Chapter 16 - Return of the legend

They sat together eating dinner at the inn.
"What if you die?" Putt asked. He saw the disapproval flash across Avia's face and instantly regretted asking. She wouldn’t fight if she thought she’d die, would she? But still, it was a lethal fight. She could lose her life.
"I was thinking about you becoming a wizard," she declared. Putt didn’t quite follow the turn in the conversation.
"If you die, I become a wizard?"
"I won't die tomorrow," Avia hissed. "I will use the prize money to put you in the wizard's school."
A wizard? Him? He was no old man with a beard.
"I thought being a wizard was something you were born to be. Don't I need some talent for it?"
"My mother was a sorcerer. You can very well have a knack for it."
"So my great-grandmother knew magic and then I should be able to do it too." It was not a question but a statement laced with irony. She seemed baffled.
"Like most things in life, it's a matter of practice," she said. Both of them had Putt’s failure as a warrior's apprentice fresh in their minds, making the statement ill-chosen. Putt felt a sting of guilt.
"You know, I wouldn't place you in the school if I thought it wouldn't suit you."
Putt ate in silence. What did she know about what suited him when he didn’t know himself?
"What will the fight tomorrow be like?" he asked, trying to change the subject but instantly regretting it. Did he really want to know?
"Well... Today's fight was too easy to suit the arena owner, Raborast. Tomorrow's will be harder." He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to hear more, but she seemed to need to voice her thoughts about what awaited her.
"What does that mean?" he encouraged her, trying not to think it was his granny who would be in the arena tomorrow.
"It will be one opponent, as promised, but it will be someone trained, someone who has survived these kinds of fights more than once. That means I can't go for the obvious move. The easy feints will not work. And it certainly won’t work to drop a sword to distract the opponent as I did today," she added with a grim smile.
Putt felt uneasy, almost dizzy. Had she dropped a sword to fool the opponent? He had never seen her fight for real, but though he didn’t want to, he was curious. Was she any good? Was she even someone worthy of legends, his very own granny? Raborast had said so, but what did those words mean coming from him?
"Putt, do you think you can finish up on your own and return to your room? I need to be alone for a while." Putt nodded. Avia ruffled his hair. "I'm glad to have you back."
He smiled at her. "I love you, granny."
"I love you too."
He watched her leave the inn. He was almost done and scooped up the rest of his food and chewed it. Back in his room, he stared at the walls. To his surprise, he found it less comforting than the cell in which he had spent the previous night. The inn’s room was dark, without windows, and they slept two in a space that was just a little bigger than the cell, which also had a barred window high up on the wall. The small chamber at the inn felt cramped with its low ceiling.
He returned to the main hall where they had eaten their dinner. His first thought had been to go for a walk in the city, but he didn’t want to risk getting kidnapped again, and the inn was not placed near one of the major streets either. He walked up to the innkeeper behind the bar.
"I feel kind of restless, sir," he began. "Can I help you out with something just for tonight? Lay the tables maybe?"
The innkeeper watched him up and down. "Aren't you the warrior's little boy?" He nodded though he thought he was too old to be called 'little.' "Will your master not be angry with you if you work as a common runner?"
"She ain't my master, sir. She's my grandmother," he replied. "And if she gets angry, it's with me, as you said yourself."
The innkeeper gave him a grin. "It's alright for me if you want to help out."
And so, Putt served and took dishes to the kitchen for the rest of the evening until he felt tired enough to go to bed. The innkeeper thanked him and gave him a piece of candy. Putt decided to save it for the moment when he knew his grandmother had won.
As he lay on his bed, he asked himself why he had no problem talking to the innkeeper on his own initiative while he had such trouble speaking to the guards Sinik and Pho. He decided it probably had to do with being commanded to do something compared to when he felt the need himself, but somehow, he was sure that wasn’t the whole truth.


