42

Cohle and Jakub made their way to the center of the arena and clasped one another’s hands for a moment before moving to their respective corners. Both had opted for bastard swords for this fight, a reckless choice, and one that fit Cohle better from what he’d seen. Once they were in their corners and had taken their stances, the horn blew, and they charged toward one another.

Cohle opened with a dramatic leap into an overhead swing, and Jakub dodged to the right, swinging his own blade in return, hitting nothing but air as Cohle kept his momentum and rolled forward before following up with another attack. Their blades clashed as Jakub parried him and followed up with a measured strike toward Cohle’s helmet. Cohle actually moved his helmet toward the strike, robbing it of momentum before he attempted to smash a fist under Jakub’s chin. Jakub twisted and batted away the blow with his sword hilt before kicking at Cohle to regain some space.

Michael was impressed. He didn’t think they were the type to hold back just because of their friendship, but they actually seemed like they were fighting one another harder than they’d fought anyone else so far. Even though they must’ve been exhausted, they struck out with such ferocity and power it almost seemed as if they weren’t tired at all.

Their fighting styles were a study in opposites. Cohle was a performer. His fighting looked like something out of a movie. Full of risky ploys, feints, and dramatic strikes. It spoke to his skill as a fighter that in spite of the seeming recklessness of his movements, he was still a dangerous opponent who Michael had watched play with every enemy he’d fought so far. Jakub, on the other hand, was patient and measured with every step. He wasted no movement, and when he struck, it was the moment he saw a perfect opportunity. He was patience where Cohle was abandon.

The fight didn’t let up at all, even as the minutes dragged on. Cohle kept his dramatic strikes and even boasted several times to the cheers of the crowd, while Jakub stayed focused on the fight, his footwork immaculate as he narrowly dodged and parried Cohle’s strikes. Still, they were both tiring as it continued, and eventually Cohle seemed to slip.

Cohle tripped backward a bit when dodging one of Jakub’s strikes, and Jakub launched himself forward with a stab at the center of his breastplate, one with enough force that it would’ve dented it and likely thrown Cohle several feet backward, causing him to completely lose momentum. Unfortunately for Jakub, it was a feint. Cohle dropped his own blade, ducked beneath the stab, grabbed Jakub’s arm, and threw him over his shoulder using the momentum of his stab.

Jakub landed hard on his back, but Cohle didn’t release his sword arm and instead yanked the blade free from Jakub’s loosened grasp. He flourished it a bit and aimed the tip at Jakub’s throat.

The announcer spoke. “The victor in this match is Squire Cohle! After a short rest, he will fight Penitent Michael!”

There was a cheer from the crowd at that—clearly, they relished the idea that Michael would be crushed, but he was planning on showing them that wasn’t the case.

There was a one-hour break, during which Michael got some food, water, and rest. He considered a visit to his friends in the stands, but given the crowd’s enmity toward him, he thought it was a good way to get stabbed in a large group with no one taking blame. He did take a moment to heal Jakub, who had a broken rib and was surprised to get a thank you from him.

“I’m, uh, sorry for what Cohle said earlier. He was just hyping himself up to fight you if it came to it.”

“I appreciate that,” said Michael as the gold light dispersed from his hand. “I was a teenager once. Well, twice now, I suppose. I said a lot of things that hurt people, and I’ve heard just as many. It’s just a drop of water in the ocean for me at this point.”

Jakub nodded, unsure of how to respond to that.

“That was a good fight, by the way.”

“Thanks. I thought I had him.”

“Me too. Wouldn’t have expected him to feign tripping like that. It seemed out of character.”

“He likes to be boisterous, but he’d do anything to win if it came to it. He’s a lot like Lance.”

Michael nodded and took a few steps away from him, stretching. “Well, time to go get called a murderous bastard that fucks goats. Enjoy your rest.”

Jakub nodded, laughing a bit, and Michael walked back out to the front of the arena. Cohle was waiting for him there with a sneer on his face and a fresh bastard sword in his hand.

Michael gave him a wink and smile. “Good luck, kid.”

Cohle huffed. “You don’t need luck when you’re as strong as I am.”

“Hmm, not as good as your other boasts. I think you’re getting tired.”

