The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  Max silently applauded his own genius at this little brainwave. All he had to do was suffer through Carlton Bond’s incessant prattling for the time being, not a fun chore. How someone made a career as a presenter for hire when they had all the on-screen charisma of a cucumber was beyond him. About the only qualifications he had to get the job from Five Kingdoms Sport was his permatan. If crime didn’t work out, he should try getting involved in the media. He could do a better job than the big balding man on screen in front of him, droning on with his awful accent about how this was going to be the biggest and the best tournament to date. The same thing they said before every single one. They’d even gotten special pundits in to comment, Terrence Arnholt, Prideaux Khan and Choksy Mulhern.

  Arnholt was the one speaking currently, a city champion of some repute who’d come out to support his son as well as do some media work, if the stories were to be believed. Max made it a habit of not believing everything he heard in the media. “I mean; we’ve seen events like this before, but I think they’ve really outdone themselves this time.”

  Choksy Mulhern, a stern-looking brunette with cropped close hair and a former regional champion nodded in agreement. “They need to get it right. If they get it wrong, it’ll impact on Vazara getting it again. Premesoir or Serran have a bad tournament, they’ve had so many go right in the past. But I think they’ll pull it off.”

  “At the same time,” Prideaux pointed out. She was a tall Burykian with very dark hair and possibly more lipstick than was necessary, younger than he’d expect for a pundit. “The tournament is only as good as the skill of the callers on show.”

  “You think we have an assortment here to make it memorable?”

  “Carlton, the leagues are as strong as I’ve seen them for a long time,” Arnholt said. “I think this could be fantastic. We’re going to be in for some exciting bouts, I can see there being a surprise winner.”

  “Who do you fancy to win it at this stage?” Bond asked, looking past Arnholt. “We all know Terrence will say his son…”

  “I hope he does. I really do,” Arnholt said. “Whether he will or not is another matter. I don’t think you can look past one of the big names. Maybe a Wallerington or an Arventino but I don’t think the big names are as unbeatable as they used to be.”

  “Because there’s that much media saturation now, even compared to a few years ago. Just feels like it’s gone crazy,” Choksy added. “Everyone knows what they can do, what they’ll use, strategies… I agree with Terry. I can see someone come out of nowhere and if not win it, maybe cause a few upsets along the way.”

  “Wade Wallerington,” Prideaux said. “All the way. I know he’s been training with Nick Roper over the past few months but he’s still one of the best I’ve ever fought. On his day, he is unstoppable. That said, Roper himself is up there when he’s on song and he could do it. Especially with Ruud Baxter declining the chance to retain his title for this competition.”

  “There’s always four or five firm favourites,” Arnholt said. “But there’s always someone who comes out of nowhere to have a good run to the quarter finals, maybe the semi-finals. And then people start to believe. That’s the magic of this tournament.”

  The stadium was packed, Scott privately impressed and trying not to show it. He fidgeted on both feet; had Pete next to him with his best Ruin face giving every effort to try and not show any emotion. It wasn’t working, some of the nerves and excitement were seeping through, he kept twitching as if biting down a grin, but he looked composed. The corners of his mouth flexed as if ready to take a life of their own. He saw Pete’s sister stood close to the front, all those faces staring down at them, thousands of eyes eager to see what would happen next. They were hungry for the oncoming event. You got used to being scrutinised, it wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it something you could complain about.

  “Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day,” Pete muttered. “What they waiting for? Just do the draw, tell us who we’re battling, and we can go do other shit. Feel like a bloody cow.”

  “Tell me about it,” a tall blond man said disgruntledly. “Been here before, it’s always the same. We wait around for a few hours, the crowd get a good stare at us, the dignitaries get their moment in the sun, they say a few words and then it starts.”

  “Yeah but I guess we’re here. That’s something,” Scott said. “I mean how many people would want to be here instead of us, right? I mean, I’d rather be here than not.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” the blond man said, his voice still a little peeved. It was a hot morning, sweat sheened his face. “I just hope this ceremony doesn’t include dancers again.”

