Zachary Scott
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Chapter 100 - The Tournament Battleground
🕑 Added 2024-10-16 17:51:11 +0000 UTCTalia
Soon, the soil here would soak up the blood, sweat, and tears of five hundred contestants ranging from the lowest slaves to the most promising young nobility. It was a beautiful thought, and I hoped our work would honor their sacrifices and struggle.
I was staring at the tournament grounds for the grand tourney of Thrask. A tourney the God King himself would watch and attend. Ithariel.
The thought of him being here chilled me down to my bones. People whispered about his capabilities of course. They said he could crawl into the mind and see your deepest desires and dreams. They said he could vaporize armies and cities with a thought. That he could rip open reality itself and erase you before you ever existed.
Terrible, terrifying things. Things no one person should ever be capable of. And I would have to hope with everything I had they were wrong. If nothing else, I would have to hope he couldn’t sense my intentions.
But those were problems for another day. Today, I needed to play my part.
I took a moment to appreciate the sun's light against my neck and exposed shoulders, smiling as my skin drank in the heat. The uniform of game managers was thankfully thin and well-suited to such a warm day, despite the fact that we were usually confined to the game-master's section of Thrask's Palace.
These days, I spent most of my time in the palace with my neck bent over historical records of past games, books on theory, lessons on warfare and combat, biographies of past contestants and gladiators, and several books I dared not reveal to my colleagues and superiors—books that would cast immediate and damning suspicion on my role within the game managers order.
I stood atop a large hill overlooking most of this year's tournament battleground.
There were sprawling, open fields with sections of tall grass, some forested areas, cliffs and rivers, and several keeps and castles of varying size that stood empty and ready to be claimed. Most of the other game managers had already headed down the hill to get a closer look.
The beasts hadn’t been released yet, but I knew they would let them out in a few days. The department of magical creatures would handle this task, and it often brought several injuries and even deaths. I didn’t envy them. Not in the slightest.
“Well?” Rasha asked from beside me. Like me, Rasha was a game manager. Years ago, she had been seen as one of the most promising up-and-coming game managers in all of the inner rings. But her success had apparently been a stroke of luck. Her recent innovations and additions to the tourneys weren’t met with the same success. Now, she was suffering the fate of one who failed to bring glory to the tourney. Year by year, Rasha was being demoted to less important posts. Eventually, she would need to choose between her pride, or spending what was left of her career organizing simple gladiatorial style matches in frontier cities.
Rasha was in her fifties with creases at the corners of her eyes but a touch of the age-defying nature some Irons possessed. It kept her back straight and muscles strong but didn't prevent time from touching her features or skin. The true ageless nature of increasing one’s personal power didn’t seem to truly begin until Silver Rank.
“Does this year's battleground suit your schemes?” Rasha prodded.
I tapped my chin as we stopped at a hilltop that granted a view for miles. “It's difficult to say,” I said.
“Oh, come now, Talia. You know me better than to be coy. What is it you'll be suggesting? I assume you're going straight to Amuntep with your idea once he's free of that weasel, Pirella?”
At the mention of his name, I let my eyes drift down to the group of game managers in the field below. There were dozens, and they formed a shameless mob around Amuntep, Divine Footman of Ithariel himself. The dark-skinned man bore a bald head, powerful features, and imposing eyes somewhere between yellow and brown. Technically, he served as a game manager in Thrask, but his official duty was to oversee operations in Ithariel's name.
In other words, a word from him could mean execution for any of us.
Divine Footmen and Footwomen also served in city treasuries, royal councils, military expeditions, and even sanitation efforts. Their only true power was the ability to report their findings to Ithariel, but that ability alone was enough to cause even kings to tread lightly around his servants.
There were, of course, higher ranking members of his divine house. Sergeants, Captains, Knights, Opal Knights, and his four Radiant Generals serving at his right hand. I hoped I would never cross paths with anyone even a fraction as powerful as those. Even a mere Footman like Amuntep was intimidating enough.
