34

After a few more sparring matches in which Michael fared much better than in his fight against Lance, they made their way to watch the melee. Over the last two days a series of bleachers had been built around a wide-open field toward the center of the academy grounds. It was crowded as people tried to press in and find seats. Michael considered sitting with his new teammates, but wary of what a crowd might do with a Penitent in their midst, he elected to instead sit with Marcus, Ollie, and the other irregulars.

As he sat in his seat, he realized that the bleachers weren’t the only thing that had been assembled. Piles of dirt, small wooden barricades, and even a few stone columns had been assembled all throughout the arena. The speed with which they’d managed the assembly and execution of the Festival of Blades was another reminder that the people of Stent weren’t nearly as backward as they sometimes seemed to him.

He searched for Pyotr and Davi in the field, and Marcus tapped his shoulder, pointing at a far corner. Davi was sealing his helmet over his red hair, and Pyotr was testing the weight of his sword as he bounced nimbly from foot to foot like a boxer. They had both elected to take a sword and shield, though Michael could see a number of spears, bastard swords, and even a few mage staves among the assembled combatants. It was a smart choice for them—they needed versatility and defense. Michael was already noticing a number of gestures and movements in their direction, as if to indicate that the filthy irregulars would be the primary targets before the real fight began. They were seriously underestimating Davi and Pyotr. They weren’t the only Penitents that had taken the field. He saw Lee, Prakash, and Ogun gathered together just a short distance away from them, and Adebisi standing alone in a corner with his spear at the ready.

After fifteen minutes of shit-talking with Ollie and Marcus, it looked as if the bleachers had been filled. The general in charge of the academy was seated in a box toward the center of the field, and Michael could see General Kreg seated next to him. Likely he was there to witness his son’s fight later, but Michael had to wonder why he was away from the front for it. From what he understood, now that the spring thaw was under way, skirmishes had started occurring more frequently with Tusynia, and it was anticipated that full-scale war would pick up again soon. The end of Winter had seemed extremely long to Michael, so he surmised it likely that all seasons dragged on longer in this strange new world, though he still had been given only the vaguest idea of their calendar.

As everyone settled, the conversation began to die down, and there was a magic-enhanced shout that rang out across the field.

“Celebrants of the Festival of Blades, prepare yourselves! At the sounding of this horn, the Festival will commence!” A man standing on the roof of the general’s box was holding the horn of an animal that Michael did not recognize. All of the contestants ran quickly to set places they’d discuss, and he saw Pyotr and Davi crouch low with their weapons ready as they started to eye those other contestants nearest to them.

The announcer put the strange horn to his mouth and blew. The sound of it was loud and deep, feeling as if it were causing Michael’s bones to vibrate.

Everyone in the field moved quickly to action. In the blink of an eye, a half-dozen recruits were beaten down. Moderators ran out swiftly, wearing white cloaks to mark them as such and moved the injured off the field quickly. Michael had been told that he may be asked to help if the injuries were severe enough, but broken limbs and concussions weren’t considered pressing enough it seemed.

Pyotr and Davi were a spectacle. Davi didn’t wait to be charged—he took the initiative and fought dirty and mean. He kicked sand, slammed his shield into heads, and was not at all shy about using his larger frame to dominate anyone and everyone that got in his way. Even when he would get overwhelmed or cornered, he’d feint charges, throw his entire body into the attempts to barricade him, or let out a roar that would make them balk. Pyotr, on the other hand, was impossible to corner. He danced around his foes, his sword whipping out to strike helmets with beautiful precision even as he slid under and around the strikes of his enemies. He never strayed far from Davi, using his ferocity as cover for his own attacks on the regulars, though he was drawing plenty of attention himself. Both of them were smiling ear to ear as they fought. They seemed to be really relishing in the fight even as their own bruises and injuries were building and exhaustion began to make their limbs leaden. Michael found himself clenching his fists as he watched them and noticed that Ollie and Marcus were grinding their teeth and spinning a coin between fingers, respectively. They wanted to be down there, helping them. It felt wrong to be up in the stands watching them rather than by their side.