  “It’s always dancers,” Pete said. “Bet you twenty credits its dancers. And flags. Always those two things in these things. Still you remember that one before last with the strippers in it?”

  Scott laughed. “Oh yeah, that was class. Remember asking my mom why those girls were taking their clothes off. At least I wanted to, but it was strangely hypnotic.”

  “That’s my kind of originality,” Pete agreed, before his eyes lit up as he moved to change the subject. “So, what happened between you and Jess last night? She looked more annoyed than usual.”

  “Hells if I know. I’m close to giving up, if I’m honest,” Scott admitted, glancing about the crowd in hopes of spotting her, even from this distance. It was an action probably doomed to fail. If she was in the stadium, he didn’t see her.

  “I’m sure you’d find someone nicer if you did,” Pete said. “I mean, you could probably trawl the prison system for women sent down for stabbing their husbands to death and you’d probably find someone nicer than her.”

  Before Scott could reply, make a half-hearted defence of how unfair that was, a horn blared out bringing the chatter to a silence not just on the battlefield but in the stands as well.

  Here we go, he thought, taking a deep breath. The air stank around here, hot and humid, and he was crammed amidst way too many people to enjoy the moment. He tried to peer through the crowd, realised he couldn’t see much of it, just shapes and colours through a mass of bodies, music suddenly blurting out from a dozen speakers around the stadium. It all sounded authentically Vazaran, all sorts of instruments he couldn’t hope to name. One of them somewhere sounded like that stupid bloody flute thing that guy had been playing in the resort while he’d been having that argument with Jess.

  He rejected that thought violently. Now wasn’t the time to think about it, rather a time to enjoy the moment, such as it was. And he made the effort, tapped his foot, even found the nerve to raise his hands and sway them in the air like others were doing. Pete gave him such a patronising look he quickly desisted. He’d done it for a few seconds, far more than the few days of ridicule he’d probably get from Pete warranted. Oohs and aahs were starting to fall from the crowd; he wished he could get a better view of it all.

  “Told you it’d be dancers,” the taller Pete said, glancing down and shaking his head. “Spirit dancers but still dancers.”

  Max had to admit the idea had been impressive, even if the actual execution didn’t quite flow as well as it might have. Something about it just felt off, something he couldn’t explain. The stadium floor, with the competitors huddled off in one large crowd off to the side, had a podium and stage out in the middle of it, several microphones planted on top of the podium. Vazaran talik dancers writhed together around it in unison, forty or fifty of them in bright coloured costumes, their moves reminiscent of how they’d once celebrated in battle.

  With them cavorted their spirits, two sandhounds for each dancer, the dogs moving in time with their callers. Probably the most common beast in Vazara, Max knew, given he had one himself. It hadn’t done him much good in the fight with that Unisco agent but that shouldn’t be an indictment against the species. There’d been other factors involved.

  The flags came next, circling the block of dancers, eight Vazarans to each of the five flags. Each wore the crest and colours of
one kingdom, the black, white and red stripes and mountain of Vazara leading out the blue and red trio of stars of Premesoir, the cream and crimson castle of Canterage, the gold and grey bear of Serran and the black and yellow moon of Burykia. Their order wasn’t any indication of the power of the kingdom, rather the order in which they’d last held the tournament, the first time Vazara had led them out.

  He had to admit, as the dancers danced, and the music played, a sound reminiscent of his childhood, he did feel a tiny bit of patriotic pride he’d thought dead long ago. Always they’d found some excuse to avoid giving it to Vazara, like rampant terrorism or mass genocide. Nobody ever brought up how the other four kingdoms had raped Vazara throughout history for minerals and resources they couldn’t find in their own kingdom. Max supposed that was just the way that the world worked. You couldn’t change it, no matter how much you might want to. The big boys told it how they wanted it heard and credits didn’t just talk, they screamed.