Aside from his status as a Divine Footman, Amuntep was also a powerful Silver Ranked adventurer, deadly in his own right. If the rumors were true, he didn't even buy his way to Silver as some did with crews of heroes to babysit and coddle. He fought his way up through the use of a unique and deadly class that he guarded the details of with great secrecy.
“I may present my idea to Amuntep,” I said. “Yes.” I had to bite my tongue from saying more. Honestly, I hated the games these people played. Everyone was always searching for an edge—a small morsel of information they could greedily hoard for some advantage later.
“I have seen how you look at him,” Rasha said suddenly. “I was young and beautiful once, as well, you know. Perhaps it's hard to imagine now. But I knew men like him. Status changes men, but it does not strip away the manhood beneath the titles and coin. No. Beneath it all, he's a man who will notice and admire beauty like yours. He notices you as a man notices a woman, just as you notice that he notices.”
“I'm not sure what you're trying to imply, Rasha,” I said, voice stiff.
“Mhm,” she said. “I'm certain you haven't considered spreading your legs to win him as a temporary ally. Such a thing would be unseemly. Effective, but unseemly.”
I cut my eyes to her. With any weight behind them, such accusations could have me arrested, interrogated, and even killed. I didn't dare acknowledge them any further. Instead, I clenched my jaw, gaze set on the group of men, women, and tomte below.
“You're not like the others,” Rasha said after a few moments of quiet. It wasn't a question or an invitation to speak. It was an observation she was certain of—as if she was only thinking aloud for my benefit. “I haven't figured out what your goal is. Not yet, at least.”
“I only want to bring glory to the games.”
“Yes, of course, as do I,” Rasha said, voice devoid of sincerity—as if she was reciting a thought so familiar it had lost all meaning. “Just remember who your friends are, Talia. The woman who holds nobody's confidence will find herself without allies against unfounded rumors. With the way Amuntep looks at you, I should think you would be wise to surround yourself with friends and confidants.” She shrugged, as if none of what she said carried any real weight, then walked down the hill to join the others vying for Amuntep's attention.
I let out a long breath as soon as she was gone, shoulders folding in. Gods. If Rasha was threatening me so openly, I needed to be careful. Except I was already careful. I was always careful.
But the things I planned… these were not careful things. I could only keep my plans in the shadows for so long. Deep down, I knew this didn’t end with me keeping my life. It never did. In the end, I’d die for this. But it would be worth it. It would matter. I had to believe that.
I knelt low and touched the ground, brows furrowing as a memory flashed. It was as if I could still smell the scent of blood and rain mingling, like copper on the back of my tongue. I could remember how that taste had lingered for hours until it turned my stomach. I pushed away the memory before it became too vivid and stood again.
Soon, this peaceful place would be drenched in blood. The suffering would run so thick it would choke out the air itself. And the people would cheer.
Gods, how they would cheer.
In lesser cities, the tournaments were still competitions of pure martial skill. In some, they reenacted famous battles. Some cities even brought in terrible monsters and let adventurers or slaves try to defeat them in front of roaring crowds. But the tournament in Thrask had its own special history and meaning. To many, it was considered one of the greatest spectacles in all the territories.
Our tourney here merged the most popular elements of all tourneys in one grand competition that could last for days or even weeks.
Some years, it was a true free-for-all. Five hundred souls dropped into a battleground, sometimes stripped of portions of their power and forced to compete with what they could scavenge. Other times, they were allowed to use their full powers in dazzling matches of destruction and carnage. At times, there were structures or beasts roaming the grounds.
No matter the year, some things were relatively predictable. The slaves were always on their own. Above them, the aspirants generally banded together in small groups as factions within their ranks formed, just as the nobility did. On rare occasions, an aspirant or two would strike a bargain for some favor outside the tournament, earning them a position within a group of noble contestants. Without such deals, the odds against aspirants earning a place in the final rankings were astronomically slim.
The other unchanging fact was the planned imbalance. Magical protections almost completely shielded nobility from the risk of death. Every few years, a noble would “accidentally” meet their end in a tournament, but the nobles who died were often suspiciously convenient. Family outcasts, political enemies with powerful people, or those with rebellious intentions. Their deaths often made life easier for those on the outside while also adding the slight air of danger to the games.
