by Unknown
As Slate approached the tunnel entrance to the arena, the crowd around him made way at the sight of his leather armor and weaponry with chants of “Ho, Slate!” and “Fractal’s blessing to you, Slate Severance!” Small crowds formed behind Slate, making him feel a little bit like Villifor. Slate waved and greeted the well-wishers before entering into the relative solitude of the tunnel entrance.
Slate turned to Rainier. “This looks like an entirely new place. Do you know of any other surprises?” But the noise of the crowd drowned out any attempt at conversation. Rainier clasped him on the shoulder, gave a reassuring squeeze, and left Slate to his thoughts. Slate recollected the anticipation of waiting within this tunnel for his match against Rainier. Then, the crowd noise had come from above him, reverberating through the walls. Now the tunnel became alive with noise from above, below, and every direction, reverberating through his entire body until he felt like the entire arena was just an extension of his will.
Bugles trumpeted and the crier’s voice rang out over the crowd. “Citizens of Ravinai and travelers from all parts of Malethya, thank you for joining together to celebrate the best warriors in our lands. Before we enjoy this entertaining match, I ask that all of you pay tribute to the sacrifices made by members of the Crimson Guard in their service to us all.” Enthusiastic applause broke out and the crier continued on the decrescendo. “Special gratitude is due to the Ispirtu Guild and visiting delegates of the Wizard Council who have transformed the arena for tonight’s championship bout. Without further ado, let us meet tonight’s combatants. Please welcome the upstart from Pillar whose staff is almost as quick as his victories…Slate Severance!”
Slate trotted down the tunnel, picking up speed as he went. He kept his eyes focused on the top step exiting the tunnel so he wouldn’t be blinded, planting his staff and leaping overhead in his now familiar entrance. Slate tucked his head during the forward flip over the staff, but where he expected to see the solid ground of the arena, Slate saw only air. Below him, a huge bowl had been carved out to provide seating for additional spectators. Slate’s awe at the magnitude of this magical feat was immediately nullified by the sheer panic about the open air below him. Slate would be fortunate to survive the fall.
Slate continued his flip as usual, rationalizing that a broken leg would be preferable to a broken skull. His feet came underneath him and a jolt brought him to his knee as he felt solid ground beneath his feet at the exact location he had expected the ground to be. But this fact was in stark contrast to the information provided by his eyes. Below him, spectators filled the bowl structure, easily outnumbering the spectators from the earlier matches. But where was the dueling courtyard where he would fight? Slate raised his eyes from the air that supported him and saw the crier in front of him, seemingly floating. Rising to the thunderous ovation of the crowd, Slate took a tentative step forward, felt the air hold his weight, and continued in what he hoped was a confident gait to stand beside the crier.
Once Slate reached the center of the arena, the crier chronicled his previous bouts for the spectators. “Slate Severance began his tournament run with an exhilarating match against Rainier Tallow.” The orbs overhead coordinated their movement to show a perfect image of Rainier crossing swords with Slate prior to their match. “Rainier’s quickness put Slate at a disadvantage early, as he gave ground and was forced to maintain a defensive stance before a well-timed counterattack slowed Rainier, allowing Slate to take the offensive and eventually subdue his opponent.” The orbs reenacted the final moments of the battle, then showed Slate helping Rainier from the ground. “In his semi-final match, Slate set a tournament record by toppling the heavily favored Magnus in only 8 seconds! Let’s hear it for Slate Severance!” Slate soaked in the applause and noticed that his orb-image displayed him from a vantage near his feet. As they slowly panned around him, the orbs recreated a slightly exaggerated and grandiose view of his actual physique…perhaps it was his imagination or a slight modification for the entertainment of the spectators.