  It didn’t mean you had to like it.

  How long it went on, Scott couldn’t say, he’d left his timepiece back in his room and it’d look a bit impolite if he was caught on recorder fiddling with his summoner. He heard a burst of applause and the music died down as suddenly as it had started.

  “Oh, thank the Divines,” Pete muttered. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “At last.” Scott’s voice spoke relief.

  “Hey, shut up back there!” someone hissed as Ronald Ritellia wandered out onto the stadium floor flanked by several aides as well as a cadre of dark skinned Vazaran dignitaries, taking the steps onto the podium. It was Ritellia himself who waddled over to the podium, drawing a deep breath as he spoke into the microphones with all the self-assured confidence of one who had done it a thousand times before.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you, thank you,” he said, apparently unaware the crowd weren’t solely applauding him. “And thank you to the Keirabi national school of dance for providing their spirit dancers for our ceremony. Truly you’ve made it a memorable experience for all of us present. We all thank you.”

  Someone in the crowd booed him, largely drowned out by the applause for the dancers and their spirits.

  “As you all know, we’re gathered here today for the commencement of the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup, held here on this magnificent island in this magnificent kingdom for the very first time. Judging by what we’ve just seen, it’s a travesty it’s never been here before… But today isn’t about the past. It’s about the next few weeks and beyond that. It’s about what we’re going to see in stadiums like this. It’s about you, the people, not just those who fight, but those who watch and those who administer. Because without you, there is no sport.”

  He took a moment, glancing back to the dignitaries, searching the crowd before nodding. “Now to say a few words, I’d like to introduce to you a most important figure in ensuring that this tournament came to the kingdom of Vazara for the first time. A man who fought to see this staged here and now and his efforts have been rewarded. Ladies and gentlemen of spirit calling, I give you Premier Leonard Nwakili.”

  The premier stepped forward past Ritellia, an impassive look on his face as he strode to the podium, his teeth glistening white against his dark skin. He filled out his suit nicely, ageing but not gone to seed, a solid man but not fat whose reputation had him down as a fighter on the political stage in the same way he had on the calling circuit.

  It had largely been the starting point for his political career, the base he’d held to broadcast his notoriety. Few who had seen them could forget his campaign broadcasts, video after video showing footage from his greatest bouts and using them to ram home inspiring sound bites of his policies and his ideas for the future. He gave the crowd a wave, adjusted the microphone on the podium to his height and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said as the applause died down. “For those of you who are here for the first time, not only at this tournament but in my country, I have three words for you. Welcome to Vazara!” He raised both hands into the air and some sections of the crowd exploded into applause.

  “My country welcomes you. I welcome you from the bottom of my heart and I welcome this tournament into our great kingdom. Our coming together has been far too long in the making and I speak for all of you when I say let the great game of ours begin! Let the memories we forge here together hold us for the rest of our lives. To the competitors, leave nothing behind but your best efforts, to the observers, remember you are just as much a part of a new chapter in Vazaran history. And to those at home…” He winked at the camera. “Wish you were here.”

  This time nearly the entire crowd and most of the competitors burst into applause, Scott and Pete amongst them. They wanted it to get start, Scott especially found himself sick of the talking.

  Nwakili withdrew and was replaced by Ritellia again, sweating even more profusely than he had before and wiping his hands on his trousers. By the looks of it, he’d been just enjoying an iced water he’d had to hand over to an aide. He didn’t show any sign of discomfort, once more speaking into the microphone, his voice booming around the stadium.

  “Fine words from the esteemed premier and I echo them wholeheartedly. Because this tournament is going to start tomorrow and one of you here is going to be the winner. You don’t know it yet, but you will be immortalised in history. You will be placed amongst the pantheon of former winners and you will be remembered by spirit callers everywhere, as an example, an inspiration, a legend.”

