by Lupine King
FIVE
The Zebre
Hunter’s Moon, 41/20, Age of Reflection
Cragsveil was charged with energy. The entire viscounty was filled with a certain joy and spirit. The Zebre had come. The Zebre was a festival held once a year over a two week period in pretty much every town or city of the plains folk. In the eye of most, it was one of the most important festivals, second only to the harvest festival.
As such, preparations often began weeks in advance and bit by bit the cities came alive with decorations, food, music and dance. Everywhere, household shrines were cleaned and offerings made to ancestors, guardian spirits and deities requesting their favour in the days to come. Thousands would flock to the cities and towns to join in the celebrations and hundreds gathered in the hope to take part in the rites.
Nevertheless, Zebre was not just a festival of feasting and dancing. True, it was one giant celebration but the reason that it was regarded with such import was that it was the festival of champions, the festival of warriors. The Zebre was the season of battles and tournaments. The word Zebre was even an ancient plains word that meant ‘FIGHT!’
As such, it was a celebration created for the adoration of power and martial might. One designed to weed out weak warriors and present to the people their champions. One that glorified battle and bestowed honour on the victorious. It was the most popular festival of the plains folk. A piece of their heritage that they would never part with.
The Zebre was conceived ages ago. It was a time when the tribes were young and depended on their cultivators even more than they did now. For they were their defence against the daemons, the hunters on whom they relied to procure food and essence materials. The festival was a celebration held in their honour. A platform for them to display their skills. A proving ground for the young and above all an important tool for ranking warriors.
That had not changed. The Zebre had evolved over the millennia but its core remained the same. For the people of Cragsveil, it was more than tradition, it was life. Nearly every settlement and community hosted their own tournaments. Clans, families, sects, schools, dojos, individuals, all competing for the prize. However, the place to be for the Zebre was DaleGuard.
It was the martial city. The capital of the region. Warriors came from all over Bathar to take part in the battles. Some even came from neighbouring kingdoms. It did not matter, DaleGuard was prepared to accommodate them.
It was the busiest time of the year. You could not walk down the street without hearing discussions about the competitors or have some peddler try to sell you a talisman or piece of equipment. And the characters, the sort of people you would meet? All of them warriors, cultivators attracted by the lure of glory and gold.
Tirenael Reed looked at the city walls as the carriage drew closer. Using his mage sight, he could make out the many elaborate glyphs embedded in the dark stone to keep powers from being worked against them. The sheer power they held filled him with awe. He deliberately tuned out the wards themselves. Their glare was too bright. He was still kilometres away from the city and yet its presence affected him.
‘So this is DaleGuard!’ he thought.
He was impressed. Despite being a native of the viscounty, Tirenael had never been to DaleGuard. Even now, he had yet to step through its gates. He and the rest of the people in the carriage were from a sect in Blackford, the old capital. Looking at DaleGuard, he was forced to admit that it truly deserved to be the capital of Cragsveil no matter what the others said.
It was a place that lord should live: isolated, defiant, glorious, and surrounded by his soldiers. Viewing it from a distance did not lessen its greatness. Thanks to the nature of his powers, Tirenael could gain a sense of just how many had perished around it. The lands surrounding the city were ancient battlefields soaked in the blood of warriors; Bathans and their enemies alike. Many armies had ridden at DaleGuard in its long history, all of them failing to breach its walls.
When he grew older he would definitely get a place like it. Something worthy of him. He was glad that his school was coming to DaleGuard for the festival. Frankly, there was no other place worthy of his debut. After this Zebre, everyone in the viscounty would know his name.
Aaron Veldt and his cousin prepared to depart to DaleGuard. The last month was simultaneously the best and the worst of his life. He was the most talented Veldt his age and had always enjoyed the best the clan had to offer. At least, that’s what he thought at first. The past five weeks had made him far more powerful than he was before. However, there was a price.
It was one the clan paid on his behalf. “An investment”, he was told. One he would have to prove worthy of. If he fulfilled their demands, he would enjoy such benefits for the rest of his life if not, well … he did not want to think about it.
He had spent the last year training harshly for the Zebre and he had considered himself an elite prospect until an elder called on him and everything changed. He alongside one other were taken aside and given ‘special preparations’ for the upcoming tournament.
He knew, at least partly, why this event was so important and he knew he could not afford to disappoint. This was his chance to secure a great place and life for himself and his clan. He could not resign himself to being the most talented Veldt his age. He had to show everyone that he was the most talented cultivator in the generation. Standing there, he clenched his fist in determination.
He had to win the tournament!
Ethan, Beatrice and many other Steelborn youths stood before their clan head. They were ready. They had prepared for this day and it was finally upon them. They were to go out and reveal to the world their strength. The strength of the Steelborns.
It was more than just a desire for the fame or the incredible prizes. It was a matter of pride. For nearly two centuries, the Steelborns had claimed and held the position of mightiest in Cragsveil. They could not lose now. Many of them, despite not being in the know, could tell that this tournament was different.