“And now, let me introduce Slate’s competitor, Lattimer Regallo!” boomed the crier. Lattimer emerged from the opposite tunnel holding a long sword and a shield bearing the family crest. Lattimer banged the long sword against the depiction of a raven on his shield and jogged toward the crier. When he got closer, Slate stared into a rather plain but unreadable face with fierce grey eyes that exuded utter confidence. The crier continued, “Lattimer demonstrated his technical prowess with victories over Jak Warder’s broadsword and the short swords of Cirata Lorassa.” Slate studiously observed the orbs as they replayed Lattimer’s previous matches. Lattimer rarely attacked early in the bout, counterattacking just enough to keep his opponents honest. Both Jak and Cirata became more aggressive as the match wore on, and Lattimer waited for his opponent to make a mistake before striking. Slate resolved to not become frustrated with Lattimer’s strong defensive tactics and compromise his own defenses in the process.
“Would the combatants please acknowledge the members of the Crimson Guard?” Slate and Lattimer both bowed toward the section of the arena containing the guard. “Tournament rules prohibit the use of magic by contestants during the bout. This rule will be monitored by the esteemed headmaster of the Ispirtu Guild.” Brannon stood and acknowledged the thunderous ovation from the crowd. “Finally, King Darik would like to address the combatants.”
King Darik rose from his seat of honor to address the crowd and the combatants. He dressed in formal robes appropriate for the public function, but still wore his long sword at his side, refusing to give up the weapon that had earned him the crown. “Ladies and gentlemen, with great pleasure I present to you the final bout of the tournament. Fine fighters from throughout Malethya have pitted themselves against each other in a quest to claim the title of tournament champion, and the field has been whittled down to these two extremely gifted combatants. Let us appreciate their combined skill during the upcoming battle and sleep easy at night knowing that these men will use their talents to protect all of us through their future service in the Crimson Guard. Now, let the battle begin!”
Slate crossed his staff with Lattimer’s long sword under another round of deafening applause. A bugle sounded and the tense combatants rushed into motion. Slate feinted to his right and quickly slid to his left, attempting to engage Lattimer on his sword-hand, where his defenses were lighter. Lattimer did not appear overly quick, but his technical skills with the shield and sword compensated for any physical advantages Slate possessed. Slate couldn’t land a solid blow, so he continued to circle and test Lattimer’s formidable defenses.
While circling, early signs of fatigue entered his legs and arms. The prior matches and the healing performed by Lucus and Sana must have affected him more than he thought. As minutes passed and Slate circled, the effect magnified. Instead of just fatigue, heaviness slowed the motions of his arms and legs. Slate was tempted to overwhelm Lattimer with his remaining strength, but the recreated battles from the orbs stayed Slate’s hand. So far, this match was playing out exactly as the others had, and Lattimer would be expecting an offensive charge at any moment.
Slate’s arms tired with each swing but not in a way he had ever experienced. He felt again the sense of invasiveness when Brannon had tested his magical aptitude, except this time a persistent feeling probed his entire body and pushed something into the muscles of his arms and legs. Magic was being used against him.
Slate disengaged by stepping back and regrouping while Lattimer continued to hold his defensive position. Slate hoped to appeal to Lattimer’s obvious pride in the family name and force a break in his defensive techniques. With Lattimer opting not to engage him, Slate held his staff in one hand and rested one end on the invisible ground, a sign of disrespect toward his opponent. He then yelled to the arena, “See the famous Regallo crest! Its prominence hides my opponent perfectly! When our enemies attack, the Regallo family will safely defend themselves while the rest of us actually engage our enemies in battle
!” Wanting to emphasize his point, Slate worked up a good bit of spit and launched it toward Lattimer; it landed square in the middle of his shield bearing the family crest.