While they were fighting, Michael would occasionally look to see how the other Penitents were doing. Even though he had been standing alone, Adebisi had managed to take out a handful of opponents with his spear, though he was still starting to tire. A larger regular managed to grab his spear, and while he held it, two others rushed Adebisi and finally took him down. Lee, Prakash, and Ogun were handling themselves very well. They kept moving as they fought, weaving around opponents and then taking them down with their combined might. Unfortunately, they eventually hit the wall of the arena, where a few of the regulars threw rocks down at them. Moderators intervened, but it was already too late, and with their momentum gone, they were overwhelmed by regulars and taken down as well. If they had made it, Michael was fairly certain they may have made it to the end.

The crowd was going wild the entire time, with whooping and hollering combined with a heavy dose of loud groans from key people in the stand as their friends and comrades were waylaid and dragged away by moderators. As the number of combatants dwindled, Davi and Pyotr were among the final ten. Michael was unsure of how much time had passed. It felt like an eternity, but it must’ve been closer to ten or fifteen minutes given the nature of the competition. The swift movements at the start had slowed to deliberate, almost painful-looking strikes and motions. They were punctuated by heavy grunts and groans that were often loud enough to be heard over the crowd’s excitement.

Davi slammed the hilt of his sword into the helmet of a recruit with a spear, causing him to crumple. A loud boo went out from the crowd at that, and a similar one when Pyotr blocked a heavy strike from a bastard sword, used the momentum to twirl himself around, and slammed his elbow into his adversary. It was beginning to occur to them that a Penitent may be the victor.

Ollie noted the booing and angry crowd around them. “Do you think one of us has ever won this thing?”

Marcus didn’t bother looking around, just staying focused on the fight in front of them. “If they did, I wonder if they lived to tell the tale.”

The remaining combatants ceased their fight against one another and turned to face Pyotr and Davi, who stood next to one another with their shields high and their swords at the ready. The other six approached them carefully, surrounding them, and Pyotr moved to stand directly behind Davi.

A spear was driven toward Pyotr’s center, and instead of dodging it or parrying it as he normally would, he took the full brunt of it on his shield, slammed his sword down on it to make the recruit lose his footing, and smashed the side of his helmet with his blade. On the other side Davi blocked one blow with his shield, but a spear shaft struck him on the side of his head. He faltered for a moment, and the three on his side all struck at once. Luckily, their attacks got briefly tangled up with one another, their exhaustion making them sloppy. Davi took that moment to slam the side of his shield into one of them that moved too close. He and Pyotr pushed against their attackers. It was a brutal slugfest after that. They struck, they received strikes, their helmets rattled, and their shields splintered even as their bodies were covered in bruises, but they didn’t fall. Soon, the last of the regulars in the melee was downed.

There was a boo that went out among the crowd. Jeering, and even throwing things at Pyotr and Davi. Michael, Ollie, and Marcus didn’t give a shit, though—they stood and cheered their friends. Michael felt tremendous pride as he watched them panting in the center of the arena.

The battle wasn’t over, though. The melee was a free-for-all, not a team game. Pyotr and Davi smiled at one another as they each took a few steps away from one another, ignoring the jeering crowd and occasional thrown objects.

Pyotr tossed his weapons aside and undid his helmet, throwing it on the ground as well.

Davi laughed and did the same, putting himself into a low stance.

Their actions surprised the crowd so much that the jeers actually started to die down.

They charged one another, and it was immediately clear that they were not going easy in spite of their friendship. They seemed renewed by losing the weight of their weapons and armor and struck one another with reckless abandon. Davi’s strikes seemed to hit Pyotr with the force of a train, but for every one of his that landed, Pyotr managed three of his own. Soon the crowd was completely silent with only the sounds of their struggle audible.

Pyotr managed a strike on Davi’s chin, and he started to fall for a moment, but before he could go completely down, he caught himself and drove his own fist under Pyotr’s jaw, causing it to slam closed with a noise that Michael could hear all the way from the stands. Pyotr staggered and fell to his knees. He tried to get up, and Davi watched him, panting. Pyotr nearly managed to make it to his feet, then fell down completely, his face hitting the dirt. Davi muttered something in Portuguese, smiled, and stumbled too.