The prizes were nearly five times as great and not just that but the tensions between the various noble clans had heightened in the last three months. Just this month, many clans and schools had publicly announced that they would not be competing this year. That was more than a tell-tale sign.
Every family, clan, sect or school trained their elite youth for the Zebre. Victories and losses in the tournament were the yardstick by which they and their younger generations were ranked. For them to refuse to participate meant that they had somehow been scared off. That these recognised and acclaimed powers would choose the ignominy of resignation over possible loss was a warning.
The assemblage of Steelborn youth tried not to be concerned about this. They were the most powerful group of competitors the clan had ever put out. They were Steelborns. The strongest and the hardiest. What did they care about others? Still, the more perceptive amongst them wondered about the help, resources and tutelage their elders had offered them.
That this Zebre was different was a given, but was there something they should know about?
“I will not say much,” the clan head began. The assemblage quickly quietened and looked up at their lord. He ignored their looks of reverence and instead, he addressed them in his low, booming voice.
“You know your roles. Above all, you know who and what you are. Have no fear! Be enthused! This is our stage. We are Steelborns. We are the mightiest there are. We are born champions, born warriors. Today is the start of the festival of champions, of warriors. It might as well be our festival.
“This is what we are good at. It is your duty to go out there and remind the world that lest they forget. So, when you stand in that arena, have faith in yourselves. Be confident in your victory and know that you carry us and our name with you. Know that I am with you. That the entire Steelborn clan stands with you.
“You will do us proud. You will do our ancestors proud. Of that, I have no doubt. You know why? Because you are Steelborns. As long as you keep that in mind a
nd give it your all, you need do nothing else. So prepare Steelborn sons and daughters, in a quarter hour, we march to our arena and come dusk we’ll return, laden with victories”.
Message delivered, the clan head walked away from the courtyard, flanked by his guards. Having accomplished what he came to do, he set off to the next task. That was his nature. The young Steelborns looked at his departing figure with awe. That was their clan head; powerful, inspiring and diligent. They mulled over his words.
It was not the kind of speech that led to raucous cheering. It was the kind that sparked and stoked a hot, lasting fire. One that conveyed sentiment and carried you with it. There was none there that would not remember it and in the years to come it would remain in their minds. When they felt beleaguered, tired, pressured or useless they would just have to think of it and be calmed and reinvigorated. Because of one speech, a solid reminder that they were Steelborns.
Few would notice Ethan and Beatrice slip out and walk away. They had their own preparations to make. Theirs would be the hardest challenge. Their competition was the Young Lords’ Tourney.
Valerian finished putting on his armour and strode out of his room, Avery following a step behind him. The rays of the morning sun made his armour gleam as he crossed the threshold. Avery had given it extra polish for today. It was a big day and he had made sure to look his best.
Bright, Steelborn plate over a cyan doublet and a fine cyan mantle over his shoulders. His mace was tied at his side and his hair carefully and purposefully tousled. Attached to his breastplate was his array master’s badge. Combined, it made for a striking image. He looked very much the part of a young lord. Perfect for the day’s tournament though the effect was slightly ruined by his grandmother.
“Oh! My little boy has grown up so fast”, she squealed as she enveloped him in a tight hug. Pushing him to arm’s length for another look she added, “You look so dashing.”
He tried his hardest to keep a straight, nonchalant face through the fussing and he could see his uncles doing their best to do same albeit for entirely different reasons. The past couple of months had been tough. Much tougher than had he had estimated but it was worth it.
Everyone pitched in. His uncles, his grandma, Avery, all had been involved in his training. He had benefited tremendously from this and he could not wait to reveal to the entirety of Cragsveil what he had learnt. They had best be prepared though. Even he was astounded by his prowess. He just hoped that after all his training, the tournament would not be a disappointment.
Valerian was not being arrogant. Well, maybe a little. In his mind, competing in the Zebre was not him overestimating himself. He had to face off against the best and brightest in the land. How else was he to grow, to prove himself?
He was weak and he needed to become strong. Something he could not do without experience and opponents to face. Throwing himself into the deep end was the best way to learn. In truth, he had stopped considering himself normal a long time ago. At first, despite his many great successes, he still had complications with his qi cultivation.
Not even his accomplishment as an array master could wash those away. At best, he was smarter than them and had a bit of a talent as an arcanist. However, recent events had changed all that. His primary problem had been resolved,freeing him from that crippling and suppressing mental anchor. His physique had also greatly improved putting him far above his peers.
Paramount amongst them, he had discovered that he was the descendant of a deity and the bearer of its legacy. He was also an heir to the illustrious Menhirionn. To him, all of this was proof that he should not compare himself to ordinary cultivators. That would be an insult to his blood. The only ones he could compare himself to were the geniuses. The scions of other great clans.