Nobility were protected, yes, but everybody knew it was possible for the protections to fail under the right circumstances. Death was always in the cards, even for them. The department of protections was notoriously open to bribery and intimidation, after all.
The protections for aspirants were willfully shoddy. Usually, they were kept from death. Dismemberment, maiming, and disfigurement were common, though. And at least a few aspirants still died gruesome deaths each year.
Finally, the slaves were given no protections whatsoever. Even the more valuable Iron Rank slaves were completely on their own, sent in as glorified blood sacrifices to appease the masses and their endless hunger for bloodshed and death.
I knew from the histories that the protections used to extend to every participant in Thraskian tourneys. But “innovations” by game managers led to changes, and the protections became less complete over time. Ultimately, the truth became clear.
Blood and death put citizens in the seats. Citizens in the seats brought revenue to the city and those in charge. It was that simple.
I had wandered to an isolated portion of the battleground as I ruminated on my thoughts. Instead of trying to scout the layout of this year's stage, I was only revisiting the same old, angry ideas.
I didn't even notice Amuntep had approached me until he softly touched my shoulder. “You look troubled, Talia,” he said, startling me as he always did with that shockingly deep, velvety voice of his. It rumbled from his powerful chest with the satisfying depth of boulders shifting.
Amuntep didn't wear the plain yellow robes of our order. Instead, his gray robe bore the pure white trimmings of Ithariel's Divine House. Ithariel's sigil was sewn into the chest of the robe—a white star with an open eye in the center. Runes in a language I couldn't read wove around his sleeves and covered his belt. They seemed to shift and writhe from the corners of my eyes, but never when I looked at them directly.
The robe left his muscular shoulders and upper chest mostly bare, showing off the perfected body of a Silver in ways that made it hard not to stare. It was impossible to guess his age. I knew some Silvers were nearly two-hundred years old and hardly looked a day over forty. Amuntep looked thirty, but could be many times as old.
“Troubled?” I asked. “No, Disciple. I'm only excited. This year's battleground suits my ideas quite well.”
“Ah,” Amuntep said, nodding as he looked toward the nearest keep—a structure mostly made of wood. It was smaller than the others. I knew this year’s tourney was going to feature a brand new mechanic the department of innovation was buzzing about. From whispers I’d heard, it was something to do with temporarily blocking powers from contestants. Holding keeps would grant them more and more access to their abilities, with the biggest and best fortified keeps granting the most powers.
“May I ask you a personal question, Disciple?” I said.
He tilted his head, yellow eyes narrowing with what I hoped was amusement. “You may ask.”
“Do you ever imagine yourself here on the day the games begin?”
“Hm,” he said, as if relieved I hadn't asked him something he would be required to report back to his god king.
I wouldn't pretend to know Amuntep, but he had been assigned to our order for the past year, and I at least suspected he wasn't a cruel man. I wasn't foolish enough to take that to mean he was someone I could trust, but I at least expected he didn't seek opportunities to abuse his power.
“I have imagined it, yes,” he said. “Though the Silver Rank tournaments are rather different. As you know, Silvers can hardly be allowed free use of their powers as Irons and Woods often are. I suppose I would think about my martial training and tactical abilities most. I would wonder how I compared to my peers, yes.”
Damn. I hadn't planned on him taking that angle with his answer. It meant I would need to push harder. Just do it carefully, Talia. My heart was already pounding with the risk this conversation posed, but everything hinged on it. Planting the idea in Amuntep's mind was the first step, but it was a critical step nonetheless.
“Sometimes,” I said, forcing my voice not to shake with fear. “I think about the spectators, too. I wonder how they would react if someone other than the nobility had a shot at the very top rankings.”
Gods. I was being too direct. Too clumsy with my words.
Amuntep's brow rose. “With great surprise, I imagine. Perhaps your history is sharper than my own, but I believe it has been… over three hundred years since an Aspirant earned a place in the top ten, yes? Even then, it was controversial, as the rules of the tournament were circumvented and the result was eventually thrown out.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering what the reaction would be if it was… different.”
