25

Michael crouched down in a bush, doing his best to ignore a thorny branch digging into his side. He knew that Davi and Pyotr were on the other side, dealing with similar discomforts as they waited. This was far from the hardest part, but it was the most annoying. Every other element of what they did was at least active and had some momentum, but waiting for the action—that was tough.

After what felt like forever, Ollie emerged from the cover of several trees, running as fast as he could until he feigned a fall and rolled across the ground.

Four young recruits with blunted spears and green flags on their arms followed him, but one of them held out a hand to keep them from approaching him too quickly.

“The leather means he’s a mage. Be careful.”

Another of them scoffed. “Come on, mages are restricted to defensive spells only for this. It’s not like he can throw a Fireball at us.”

“Unless I decide to cheat,” said Ollie with a smile as he pushed himself a bit off the ground.

“He’s bluffing,” said another. “He would’ve tossed it at us back there if he wanted to. Not that I’d put it past a Taker.” He spat at the last word.

“It’s more of a joke than a bluff, but call it what you’d like,” said Ollie, starting to push himself up. “In just a few moments I’ll be making you all disappear one way or another.”

“Stay down,” said the green in the lead. “We’re going to be taking you hostage. Will you come easily, or do we have to beat you until you’re wrapping a white rag around your arm?”

“Oooooh, beat me. That’s definitely my preference. Love a good wallop.”

Michael heard a whistle from Davi and leapt from the bush. He struck out with his sword at the leg of the nearest green, using his full strength as he did so. He crumpled quickly, then he followed it up by kicking away his staff. Davi ran from the bush he was in and tackled a different green, the momentum and force throwing his target into a tree and winding him. Pyotr slipped quietly behind another one, who was too busy processing the ambush to react, and he gently placed his sword against his neck, tearing the green rag from his arm.

The last of them moved toward Ollie, raising his sword to strike him, but his staff bounced off a translucent purple shield. He followed it up with more strikes, trying to get at least one good hit on Ollie before he was taken down, but Ollie just stood up casually as he was being attacked and pretended to yawn and examine his fingers in the face of his attacker’s frustration.

Michael gently tapped the man on his helmet with his sword. “Just drop it.”

The green one frowned, panting, but dropped his staff. Michael tore his rag from him and from the man he’d kneecapped, who was writhing on the ground in pain.

“Sorry about that,” said Michael, kneeling down next to him. He placed a glowing hand on the boy’s knee and healed him. While they’d been told that they needed to take it easy with their strikes, Michael decided to take advantage of his healing to hit as hard as he wanted as long as he wasn’t striking anything vital. He could be a whole lot rougher than anyone else with no long-term consequences. He’d felt a bit guilty at first but had quickly realized the other recruits hit Penitents as hard as they could anyway, and they had no way to fix them up afterward.

The recruit stopped writhing as his kneecap mended. “Oh, you’re that healer Taker?”

Michael nodded. “That’s me.” He looked at the others. “Any of you need some healing?” The one that had been tackled into a tree by Davi raised a shaky hand, so Michael healed him as well, his shoulder popping audibly back into place. The four tied white rags around their arms and started making their way to the edge of the games. They’d made it nearly a week, so they at least had that going for them.

“How many is that?” asked Ollie.

“Nine,” said Davi. “The greens are easy to bait.”

“Should we head back for the day?” asked Pyotr, sheathing his sword and stretching.

“Hmmm. I don’t know,” said Davi, eyeing the rags in his hand.

“Feel weird not having an even ten?” asked Michael.

He nodded.

“We could ambush someone taking a piss again,” suggested Ollie. “Though I felt a little bad sending them off the field with soiled trousers.”

Davi shook his head. “They already started pissing in pairs or sticking to the latrines in their camps.”

“Let’s just head back,” said Michael. “If we run into anyone on the way, then we’ll take care of it.”

“Fair enough,” said Davi.

Michael whispered “donde” and activated his Navigate spell to sense where he’d marked the black camp flag. He started walking, keeping his eyes and ears open as he moved. They weren’t the only ones who’d thought to ambush people as they made their way through the woods.

As they got closer to the camp, they caught sight of a group of more than a dozen reds running through the forest toward it. They all crouched down and started moving more slowly. There was the sound of fighting, and as they drew close, they saw what looked like thirty reds attacking the camp. They hadn’t yet breached the fence that Lance had constructed, but they were enjoying tearing it down, it was one of their objectives after all.

“Camp looks mostly empty,” said Ollie.

“Lance is leading an ambush on a green raid on some blue supplies. They probably won’t be back for a bit longer,” supplied Pyotr as he crouched to get a good look.

