Chapter 8: Selection Tournament
The village plaza was a hive of activity. The villagers were abuzz with excitement and expectation. Slowly walking through the main plaza, Cyran could see that many of the shops had closed for the day. This was typical behaviour as action was a delicacy for many of the inhabitants of this peaceful place and they would not miss hot blooded duels just to sell bread. This tournament would be the talking point for weeks to come. As such, Cyran did not miss the gossip about him as he strode towards the arena.
"Do you really think a commoner could rise through the ranks again?"
"I heard he got into some trouble with the nobles"
"Hopefully he does well enough to not shame his father"
Cyran had heard them all before time and again this much was nothing new to him though the more he heard his name mentioned, the more he felt growing pressure. Inhaling deeply, Cyran pressed onward nodding and greeting people as he passed. As he walked, he unconsciously moved a hand to rest on the hilt of one of his new blades and was surprised that he felt calmer for the touch of cold steel.
Some people from the village would make way when they recognised someone they knew was participating in the tournament and Cyran was no exception. Upping the pace, eager to arrive, Cyran continuing unobstructed when he saw Galaeron, the village elder, talking with the blacksmith. He could not hear what was being said between the two but it was obvious the blacksmith was unhappy by the news, listening to Galaeron with his thick arms crossed in front of his chest. The blacksmith then turned with a lazy gait and opened the shutters to his forge before disappearing inside.
Arriving at an old tree, bent and misshapen from the ravages of time, Cyran knew he had arrived. The natural giant had stooped in such a way that it almost looked as though it was bowing to the young elf. Walking towards the opening the courteous tree made saw two guards stood either side, checking all those attending for weapons and other tools for chaos. They checked through their list of known competitors before waving Cyran through into the arena interior. The giant tree was much larger on the inside than outward appearances would have you believe. The interior formed a giant ring with a stone platform in the epicenter as though the whole thing was carved to be the bowl for some humongous creature, the villagers taking their seats in the surroundings as mere offerings.
Cyran stared in wonder. He had been told all about previous selection tournaments but he had never been to one, nor had he envisioned the scale of the arena that was hidden in plain sight his whole life. The wonder was engraved into his face even as he took his place in the stands for the competitors. What brought his focus back into the present moment was Galaeron making his way towards the centre of the stone battleground, his nobbled cane releasing an echo from the ground with every hobbled step. "By the sage, he sure moves quick for an elf his age," Cyran thought as he watched the elder begin.
Raising his hand, a hush swept across the crowd allowing Galaeron to speak with ease.
"To my friends! I bid you all welcome! To this, our 11th tournament for selection!" The surrounding elves began hollering from the stands in an intense, yet brief, display. "Participating in this tournament could be the making of some of the fine young elves we have, but it could also be the turning point unto another path. We may have the next Sentinel candidate in our midst. Or we may have the next master craftsman. Hunter. Chef. The potential is limitless though I am confident we are going to see some spectacular duels.
"To my selection candidates, I urge you to remember that this is merely an exhibition of your skills and not a space for settling your grievances, nor is it the setting for mortal injury. Your performances will be evaluated by myself and your potential mentors," Galaeron said, raising him arm to point at a balcony with a row of men in a variety of colour cloaks.
"There will be one bout per candidate per day to allow for adequate recovery. With that, I would like to welcome our first challengers to take their positions. Galen Lindrel and Rydel Forrora, the sage protects you both. I wish you luck. Start at the sound of the gong," the elder finished before retiring to his place on the balcony.
Rydel rose from the benches, chest puffed out, and swaggered onto the arena floor whilst awaiting his opponent. He stood there in a fine duelling uniform of hardened leather embossed with the sigil of his household; a stone tower with two arrows crossed behind it. It wasn't long before Galen Lindrel took his position. Lindrel was from a family of hunters who had an innate dexterity when handling knives. He was wearing the standard uniform issued to hunters, a hooded tunic and fitted trousers complemented by leather vambraces and boiled leather pauldrons.
Galen stood at attention and bowed slightly. "Good luck to you, I hope for a good match. May the best man win."
"You flatter yourself, this match is as good as mine," Rydel sneered, unsheathing his rapier.
Galen withdrew a short dagger and crouched into his stance just as a thunderous crash signalled the start of the duel. The hunter darted forward with impressive speed, closing the gap between the two in a short time. Rydel offered his greeting by abruptly thrusting straight ahead, hitting only air as Galen had dropped underneath the strike before leaping off the ground, planting one hand on the ground to pivot his body to whip a kick at Rydel's head. The young noble stepped back, withdrew his rapier and used it to swat the kick aside only to be met by a ferocious flurry of slashes.
Cyran was enamoured with the acrobatic skill incorporated into the hunters fighting style that he almost missed the bored look on Rydel's face, coolly turning away the hunters blade at the last second of every strike. Feeling as though the advantage was his, Galen stepped up his assault. Kicks were being delivered to Rydel from absurd positions whilst Galen's dagger flashed with impossible speed. Yet the noble was unaffected by the onslaught. Until, that is, he backstepped and tripped.
Not missing the opening, Galen charged forward. Cyran shot out of his seat and grabbed the railings, he saw the ploy unfolding before him yet could do nothing as a spectator.
"Got you," Rydel grinned, sidestepping the hunters lunge and using his momentum to bring the hilt of his rapier crashing into his face. Galen staggered back, blood gushing from his nose, trying to regain his composure. Cyran looked from the injured elf to Rydel, finding his cold gaze fixed on him. "That was for you." He mouthed, pointing his rapier at Cyran whilst advancing on his injured opponent. Giving Galen no time to recover, Rydel thrust his blade through the hand gripping the dagger. Galen howled in pain, scrabbling take his hand back.
"I yield! I yield!" The hunter cried.
"Of course you do, commoner," Rydel removed his rapier from its fleshy sheath and wiped the blade on Galen's tunic. The young noble moved to leave the arena as the crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers and insults.
Galaeron stood, raising his arms to instil quiet into the arena.
"How does he do that?" Cyran thought to himself.
"A terrific opening match! We have our first round winner! Rydel Forrora, take your seat. Galen Lindrel, get yourself to the apothecary for some ointment and bandages. You both performed admirably. Our next challengers are Vanya Elren and Cyran Arthelius."
Cyran gulped. He hadn't much experience with women other than his mother, let alone fighting with one. He looked around before readying himself and standing to make his way into the arena floor, passing Rydel on his way. Cyran bit his tongue to not say anything but that same restraint didn't apply to everyone.
"It would be a shame to not remove you from this tournament myself, though I guess losing to a girl would be just as sweet." Rydel gloated whilst sweeping his brown hair from his face.
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