Thiol: Chapter 3 (WIP)

A teal-feathered duck flies high over Balgard. Below, he sees a great marble amphitheater circling a dusty arena. The upper stands are filled with thousands of spectators - some seeming jolly, with their hooting and hollering, while others are stone-faced, unable to think of anything but the coin they’ve wagered. The lower stands seat the wealthiest among the crowd, and the very bottom ring is reserved for nobility. Lord Edon Uvain of Balgard sits atop a throne on the lowest balcony. He’s accompanied by Lord Dhuberick Balazu, an honored guest from the citystate of Piccester, Balgard’s neighbor and tenuous ally. Seated at Lord Uvain’s side is his acting arcane advisor: a disinterested looking Wylandriah Steele. After an uneasy moment, the duck pulls his gaze away from the familiar archwizard and spirals down to investigate the mouths of two opposing tunnels on the east and west sides of the arena.
 
Two seasoned warriors of Piccester wait in the eastern tunnel. You can tell they’re from Piccester because they each bear the signature green tabard emblazoned with a golden mustang, and they must be seasoned because Lord Balazu never sends less than his best to these events. Every year, his veterans travel cross-country to dust up Balgard’s amateurs and claim championship in their cousin city’s tournament, much to Lord Uvain’s chagrin.
 
Beside the warriors is a rack of blunted armaments for them to choose from. The quality is abysmal by their standards, with many a bent blade among the bunch, and the selection is limited even before accounting for such deformities. After some perusing, the first warrior - a brawny dragonborn with bronze scales - selects a long sparth axe. The other warrior - a slender elven woman who moves with deadly grace - eventually settles on a pair of twin shortswords.
 
Meanwhile, the opposing contestants in the western tunnel do not seem as collected. One of them is small, no more than five feet tall, with maybe two dozen hairs on his chin and a baby face that has only just begun to harden with maturity. He stands slumped as though in some sort of stupor, his sky-blue eyes staring blindly through the world. The other contestant is a taller man with curly red hair, maybe three dozen hairs on his chin, and a face that’s dominated by freckles. He waves a hand in front of his unresponsive partner’s face before turning to snatch a flail and kiteshield off the weapon rack with an aggravated grumble. “Not just any kid; noo, this one is blind, deaf, and stupid. ‘Course he’s on my team.”
 
With the blink of an eye, Thiol is no longer a duck flying overhead; he returns to his senses on the ground, in the mouth of a tunnel with a disgruntled teammate. He quickly scans the rack of blunted weapons and wrinkles his nose when he finds that the shield has already been taken. The longsword will have to do.
 
Thiol blurts out to his partner. “Take the spear and engage the duelist. You should easily be able to outrange her and then help me with the axeman.” Much as he prefers for Tim to be a turtle, his fae friend’s avian form has its uses.
 
“Eh? Fuck’re you talkin’ about?” The man shoots back an incredulous look.
 
“The duelist - the lady with the shortswords - you can outrange her with a spear. Take her down, and then help me with the big guy,” Thiol repeats impatiently.
 
“Hah! You think I should take on the girl? Yeah, I don’t think so.”
 
“Just do it!” Thiol hurriedly dons his sallet and affixes the helmet’s visor into place. A voice booms from outside: the Master of Ceremonies, heralding the imminent commencement of the annual tournament’s quarterfinal match.
 
The man scoffs. “Piss off, kid. We had plenty of time to strategize, but you fucked it up.”
 
Before Thiol can protest, a horn sounds, and his partner charges headlong into the arena. Thiol cannot run nearly as fast, but he’s left no choice but to grit his teeth and take chase like a cabbie after a carriage that has lost control. The Piccester warriors casually stride out onto the field, giving their weapons a confident flourish. The crowd hushes in anticipation for the clash of battle.
 
Thiol’s partner arrives first to meet the dragonborn, trailed by a storm of dust. The flying steel ball twirling above his head would surely kill a man, if it could hit anything. But as the dragonborn effortlessly danced back to avoid the swing with a grin on his face, it became immediately apparent that the Balgard Blitz Watchman posed no more threat to the enemy than he did to himself. Like many on the Watch, this man is all spirit and no talent, and quickly finds himself flanked by true warriors, with his back to the duelist. She cleaves an ankle out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground and inciting a roar from the crowd at the eruption of violence. Before Thiol can catch up, she has already leapt upon her victim and is pummeling him in savage fashion. Her back is exposed to Thiol, but she has no doubt that her partner will handle the little man.
 