Avia arrived early to the arena the next morning. Not only could she not concentrate with the worried Putt around, but she also wanted Raborast to know she would show up. On her way there, she heard the buzz of excitement in the air. Those who enjoyed this kind of entertainment were thrilled by the prospect of an experienced warrior facing one of Raborast's veterans. The promise of a hundred gold coins didn’t seem like a problem for the owner if she read the crowd's mood right. The gallery would be packed.
She was shown to a separate room to prepare, with food, drinks, and even a bed. If she was going to eat, it had better be early, so she served herself a meal. To her surprise, the door opened without a knock, and a muscular man with a shaved head entered, shutting the door behind him. His clothes were made of soft, expensive wool. He gave her an uncertain smile.
"Don't tell me you're my opponent for today," she breathed as the silence between them became uncomfortable. The stranger nodded. This was not good. They weren’t supposed to meet.
"What do you want?" she growled at him.
He moved a few steps sideways, back and forth. He had an impressive body, lithe yet strong. He was indeed younger than her, but the scars on his face and arms spoke of his experience in the arena. A wound on his face was not fully healed; something had punctured his cheek, probably taking some teeth with it.
"Well?" she prompted.
"We'll fight today," he confirmed. "And I know you excel at what you do, because Raborast picked me, and you would not have lived to this high age if it was otherwise." He paused, and Avia waited. It was unlikely he had come to flatter her.
"I..." he continued, sounding embarrassed, "I came here with the hope to make a deal with you. A deal not to kill each other."
Avia was so startled she dropped the metal plate she had been eating from when the fighter entered her room. It clanged to the stone floor with a ring, scattering the food.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Bahadur."
"Well, Bahadur, aren't you experienced enough to know that kind of deal is out of the question?" It was, really. Two fighters not fighting for their lives was not a fight worth watching. And if a fight did not meet the standards of a good battle, the arena owner would make sure they got other things to fight instead. Like releasing wild animals into the pit or more fighters.
"I know," he nodded. "We're also both experienced enough to not fear pain."
"Or death," Avia added. Bahadur gave her a look. She studied his face. "You are afraid of death."
"I never thought I would be, but yes. When I became a father, things changed." Father? That explained a lot. "I thought one last fight... But when I heard who I would fight against... I regret being so greedy."
"No," she said firmly. "I can't make you such a deal. We need that spur to fight worth the money. You made your bed. Now you sleep in it."
His eyes glowered with frustration.
"Don't worry. I’ll make sure no one will hear of my visit here." His voice was harsh, and the humiliation of the visit surfaced in his face.
"I count on it."
They gave each other a glare, and then he left. Avia’s mind whirled with the added pressure of the fight. She couldn’t afford distractions, and now she knew her opponent had something to lose, which made him dangerous in a different way.


As Avia stepped out into the arena, the roar of the audience hit her like a wave. The cheers were deafening, a mix of anticipation and excitement. Moments later, Bahadur emerged from the opposite side, and the crowd erupted even louder. They knew him well, their seasoned champion. She was the legend, the intriguing challenger, but he was their hero. If he died today, he would die with honor and be remembered fondly. She wondered if they even knew her name or just the rumors that had preceded her. Would they cheer for her if she won? Likely not. Their hearts were with Bahadur.
His fierce glare met her steady stare, and she sent daggers back with her eyes. His simple leather armor mirrored her own, and he wielded a sword in his right hand and a spear in his left. His reach and strength were superior. How fast was he?
They began to circle each other, testing and teasing, each looking for a weakness. The spear was a potential weakness; it could easily be broken and was poor for defense. Her goal was clear: get in close and take him down. At a distance, his spear, sword, and height would be too much to counter unless she could outlast him.
Bahadur lunged with a swing of his sword. Avia sidestepped, not bothering to counter. He was probing her defenses. A jab of his spear followed, but she leapt out of reach. So far, his moves were predictable, but she knew he was holding back, just as she was.
The dance continued, each waiting for the other to commit to a serious attack. She could see him inching closer with each step. Then, in a burst of speed, he lunged forward, spear thrust first, followed by his sword.
She focused on the spear, knocking it down and leaping onto it, breaking it in two. As her feet hit the ground, she parried his sword with her right blade and struck at his body with her left. He jumped back, but not quickly enough; her blade drew a thin line of blood.
The audience erupted. Blood had been drawn.
Bahadur’s eyes betrayed his fear. In two swift moves, she had disarmed him of his spear and drawn first blood. But his sudden fury caught her off guard. He charged, and she backed away, hitting the arena wall. In the last moment, she rolled aside, avoiding his follow-up strike.
Pain blossomed in her right arm. Blood flowed freely; he had cut her near the shoulder. Before she could react, he threw the broken spear at her. She hadn’t removed a weapon; she had only changed its form. The sharp wood flew toward her, and she knew it would hit.
The spear stabbed into her left shoulder, and she stumbled, dropping her sword. Desperation fueled her next move. She yanked the spear out and hurled it at Bahadur as he charged to finish her. Luck was on her side; the wood buried itself in his thigh, bringing him to his knees.
Blood poured from her wounds. Her left arm hung useless, and her right was badly cut but still functional. She had to act fast. With a final surge of strength, she attacked before he could rise. As her sword descended, darkness closed in. She felt the rough sand of the arena floor against her face, and then all went black.