The announcer went back up onto the observation box.

“Penitent Michael and Squire Cohle, please take your places in the arena for the fight!”

Cohle waved at the crowd with a wide smile as he walked up the steps, and Michael followed behind with his head up as he moved. On the way to his corner, he felt a loose plank start to rise when he walked on it. He tested it for a moment with his foot, smiling. It would be cruel, but Cohle could use some humbling.

Michael took his corner and readied his sword and shield, rolling his shoulders a bit to loosen them up.

The announcer blew his horn, and they both charged at one another.

Michael tripped forward at the last moment and nearly lost his sword, causing the crowd to laugh at his misfortune.

Cohle, sensing a grand and spectacular victory, lunged at him with a dramatic overhead strike.

Michael slammed his foot down on the back of the loose plank, and Cohle got hit by it in the center of his breastplate. It broke, sending shards of wood everywhere, including into Michael’s hand. Cohle fell and rolled, disoriented as his head hit the arena. Michael quickly moved to slam his foot onto the opponent’s wrist and place the edge of his blade against his neck.

There was a stunned silence that was only broken when the announcer, who hadn’t even moved from where he’d blown the horn yet, spoke again. “Uh… Penitent Michael is the victor. He will continue on to the final bout with Lance after a short break and some repairs to the arena floor.”

Cohle looked up at the sky, speechless for the first time from what Michael could tell. Michael helped him up and healed him as he did so, and Cohle walked quietly out of the arena, not even acknowledging him or the crowd.

Michael walked out behind him, tuning out the boos, as he’d grown so used to them at this point. Before he could find a place to settle, a soldier approached him. He was older, and his uniform had signs of combat with singed sleeves and what he guessed was a bullet hole on the shoulder.

“Come with me. General Kreg would like to speak with you.”

Michael frowned, but it was clear that his questions wouldn’t be answered where he stood, so he followed. Had there been some injury he wasn’t aware of? Was Lance okay?

He followed the soldier out of the arena and into a small empty classroom. General Kreg was standing inside of it, with two other soldiers, smoking what smelled like tobacco mixed with some kind of herbs.

The general looked him up and down, his eyes behind wide spectacles that only emphasized the angry red scar under his left eye.

He gestured to an open chair near him. “Have a seat, Penitent.” He didn’t spit out the word like a slur, which was interesting.

Michael complied after a gentle shove from the soldier behind him and waited silently to be addressed.

“I want you to lose the fight against my son.”

Michael was unable to stop himself from looking surprised.

“General Kreg, I don’t think I would need to throw the fight. Your son is much stronger than me.”

He shook his head. “You overestimate him. I’ve seen you fight. I can tell you have some kind of recovery ability on top of that healing of yours. You’re basically still fresh in spite of every previous event. On top of that, you’re a half-decent fighter. You will beat my son.”

Michael wasn’t certain of that. He had a chance, of course—his first fight against a worn-down heir had shown that, but Lance had been sparring him, knew many of his habits, and had watched him keenly from the beginning. It wasn’t the same.

“It would also be saving your life,” said the general, smoke leaking from his mouth as he spoke.

“Because they’ll tear me limb from limb if another Taker wins in the Festival?”

The general nodded.

“On top of your survival here, I can make sure that you’re sent to a post that’s safe, far from the front lines. Your healing abilities will make it easy to justify. We keep none of our regular healers on the front lines. You would only be going there because it’s a requirement for Penitents anyway, a waste.”

Michael thought about it. Not having to kill any Tusynians was tempting. Going to war hadn’t been something he was looking forward to when he arrived in this new world, but he’d accepted it as an inevitability and knew that at least part of him would relish the test it represented. He’d thought of it as something he’d need to do to survive and make the life he’d taken worth something. He realized in that moment that he had another motive for going to the front, aside from testing himself.

“I want to be assigned to the same squad and same location as my friends. Marcus, Pyotr, Davi, and Ollie.”

The general squinted a bit. “I wouldn’t be able to keep them from the front—it would look too suspicious. You’d be in the thick of it with them.”

He shrugged. “Rather be in the thick of it with them than alone and out of it.”

The general nodded, placing his fist with two fingers outstretched in salute on his chest. “It’s a deal.”