The dragonborn - who has yet to even raise his weapon for this fight - barks a laugh and spreads his arms out wide, inviting another bungling attack for him to dodge. Thiol pretends to oblige, feinting a thrust toward the dragonborn, but as his opponent confidently dances back out of reach, the thrust twirls into a brutal overhead swing that comes down on the back of the duelist’s skull with a crunch. She crumples under the blow, and Thiol immediately spins to face his other opponent, extending his sword in front of him in langort guard. The dragonborn nearly skewers himself on the blade in his rush to defend his fallen teammate, but stops just short. His smirk turns to a smoldering scowl.
 
The crowd falls into a tense hush as the dragonborn begins to slowly circle the smaller man, his thick scaly tail sweeping agitatedly through the sand with every other step. He feints a few lunges to intimidate his prey, making like he’s going to charge. A better swordsman might call these bluffs and capitalize on them, but at least Thiol isn’t cowardly enough to flinch, keeping his opponent at bay with the point of his sword.
 
Eventually the crowd grows impatient with this standoff and jeers start to come from the stands. Thiol is deaf to them - too intently focused on his breathing, his footwork, and holding his sword up without trembling - but the dragonborn snarls and is spurred into action. He bulls forward and beats Thiol’s sword aside, only for Thiol to flow with the attack and deliver a swift countercut to the thigh. The dragonborn roars out - more frustrated than injured - as Thiol retreats back into a defensive stance.
 
For minutes, they’re caught in this standstill, with each attack from the angry dragonborn met with a biting counter from Thiol. But a featherweight can only stand up to a heavyweight for so long. His breathing soon becomes labored, each deflection becomes more desperate than the last, and each collision of metal on metal sends pangs of fatigue down Thiol’s aching arms. Sensing his strain, the dragonborn flies into a flurry of blows, throwing cleave after cleave with raw, overpowering force. It’s an exchange Thiol cannot possibly hope to recover from. Defeat is imminent. With a devastating clash, the sword is flung from Thiol’s hands. The dragonborn spins his axe high overhead, relishing this moment of triumph with one final flourish before he will claim victory.
 
Instinct takes over when the blade slips from Thiol’s fingers. He dives forward, throwing his arms around his opponent’s midsection before the axe can come down on him, and heaves with all of his adrenaline-fueled might. There’s a collective gasp from the audience as the small warrior lifts the massive dragonborn from his feet, twists in the air, and slams down atop him.
 
Thiol drives his knee into the downed man’s gut and cocks back a clenched fist to begin pummeling, but hesitates when he’s met with no defense. The dragonborn, with arms spread wide and eyes reeling with a concussion, has been defeated.
 
***
 
“Well now, you’ve really brought out your best this year, haven’t you Edon?”
 
Lord Edon Uvain can hardly hear Lord Dhuberick Balazu over the hysterical crowd. Many are howling with fury at their lost wagers, while others are ecstatic. Even Wylandriah - who only ever begrudgingly attends these events at his behest - is clapping politely for the victor.
 
“Hm?” Edon clears his throat to swallow any hint of excitement in his tone, and unhooks his fingers from the fabric of his throne’s armrest which he’d subconsciously been abusing. “Have I? Honestly I have no idea who that young man is. Do you, Wylandriah?”
 
“Yes I do, as a matter of fact,” she says.
 
“You do?” Dhuberick says. “Well, do tell then, dear.”
 
“His name is Thiol Alkene. He used to be an apprentice of mine a few years ago, before he left to join Blitz Watch Junior.”
 
Dhuberick scratches his poofy red beard. “A wizard’s apprentice, then?”
 
“A Blitz Buddy” Edon cuts in. “Not even a militiaman, much less a soldier. I don’t ‘bring out my best’ to play these games.”
 
“As you’ve said before,” Dhuberick sighs. “Still though, this must be exciting for you, the thought that maybe a Balgardian could become champion of the Balgard tournament for once. Sadly your man will have to settle for second place. But hey, you’ve already come farther than you have in years, so congratulations!”
 
Edon’s ears burn hot, and although he maintains a mask of civility, his tone turns subtly waspish. “I admire your unwavering confidence, Dhuberick. If two of my strongest fell to a child, I’m sure it would deal a serious blow to my ego.”
 
“Bah, kid got lucky, simple as.” Dhuberick leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his round belly, seemingly unbothered by Edon’s insults. “Blazegrove will take this tourney. I’d bet anything on it.”
 