Only they could be considered his peers and even amongst them, he had to distinguish himself. His goal should not be to be the best amongst the lowly but the first among the best. Only then could he say he had achieved something. Only then would he live up to his name and legacies.
He had made a promise, to each of his grandparents, to Richard and most importantly to himself. One he would live up to. He would be powerful. He would be mighty. He would be great. Today would be his beginning. His true debut as a cultivator. The start of the attainment of his dreams.
Valerian looked at his family, glad to have their support. Without them, he would not have even made it this far. He smiled at them and then looked past them to the entrance of his courtyard.
“Let’s go to the Arena”, he requested.
SIX
It Begins
The Steelborn Arena. Roland’s Bowl. The Home of Champions. The lure of the city. It had many titles, all of them true epithets to its greatness. Commissioned by the former viscount, Roland Steelborn, it was perhaps the grandest structure in the entire city. The most renowned of its kind in two counties. Not surprising given it bore the Steelborn name.
Enormous was not enough to describe it. Besides the great battlements that circled it, the Arena was the city’s greatest construction. DaleGuard reportedly had enough districts to house an estimated fifty thousand people as opposed to its current thirty something. The Arena could comfortably seat more than seventy thousand and its walls were nearly as tall as the ones protecting the city.
Circular with a multitude of seats and pavilions, with a fighting field that was 160 by 90 metres, it was an accomplishment that showcased both human ingenuity and effort. It was built of the same dark, enchanted stone as the city battlements and was nearly as secure both from the inside and outside.
This protected the fans when attacks from cultivators battling in the fighting field headed towards the seating and allowed it to be used as a shelter for citizens in case of emergencies since it was protected from the outside.
The entire thing was a marvel to see. The plazas surrounding it were littered with statues of notable warriors and champions of history. It gave the place a respectable and even a solemn atmosphere.
The Arena was a place that honoured strength and a place that allowed others to find and witness it for themselves. A place where battles were glorified and the victorious, worshipped. In a way, it could be said to be a temple for warriors and those who revered martial forte.
It was also the site of the Zebre.
In truth, the Zebre began the day before. That was when the sacrifices were made and the other rites observed. Priests from the viscounty’s greatest temples and religious sects would come forth and invoke the Heavens and the Earth, the deities, spirits, and the ancestors.
They would ply them with offerings and ask them to bless the land and people, especially the cultivators. The warriors tasked with keeping the kingdom and humankind at large safe from the elements and the daemonkin. To make them strong and to ensure that the competitions would bring to light the greatest of their number so that they be known.
It was a colourful affair. Many of the more devout came to watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of the spirits being invoked. No deities ever descended but sometimes some ancestral or guardian spirits would appear and claim the offerings. This year, the Steelborn StormHawk, the principal spirit of DaleGuard showed itself.
Not in person. Rather, all that the assemblage witnessed was a gathering of the clouds and winds, a loud avian cry and the feeling of its majesty. Its presence was truly divine and beatific carrying an aura of might and matchless power that washed over the gathering causing all including the spirits present to bow in supplication.
Somewhat greedily, it claimed everything that had been set out leaving the three others to appear with nothing. However, the most notable thing it did was to bless two children in the stands.
Blessings from the spirits are rare and many of the people present, priests included had never even seen one. So it came as a surprise. People tried to get closer to the blessed but some Steelborns quickly appeared on the scene to whisk them away.
That alone was enough to make it clear to all that this Zebr
e was going to be like none other in recent memory. Even more people rushed into DaleGuard to participate and watch the proceedings to come. Right now, everyone was waiting for the next event to start.
The Young Lords’ Tourney.
Valerian had long since discovered that the Young Lord’s Tourney was more than he had initially thought. Besides the battles for the consolidated first tiers, there were separate branches for solo, team and dual battles.
Right now, he stood next to the other Steelborn competitors, all of them shooting him curious looks. He did not blame them. They were probably just wondering what he was doing here. Together they listened to the rules. They were delivered by one of the referees, an elderly man from one of the major sects in the viscounty.
The contestants for his event were being put into four groups. Over the next few days, every participant would battle another person from his or her group. This would go on until each person had battled all others in his group. Then, the person with the most wins would move on to the next and final stage alongside his or her counterparts in the other groups.
Each match was allotted an hour. If the outcome was not conclusively decided by then, the judges would then rule in favour of whoever had made the greatest impression in terms of technique, power and combat acuity.
The referee would make any necessary calls and had the authority to disqualify anyone found breaking any of the rules. These rules were the standard ones used in the arena: No outside help. No weapons or equipment more than one tier above the participant’s cultivation and no killing blows. The conditions of victory were surrender, knock out or a call made by the referee and or judges.
Following this, they were introduced to the judges in question. Three ancient elders who were all past Zebre champions themselves. They sat on a raised dais in a portion of the arena seating just below the canopy of the watching lords.