  “Peter Jacobs. Legend,” Pete mused. “I like how that sounds. I could have business cards printed up with that on.”

  “Yeah and if you don’t win it, you can have ones that say Pete Jacobs, Big-headed Bastard on them,” Scott grinned.

  “Shut! Up!” That same person in front of them piped up again. Scott obliged, he didn’t have anything else to say right now anyway. He folded his arms and peered at Ritellia.

  “But enough of hearing an old man talk and talk. We all know what you’re waiting for and I am willing to oblige you.” He raised an arm, pointed at the giant screen towards the north stand of the stadium, the entire thing easily as big as the house Scott had grown up in.

  “When I press this button in front of me, you of the competitors will find out who you have been paired up with to fight at random. All battles in this round will be one spirit against one spirit, the winner will advance on to the group stage where you’ll be placed into pools of four, one bout against everyone else in your pool. Only two will advance to the knockout stages after three bouts, the two top performers. Will you be the ones to rise to the top?”

  Going silent on that note, he reached to the podium and made an ostensible show of pushing something, the viewing screen exploding into life, a flurry of names rushing across it faster than the eye could follow until they settled to reveal their results. Some of the names that flashed up on the screen, Scott recognised, he’d seen them either on the viewing screen, fought against them or aware of their reputations.

  Everyone had heard of Wade Wallerington, the former kingdom overlord of Canterage, bouting against a Serranian by the looks of it, with a name like Bernard Kuipers. Pete’s name flashed up, he was fighting someone named Mordecai Blunt, had to be a Premesoiran with a name like that, sounded way too pretentious for anywhere else. Pete’s sister, Sharon Arventino versus Colin Hayres…

  There he was! Scott Taylor to face…

  “Who the fuck is that?!” he asked out loud. Around him, he heard someone snicker at his reaction. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret asking that question down the line.

  Chapter Fourteen. First Fights.

  “It’s always been my opinion the first bout of any major tournament has to be the one to set the standard. It inflames the passions of the crowds, it sets the mood, it gets people ready. That, of course, is if it’s a good one. When it fails to spark, it can have the opposite effect. And apathy towards a tournament of this size is ne
ver a good thing.”

  Terrence Arnholt, speaking before the opening bout of the Quin-C.

  The eighteenth day of Summerdawn.

  “And We. Are. Ready!”

  The air lit up with the thrum of electric anticipation from the crowd, cheers and roars of delight falling on the stadium battlefield as Harry Devine strode out of the tunnel, resisting the urge to wave and blow kisses to all of those chanting his name. “Stepping onto the field right now, we have competitor Harry Devine from Canterage, a first timer here at the tournament.” Devine was a short-ish man barely out of his teens with olive coloured skin and a heart shaped face, currently wearing a mischievous grin as he made his way to the competitor box.

  There was always at least one caller in every tournament who felt the need to try and psych the crowd up with extravagant hand gestures, fist pumps and ear touching gestures. Devine wouldn’t be the first as he trotted into his box, took up a relaxed battle stance, one hand on his summoner, one in the pocket of his denims. If he won, it would be the photo that appeared on the news sites around the kingdoms later that day. If he lost, the focus would be on his opponent.

  Towards the other end of the battlefield, Wayne Morgan a burly Premesoiran ambled into his own area, cutting any show of affection down to a simple stiff wave to the crowd. “We’re here from Stadium Four, live with the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup, I’m Gary LaMar, your commentator, and this is your first battle of the brand-new tournament! It’s sure to be a cracker”

  “And I’m Tess Wilding, your analyser for Five Kingdoms Sports. Young Devine has a potentially tricky tie here; he must overcome Wayne Morgan of Premesoir, a veteran of these tournaments, although it should be said he has only made it past the group stage once. Unless he’s improved markedly, I can see young Devine overcoming him. I’ve seen some of his bouts over the last few months and he has talent.”