Lattimer rushed him, but Slate underestimated his own fatigue. He took up a defensive stance that required as little foot movement as possible, but it was still difficult to keep his staff moving fast enough to repel Lattimer’s offensive blows. The magical intruder within his body still pushed the fatigue-inducing elements into his arms and legs. Frustration rose within Slate. He did not train this hard or come this far to lose in an unfair fight. In his anger, landing a blow with his staff and causing Lattimer to fall didn’t feel sufficient. The intimacy of connecting his fist against Lattimer’s jaw held much more appeal. He hated the fact that something within his own body hindered him and he had no defense against it. He hated being in a hopeless situation and his frustration boiled over. Slate transferred his staff to his left hand, blocked an overhead blow from Lattimer’s sword, and then threw all of his remaining energy into a punch that was sure to fail. Slate didn’t care. To the punch he added all his emotion as he transferred his weight from right foot through his hips and into his arm. As he felt the power of his punch move past the traitorous parts of his body that were causing him fatigue, he felt them get swept along with his emotions. Slate’s fist came forward and Lattimer easily raised his shield. The shield met his fist at the very moment that all of Slate’s energy and emotions transferred from his arm to his fist. The wooden shield splintered and shattered as his hand burst through and connected with Lattimer’s jaw in a surprising and utterly satisfying thud. The jaw-bone gave way, Lattimer fell, and blood pooled on the invisible ground as a bugle sounded in the arena. With his adrenaline pumping, Slate raised his bleeding fist in the air and the spectators showered applause onto him.
Amongst the cheering, several members of the Ispirtu Guard who specialized in healing ran toward the combatants. They first checked on the unconscious Lattimer before turning their attention to Slate. Slate wasn’t concerned about his hand. If Sana and Lucus could heal and reset a broken rib, a couple scratches from the wooden shield shouldn’t be a problem. He was wondering how he had managed to punch through a shield and break his opponent’s jaw when he noticed the wizard examining his hand grew quiet. Slate looked into the wizard’s eyes and saw a mixture of confusion and anger as he examined Slate’s hand; the sight invoked the same emotions in Slate. His hand and forearm had a mixture of scratches and a gouge from the shattered wood, but what lay beneath the broken skin and muscles of his hand was what drew his attention. The bones of his hands looked like the iron ore mined in Pillar.
What had happened to him?
The crowd grew quiet and an orb looked over his shoulder. The image of his hand displayed in the sky above the arena for everyone to see. The crier, feeling the need to fill the deafening silence, quickly trotted over to Slate. He grabbed Slate’s wounded arm, lifted it in the air, and proclaimed, “The winner of this year’s tournament is a champion with mining in his blood and iron in his bones….let’s hear it for Slate ‘Stonehands’ Severance!”
The crowd again erupted with chants of “Stonehands.” Brannon and the attending wizards circled Slate and paraded him out of the courtyard. Slate soaked in the praise of the spectators honoring their new tournament champion, but he got the sinking feeling the attending wizards were less of a parade escort and more of an armed guard synonymous with their name. Whatever happened to him during the match caused great concern to the wizards and his ignorance would not sufficiently answer the pointed questions they were about to ask.
CHAPTER THREE
INVESTIGATIONS
The guardsmen led Slate through a seldom-used tunnel and his exultation dimmed as the lights of the arena faded. The little conversation that did exist between the wizards quickly died away in subservience to Brannon’s silence as he guided the group forward. Slate applied pressure to his untreated hand to prevent additional blood loss. Victory provided a temporary boost of energy, but battle fatigue returned quickly as Brannon entered a small room. Several of the guardsmen stayed outside the door as Slate and the others followed.
The room consisted of a basic table and chairs, with some unimpressive artwork depicting arena victors adorning the walls. No one sat. No one offered congratulations. No one offered his tired legs a chair. Brannon grabbed his arm and looked at the open wound with the odd mixture of iron mixed into the bones of his hands. He addressed the wizard who first observed Slate’s wounds.
“Did you probe the wound? Is this how it looked immediately following the match?” Brannon demanded.
The wizard, despite her status as a member of the Crimson Guard, answered demurely, “It does appear unchanged from the time of my examination. Upon sight of the unnatural wound I did not probe it further. I did not want to tamper with any residual magic from the spell used to create it or impede any subsequent investigation.” A sense of foreboding hung upon Slate with the weight of pick axe after a day in the mines.