“What’s the play?” asked Ollie.

“Well, I don’t want them fucking up my tent and stealing our rations, so I suppose we should get involved,” said Michael.

There were nods of agreement.

“Maybe we start at the si⁠—”

“Hey! I see some blacks hiding over there!” yelled a red pointing in their direction. Seven of them broke away and started running toward them.

“Shit.” They all stood up and ran. Their goal was attrition, and so far they’d taken only actions where they had the advantage. It made no sense to stand there and take a beating.

They ran until they reached a small wooden bridge over a river. Michael tripped at the end, and when the others turned to help him he waved them off.

“Just run. I’ll hold them for a bit. You loop around and finish them off.”

Davi nodded, and they kept running as Michael brought himself to his feet. He drew his sword and took his place in the center of the bridge. He felt… cool. There was really no other way to describe it. He was staying behind to cover his friend’s retreat in the face of a superior foe. He had a sword, shield, and armor that glinted in the sun. He could see one of the moderator soldiers leaning against a nearby tree wearing all white. He gave him a wave, and the man nodded back.

The red that were in pursuit didn’t even slow down when they saw him standing there. There was no honorable one-on-one attacking on the bridge. It was wide enough to fit three, so three attacked him at once. He parried one of them and managed to catch a staff on his arm rather than his head but took a painful blow to the hip that nearly made him crumple. He stumbled back a bit, and they followed up their first hits with three more. This time he only managed to block one, though his breastplate took another impact, rattling his teeth. The third blow was a staff across his faceplate, causing a loud ringing in his ears. The blows weren’t lethal, but they easily could be.

He considered falling down—he’d already bought some time, so no one would blame him. He wasn’t going to be able to take out seven pursuers himself. This wasn’t a movie. He wasn’t “the one.” He wouldn’t be able to reasonably block all of the blows anyway, and the only way he could throw out a decent strike was if he gave up on defending himself.

He smiled, even as he nearly fell to a knee. There was an idea. He placed his left hand on his chest and started healing himself, his body quickly recovering.

The glowing hand caused the three on the bridge to stumble back, and Michael launched himself forward. He smashed his blunt blade into the shoulder of the red on the end, knocking him into the water, and kicked another in the chest, throwing him back into the others behind him. The third one smashed his own blade into Michael’s shoulder, but he ignored it, feeling it heal even as he smashed his elbow into the recruit’s helmet and knocked him into the water too.

Three more stepped forward, all with blunted swords, and rained down high blows on him, eventually knocking him to his knees. He roared and launched himself into the nearest of them in a tackle, pushing him back, and slammed his hilt into the knee of another, causing him to lose his balance. He brought himself back up and shoved the last one off the bridge and into the water before he was struck again, this time he had no idea what hit him, but he fell backward. He felt them swarm him, not even trying to grab for the rag on his arm, but instead just beating on him. The moderator likely should’ve stepped in, but Michael had little faith that there would be any intervention on his behalf.

He rolled onto his stomach and smashed his fist onto the foot of one of them before swinging his sword wildly as he pushed onto his knees to hit a few of them and give himself breathing room to stand. He kept healing himself as he fought, but the combination of the exhaustion from healing and fighting at the same time was rapidly depleting him.

The fight continued that way. He would force himself up, get a few good blows in, take enough strikes to be brought down, then somehow force himself up again. He and his attackers were all panting, exhausted, and in many cases, wet. He punched one in the face with the hand that gripped the hilt of his sword, and his helmet was rocked by a staff. He stumbled and healed himself, then he swung his sword at the nearest of them, who fell. Soon he was fighting only six, as one couldn’t get up anymore. Then it was five. Then four. He wondered where his friends were in the back of his head even as he stumbled forward and brought it down to three. One more tripped over in exhaustion and didn’t stand back up, then it was just one left. In their exhaustion it was just Michael and the last red leaning on one another, supporting each other as much as they were pushing the other to fall down. Michael won that contest, and the other recruit stumbled and fell.

Michael fell onto his knees looking at the groaning teenagers that surrounded him and smiled, laughing a bit. He’d done it. It was ridiculous and pointless, but he’d had fun and won. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a bit as he did and started to pull rags off of each of the reds he’d brought down. He forced the last bit of energy he had to heal those of them that were badly hurt, but he couldn’t heal exhaustion. He held the bundle of red rags in his hand and heard some light clapping. He looked over to see the moderator nodding at him with an impressed look on his face as he clapped. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he thought. Michael waved and stumbled forward, moving back toward the black camp.