“Anything, you say?”
 
“Aye, anything.”
 
“Bet the rights to the Hallodge Mines, then.”
 
Wylandriah’s eyes flash. She’d tuned out the dick-measuring, but mention of Hallodge draws her attention back. It’s a resource-rich land whose ownership has been a point of geopolitical contention among surrounding nationstates for generations.
 
Dhuberick’s insufferably bumptious demeanor falters, his tone turning much more guarded now. “Now why would I ever agree to that? Balgard hasn’t the slightest claim to those territories.”
 
“I thought you said you’d bet anything. Are you afraid that your general will lose to a Blitz Buddy?”
 
Dhuberick stares daggers that pierce the pretense of allegiance between their nations, and Edon meets his gaze with matching intensity. It’s a silent standoff that neither king is willing to back down from.
 
Finally, Dhuberick breaks the tension with a boisterous laugh. “I don’t know what you’ve done with the old Edon, but I like this one better! Fine, I’ll see your wager. But if my man wins, then Balgard’s armies will fight alongside Piccester’s during any territorial dispute over Hallodge with Frazen.”
 
“Done.”
 
Edon’s answer comes too quickly for Wylandriah to interject. She lets out a muted groan at the prospect of a conflict with Frazen. When she moved to Balgard and agreed to serve as an “arcane advisor” to Lord Edon, she didn’t anticipate needing to clean up nearly so many messes, especially ones that are not at all arcane in nature. At least she has some time before the semifinal match to ensure that this irresponsible wager is called off.
 
Dhuberick grins wickedly. “Good. I look forward to the fight.”
 
“Until tomorrow then, I suppose.” Edon says.
 
“Why wait? I can have my man fetched and we can square away this business right now.”
 
Edon scoffs. “Well I suppose if you’re so eager to lose…”
 
Wylandriah covers her face with her palm.
 
“Excellent! You there, servant,” Dhuberick points a fat finger at one of Edon’s personal guards, “bring me General Blazegrove.”
 
“Find this Mister Keen,” Edon adds, “and prepare him for his next match.”
 
“My lord–” Wylandriah finally manages to get a word in between royal blustering, “–may I speak with you in private?”
 
***
 
The energy at the tournament shifted after that match, even down in the hypogeum beneath the arena where contestants were housed. Normally this place was hollow and gloomy, but tonight drinks were passed around in a fervor, and the air had been electrified by the upset. It had a polarizing effect between the contestants of Balgard and those of Piccester. Men and women of Blitz Watch who’d never spoken to him before now clasped Thiol’s shoulder with respect and bought him more drinks than he could hope to stomach. Even his bull-headed partner from the ring - Julian Stinger’s his name, apparently - was suddenly his longtime friend. Meanwhile, the strangers from abroad generally regarded him with contempt, as though he must have cheated. It was surreal, and also mildly terrifying.
 
In the midst of a lively conversation around him that can’t keep his attention, Thiol’s mind retreats back to Tim’s view of the arena. Once again he sees Wylandriah, and even in his mind’s eye the sight of her stirs a cauldron of feelings in him, some of them sweet, some caustic. There’s awe, shame, gratitude, melancholy, and a fluttering warmth that he can’t quite put to words. One after another they burble to the surface attached to memories that make him smile and cringe before fizzling away.
 
It’s been three years since he left her tutelage - thrice as long as he spent under it - and for three years he has questioned his decision to abandon his dream of mastering the arcane. He’d thought that once he was no longer a Blitz Buddy, once he was a man, once he earned respect in the arena, he would find some clarity. But now, years later, surrounded by a flock of fellow fighters that celebrate his success in the ring, he scans their faces, and finds himself questioning just as much as he had before.
 
As he’s scanning the room, Thiol glimpses another familiar face: the duelist that he’d cracked over the head. He can distinguish her features much more easily down here without a helmet stifling his vision. The ears, while pointed, are too short to be an elf’s; moreover, her pale face bears human roundness. Despite this, she moves with inhuman grace, chin held high so that she can look down her nose at people who are taller than her. She has short black hair and carries an entire arsenal of weapons, with two swords on her back, a hand crossbow on her hip, and countless knives stashed throughout her dark leather armor. What’s more disconcerting, though, are her predatory yellow eyes, fixated on Thiol as she approaches. Julian steps forward though, planting himself on her path with his arms folded under his chest, flexing his mediocre biceps.
 
“What, tryin’a sneak up on him like you snuck up on me? Damned dirty move that was,” he says.
 