“How could it be different?” he asked. “The nobility wins because they are superior. When a truly skilled aspirant comes along, they're still lucky to match up favorably with even one noble. And the slaves… well,” Amuntep made a gesture, as if I was suggesting a dog could become king.
“I only ask because I have been thinking about what might improve the glory of the games. I imagined the reaction of the common people if they had other commoners to cheer for. Even the aspirants who strike deals aren't quite seen as one of the commoners, as you know. Those arrangements require great sums of money, and it marks them as lesser nobility. But what if a true commoner had a real shot?”
“An interesting prospect, maybe, but it's idle curiosity at best. The aspirants do not have the requisite skill to compete. Not against the nobility. And if you're suggesting some sort of mechanic or rule to give them one, the nobility would never stand for it.”
“No, no. Of course not,” I said. “Though, while we're talking about idle curiosities… I have observed a pattern in the records. Every year an aspirant or slave group lasts deeper into the games than expected, revenue is up. And when the aspirants and slaves are fully eliminated early, there is a similar drop in revenue. Some spectators simply go home and stop buying tickets for the day to watch. It's interesting, is it not?”
“Talia,” Amuntep said. “I am not a stupid man. I know you're fearful to make your suggestion outright. But please, don't insult me. Speak plainly and say what it is you want to say.”
My throat was dry as bone, but I nodded shakily. “I believe we could see the most glorious, profitable tournament in Thrask's history if we found a way to make it appear as though aspirants and slaves had a true chance of winning this year. And I have an idea to do exactly that. But it's not something I could accomplish on my own. I would need allies. People willing to stake their careers on it working…”
Amuntep took a deep breath through his nose, arms folded as he looked out over the battlefield. “What you're suggesting could upset the balance. Do you know why Ithariel wants to keep his divine eye on these trivial contests of skill by having people like me here in positions such as this? Do you think it's for the coin? Do you think his divinity has any need for such mundane chaff?”
“N-no. Of course not, Disciple.”
“Ithariel allows the games and monitors them because they maintain balance. Balance, Talia. The games are a reminder to the commoners that they do not only exist at the bottom because of money or birth status. They are at the bottom because they are inferior. They know this because they watch it play out year after year, from city to city. They see it in every flavor and style they can wish. These contests are just distillations of society laid bare.
“They see what happens when commoners try to stand against the nobility. They lose, because the nobility is stronger, faster, smarter, and more organized than the aspirants and slaves, and so they win. And when the aspirants do earn minor success, what do the common people see? They see that the only way to do it was by leaning on favors from the nobility. We allow a trickle of hope through the aspirants, but it's a carefully measured amount of hope. It's enough that the common man may think he could earn his way to the top of nobility some day. It's enough that he thinks he is okay with the balance and order of things. It pushes people to join the adventurer's guild and serve the territories by doing dangerous work and helps the strong stand out for recruitment in his divine legions.
“And why abolish the nobility or revolt against it when one day the commoner thinks they could eventually reach nobility themselves? And if they're wise enough to know it's a futile hope, they can at least see how thoroughly they will be crushed if they tried to resist.
“Balance… Talia. Do you see it? This balance keeps order, and Ithariel's greatest divine wish is order.”
I gave a shaky, terrified nod of my head. “Yes, Disciple. I'm sorry if I have offended in my ignorance. I only—”
He held a large palm up to silence me. “But…” His full lips turned up at one corner as he lowered his golden eyes to mine. “I am not without ambition myself. The glory of this year's game would be my glory. If we could earn that without upsetting the balance in a way that drew Ithariel's gaze… Perhaps I could help you.”
His words hung between us like a promise and a threat. As I looked out over the peaceful battleground that would soon run red with blood, I wondered if I had just taken the first step toward my own damnnation.
Comments
DuskDeadman
Goodbye balance, hello Brynn
Ben Bass
TYFTC! Very interesting, so they are looking to have it so a commoner, or maybe a group of them go deeper in the tournament. Well I wonder who will be falling into that Brynn sized hole?
