one arm and a short spear in the other. Even beneath the thick armour I could tell he was built, broad, almost box-shaped. Whatever musculature was going on under those clothes, it probably left him even heavier than I was.

  Which wasn’t to say he had as much mass as Argar was bringing to the table, maybe not even half as much. The giant would’ve out-weighed his armoured body even while facing it naked, and I wasn’t certain the axe he had strewn across one shoulder could even have been swung with the smaller man’s strength. But builds could be deceptive. I had to remember that.

  Redacle rules were in play here, for all I knew the Soldier was-

  “-Level eleven.” Shango said from behind me, sounding almost bored. “Strength eleven, Speed nine, Dexterity seven, Stamina twelve, Toughness eleven, Alertness nine, Charisma five, Intelligence five.”

  He was bored, eying the Soldier, because of course he was. The ability to look at a person and boil their abilities down into a list of numbers did have a way of killing the fucking suspense in a situation.

  “Is that the farthest you’ve ever used it from?” Solitaire cut in. Shango blinked.

  “Oh, shit, yeah.” He grinned. “Guess my range is over…Uh…”

  “Ninety two metres.” Solitaire replied, wiping Shango’s grin away.

  “Let’s watch the match.” He grumbled.

  It was a good thing he grumbled it when he did, too, because if he hadn’t, we might’ve missed the fucking thing. Argar moved in quick and heavy as a stampeding ox, axe coming down with so much force that I actually worried for a moment that he’d fucking kill the poor enemy in that single swing. He didn’t, though, shield rising up just in time to meet the edge.

  Wood splintered and cracked, steel biting through a centimetre, then an inch. A jagged split ran up and down from the point of contact, almost reaching the iron rim, and I watched as the smaller man stumbled back.

  He might’ve tried to stop a speeding motorcycle and kept his balance better. Argar roared, grabbing his weapon with both hands, tightening his fists and pulling.

  For one moment I thought the Soldier might manage to hold himself in place, then Argar’s motion was completed and the man simply came uprooted in an instant. Feet plucked off the floor, body lurching forwards into a stumble as his shield dragged him after it. He was smart, though, and turned that momentum into a stab that left the tip of his short spear sliding off the metal plate of Argar’s chest, an ugly scratch marking the point of contact and a shower of sparks marking its violence.

  Argar took a step back, maybe from shock, maybe from fear. The Soldier was quick in exploiting it. He thrust again, going high this time, then whipping his spear back down to lurch for Argar’s knee. I realised it was heading for an opened joint, widened and exposed by the giant’s move to block the stab at his face, and the metal tip passed between plates with drillbook precision.

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  Then Argar’s fist hit the man like a thrown anvil.

  The Soldier was staggering, almost falling over his torso was forced so far off-kilter. He rebalanced, readied his spear, then froze as Argar’s hands closed around it. One swift motion and the shaft broke apart, splinters flying in all directions, plate-clad giant bashing them aside and bowling the man off his feet. They went down together, Argar on top, hammerfists raining.

  In the end, it was a referee who called it, and I was left to worry that Argar might’ve just smashed a man to death for the second time that day. He exited the arena without much hesitation, though.

  And the crowd didn’t like him. Oh, fuck, they hated him. Argar the brute, Argar the savage, Argar the half-troll. The names were as numerous as they were uninspired, thrown out like volleys of arrows into the centre of the stadium. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Solitaire definitely didn’t, and Shango seemed downright pleased. That was when I remembered the betting.

  “We…Won something?” I asked, hopeful. They both grinned.

  “I put a gold on Argar.” Solitaire shrugged. “Five to one odds in his favour, so we’re about ten silver richer. There are disadvantages to being as big as a grizzly bear, apparently.”

  Yeah, that I could see. I’d have bet on the big guy too. But it didn’t explain their grins, which Solitaire quickly rectified.

  “Argar gets a lot of good bets from sheer size, right?” He noted. “And the more he wins, particularly like that, the better his odds will grow.”

  I stared at him, understanding dawning.

  “You want to rig a match?” I asked. He shrugged.

  “It’s an option, I doubt Argar’ll throw one but I can make something that’ll give him a bad enough case of the shits he won’t have much choice. Oh, look, next fight’s starting.”

  And so we all turned to the arena as a new pair walked out, and we kept turned to it. Hours passed with fights dotted between them, some immediately following another, but most delayed by half an hour or more. I guessed the event wanted to keep people seated and buying food for as long as it could, which wasn’t exactly dumb. We were actually starting to get a bit bored, seeing the competition, before a particular figure made themselves known.

  Bachton Byror, one of the city’s more prominent nobles. And, as even I noticed from the name, a relative of the fucker Phelia had gotten us tangled up dealing with. He was a big man even by modern standards, close to six feet in height, and covered in plate armour. He clinked his way into the centre of the arena to an absolute avalanche of applause, so much so that I turned a questioning look to my brothers.

  “The Challenger.” Solitaire said, as if quoting something. Because he was. “That’s what they call him.” He explained. “On account of him almost beating the King of Blades, apparently.”

  That did not leave me with a net decrease in questions.

  “The King of Blades,” He explained,” Is the reigning champion. Never failed to show, never lost, never even visibly hurt. Apparently the Challenger got closer to winning than anyone else.”

  “So he’s tough.” I nodded.

  “Twelve to one odds here.” He replied.

  “And level thirty two.” Shango added. “Strength twenty, Speed twenty, Dexterity eight, Stamina six, Toughness twenty, Alertness twenty, Charisma five, Intelligence three.”

  My mouth went dry. With the stat differences Solitaire had described, the scarily numerous points separating him from us would’ve made a lot of difference. I kept my eyes peeled for the guy’s movement.

  From the other side of the arena, his enemy emerged. Bigger, broader, also in plate. Shango read his level off at thirteen, and he didn’t need to tell me his strength. I could guess by the sheer fucking size of the hammer he was one-handing that there wasn’t a man on earth who could’ve made him break a sweat in that department.

  The fight began, then it ended. One moment, the big man moved. Another moment, he raised his weapon. A third moment, The Challenger shifted where he stood, lurching to one side with blinding speed and sending his sword right into the enemy’s exposed joint. Chainmail ruptured, blood spurted, and the man’s arm fell limp at his side, refusing to obey the instructions he was doubtless sending its way.

  “Yield!” The Challenger ordered. Big Man didn’t, moving in again, perhaps hoping to surprise him. He did not. A boot caught his chest, lifting him from his feet and sending him to slide almost a metre backwards along the ground. This time the ref called it for him.

  The entire thing hadn’t even taken three seconds, and by the looks of the Challenger, he hadn’t even taken a bet.

  “Well fuck.” Solitaire remarked. “I bet our ten silver winnings on the big guy.”