She lofts a brow and smirks. “If that’s all it takes to ‘sneak up on you’, then I’m amazed that you even function. Tell me boy, does your reflection ‘sneak up on you’ when you look in the mirror?” There are some snickers from Piccester fighters.
 
Julian sneers. “Joke all you like, halfie. You’re just salty ‘cause you got beat by two backwood Balgard hicks.”
 
A few derisive “oooohh”s echo through the chamber. People begin to crowd behind their respective champions, hungry for a confrontation, but the duelist does not oblige, at least not yet.
 
She gives an amused little huff. “Right, well, I’d like to speak with the other hick, so if you’ll excuse me.”
 
She moves to brush past him, but he moves to intercept. “Didn’t hear a please,” he says.
 
She bristles at that, and the crowd rumbles with anticipation, eager to fold on itself and collapse into an all-out brawl. “Get ‘im, Vanny!” One of her comrades barks from behind.
 
Pandemonium is precluded by a booming shout that echoes from the entrance to the hypogeum. “Theo Keen, is there a Mister Theo Keen here?”
 
Only after several confused heads turn toward Thiol does he realize that the royal guardsman at the door is referring to him. “Uhm, my name is Thiol Alkene.” He calls back.
 
“Ready yourself, Mister Keen. Your next match will begin shortly.”
 
***
 
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
 
Edon is taken aback. Wylandriah had never taken that tone with him before. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He replies with an indignant scoff, “I’m capitalizing on an opportunity. The kid is going to win, isn’t he?”
 
Wylandriah throws up her hands with utter incredulity. “I have no idea!”
 
“What do you mean you have no idea? He’s your apprentice!”
 
“No! He isn’t! He was my apprentice, years ago, when he was a child! We’ve hardly spoken since then.”
 
Color drains form Edon’s face as he begins to understand the great peril his political standing now faces. He turns away and pinches the bridge of his nose to tap the pressure building in his head before it has a chance to explode at Wylandriah. “I thought he was your secret ace in his game.”
 
“I couldn't care less about this game. Why in the world would I have an ace in it?”
 
Edon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Once he has collected himself, he turns back around to face her. “Because you always have an ace in the game, Driah.”
 
She rolls her eyes. “I know that’s meant to be flattering, but it’s actually incredibly frustrating.”
 
“No flattery; only truth. But in any case, it could still be fine, right? He could still win, couldn’t he?” He asks, pleadingly hopeful.
 
Wylandriah gives him a grave look. “I wouldn’t bet my army on it.”
 
“Alright… So what do we do now?”
 
“We? I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. You, however, must go back there and call off this bet at once, before it drags Balgard into a war it has no interest in.”
 
“And what, prostrate myself before that–” he gestures angrily, searching for an appropriate insult, “–gnoll?!”
 
She answers with a silent cocked brow, and after a moment he turns toward the door with a sigh. “Thank you, Miss Steel,” he grumbles with a hint of bitterness in his tone, “your counsel is always appreciated.” Then he adjusts his ruffled collar, refastens his mask of civility, and stalks back toward the balcony where he’d left his honored adversary, with Wylandriah following behind.
 
When they return, they find Lord Balazu already quietly conferring with a man that Wylandriah recognizes as Jatai Blazegrove.
 
“Must I?” Jatai protests lightheartedly, “I’ve only just begun to feel the wine this evening.”
 
An uncharacteristically austere look flashes across Dhuberick’s face. He whispers a reply that makes Jatai’s posture straighten and expression harden. “I’ll get some coffee then,” Jatai says and immediately strides off, offering Wylandriah a quick nod as he passes.
 
After he’s gone, Edon clears his throat. “Balazu, about this wager…”
 
“Forfeiting?” Dhuberick interrupts. The severe tone he’d taken with Jatai vanishes, and he’s instantly back to his piggish self. “I figured as much, as soon as that advisor of yours cracked her whip. Wh-tsh! Haha! Oh don’t make that face Edon, you know I just like to kid with you.”
 
Edon places a hand on his throne to steady himself, feeling faint from rage as all the blood in his body burns through his veins and floods his rapidly reddening cheeks. Dhuberick pretends not to notice the painfully long pause left in the air while Edon composes himself enough to speak.
 
“Actually, Balazu,” he seethes through gritted teeth, “I was just going to say thank you, for the prosperity that the Hallodge Mines will bring to my city.”
 
***
 
((WORK IN PROGRESS))