Brannon nodded his dismissal and the openly relieved guardsmen left the room. Next, Brannon called forth an elderly mage by the name of Ibson. Ibson approached at a slow yet confident speed and Brannon addressed him. “As the appointed member of the guard responsible for maintaining the integrity of the tournament by monitoring the use of magic, I have failed, warranting an investigation into the matter. Will you lead the investigation on behalf of Ispirtu and the Wizard Council?”
Ibson accepted and turned toward Slate. “I know you are weary, but would you allow me to use magic to investigate what happened to your hand? After that, you may rest before answering some questions.”
Brannon interrupted, “Questioning should occur immediately and this investigation should not draw out unnecessarily.”
Ibson casually turned to Brannon. “I am an old man and doing things quickly becomes more challenging at my age. Please pardon my lack of expediency. I promise I will make up for my shortcomings in this area with thoroughness.” Brannon’s neck started to turn red, but he held his tongue and turned to leave. Before exiting, Ibson stated, “Please do not travel too far, Brannon. I have a few questions for you as well, and I don’t travel very well at my age. In fact, I don’t lift very well anymore either. Please have one of your men fetch a cot for the champion.” Brannon’s back straightened before he stormed out of the room. Turning his attention back to Slate, the old man began to investigate his hand.
Ibson probed his hand in the same manner he had addressed Brannon, calmly, confidently, and as promised, quite thoroughly. Ibson danced from cell to cell, tissue to tissue and advanced so slowly it barely felt as if he were advancing at all.
The contrast in styles between Ibson and Brannon reminded Slate of peddlers traveling through Pillar. Some set up shop for one day, only interested in selling their goods and moving on. When these peddlers left town, no one noticed. Others stayed for a week and took the time to have dinner with the families in Pillar, despite their relative poverty and unimportance to the vast majority of the kingdom. These peddlers left as a member of the community and were often given gifts of food and drink for the road ahead.
Ibson finally probed the bones in his hands after spending extensive time in the tissues surrounding them. His findings disrupted his typically calm demeanor and caused him to move his probe completely away from his hands and into his blood. When he was done, he looked sadly at Slate.
“I’m afraid you are going to be very sick in the coming days. I can tell you are tired, but unfortunately it will get much worse. I am stopping now so that I do not fatigue you further. You require a blood transfusion and rest. We all have iron in our blood, but yours is absent. The iron in your blood currently resides in the bones of your hands.”
The shock on Slate’s face answered the question of whether or not he knew that this was the case. Ibson continued, “I am sorry this has happened to you, Slate Severance. For the matter of the blood transfusion, direct access to the do
nor’s blood is preferable.” He produced a knife from his robes, nicked his finger, and touched the open wound on Slate’s hands, joining the two bloodstreams. While blood transfused from Ibson to Slate, Ibson concluded, “Normally I would transfuse portions of several healthy donor’s blood into your own, but I cannot risk it because of the investigation. Having too many donors will cloud my ability to probe your blood adequately. Over the coming days, I will transfuse you with my own blood, and you will begin to gain strength again. Meanwhile, you will experience light-headedness, a headache, and potentially a host of other less common symptoms.” He then gently clasped Slate’s damaged hand and promised, “I’ll get to the bottom of this. Sleep well, Champion.” When he released Slate’s hand, the damage was completely repaired, but the fatigue remained and Slate collapsed onto the cot.
Agony gripped Slate for days. The majority of the day was spent asleep, while a throbbing headache and nauseating dizziness greeted him upon awakening. The first day, Ibson didn’t ask him any questions, giving him a transfusion each time he awoke and urging him to eat and get back to bed. The second day was slightly better than the first, and Ibson asked Slate to describe the events in his day leading up to the championship match.
Slate summarized all the pertinent events: his fight with Rainier, the healing of his ribs by Lucus and Sana, the fight with Magnus, meeting the headmasters, and the final match. Even with his attempts at brevity, the oration required numerous breaks to sleep and regain strength. Sometimes he would awake to find Ibson conversing with other wizards or interviewing people related to the chain of events Slate described. Recalling the Sicarius headmaster and the power of information, Slate remained still and caught pieces of the questioning. On one occasion, he heard Ibson conversing with Rainier.