The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Poetaster, Liederkranz, the endless parade of perfermors, they were all spontaneously absent. It was only Dionysus, alone and drenched in wine, surrounded by the five figures of champions past. The wooden effigy of the mokoi Khan doused and crumbled in the windfall of wine.

Dionysus boomed, his myriad mouths all decrying as one, voice oddly amplified by the acoustics of the dome to be heard perfectly even by those far in the faded heights of the stadium.

"One Hundred years! So much can happen in such a span. Magic has been forever reshaped. Empires have risen while others have crumbled. The very face of currency has been altered irreparably. The greatest war of history bared its fangs for thirty long years, and in the end—humanity came together as one united continent, stamping its triumph over the mokoi invaders!"

The audience thundered a wave of cheers and stamped their feet so much it shook the dome.

Dionysus's floating head rotated so a smiling mouth pointed directly into one of the I.F. repeaters. "Technology took an impossible leap into the future!"

His arms swept wide. "Truly, it has been a century of staggering heights and shattering lows. A century which will never be forgotten for time immemorial. And yet… history's chronicle is not complete. You all are living in such an auspicious time to live through so much and yet still to live through so much more! Not just the turning of a century. No! We stand at the turning of a millennium! You are the forerunners of a new epoch entirely! and to open the next age, we present to you… The Tournament!"

The response was volcanic: the thrumming feet, the piercing whistles, the incessant clapping, it was a furor so great, it rattled Picayune's chest.

"For five hundred years, once in a hundred, the chosen have gathered to test their art, their strength, their very souls beneath the unblinking gaze of heaven. Today marks the Sixth Tournament since its divine ordainment. And today—on the cusp of ages, at the capstone of the arduous thirty-nine hundreds, and at the dawn of the radiant four thousands—we shall define the future!"

Another swell of cheers exploded. Picayune took Belabor's hand as tears streaked from his eyes.

"In times past, this momentous occasion would have only been beheld by those few of you within these hallowed walls right now. In fact, if we were only a mere ten years in the past that would still be the case. But as I said before, we are upon a new epoch! And on this day, through the newly innovated Incalescent Firebox, the veil is lifted, and the whole world may behold. From the highest peaks to the deepest valleys, from the crowded capitals to the quietest hamlets—no eye is blind, no ear is deaf, no mind is unblessed to the glory of the Sixth Centennial Tournament!"

The applause rolled on, minutes of unbroken celebration passed until Dionysus could find an opportunity to reinterject and continue.

"Remember this moment, for your children's children will ask where you stood when history was divined. Remember it, for a century will pass before such a day dawns again. Your parents may not have seen this day. Your children may not have seen this day. But today—you stand here! Look well, for those who step into this arena over the coming weeks shall carve themselves into the marrow of history. From their triumphs and their failures, the shape of the next age will be drawn!"

Dionysus raised his voice to a final crescendo. "Raise your voices, raise your hearts, and let the heavens resound: THE TOURNAMENT BEGINS!"

The audience sprung to their feet, their celebratory cries exploding out the top of the dome like the single cheering voice of a giant, audible throughout the entire city. Picayune found himself unconsciously jumping up with Belabor to cheer, the atmosphere too infectious to deny. This time even after a minute the applause did not stop, not after two, or a full five.

While the crowd cried away their delight, Picayune took a recentering breath and looked beyond the jubilant Belabor to his fellow Tournament contestants.

The animal yipped and wagged its tail. The Game sipped his wine with a beaming grin. The Topiary scowled and lifted his fruit basket off its seat onto the floor, hiding it under the seating. The still mask of the mokoi queen stared at him, emotionless as always, but radiating disapproval. In the far left shadowed corner of the belvedere, the Vampire, with a broad grin, raised his glass to Picayune in a toast before letting the glass drop languidly and stain the velvet floors.

Picayune's excitement instantly curdled to a leaded weight in his stomach. Belabor, still swept with the emotion of the moment, clasped Picayune with both arms around his neck and pressed a hard kiss to his mouth, bringing his focus back to her and the arena, but a tightness gripped his chest.

Dionysus stood at the center of the arena, his many mouths smiling in all directions. And then, the world went dark. The sudden blackness startled the audience, a wave of gasps painting the now unseeable walls. It was as if the day star had never even risen, burying the audience in a dark so absolute that they could scarcely discern their own hands before their faces. A murmur began to build across the seating, only to be swallowed at once by some unseen hush, leaving the arena wrapped in an uncanny silent night in the middle of the day.

The weight in Picayune's gut lessened as the audience's reaction to his spell work gave him solace. It was proof he had been invited to the Tournament for a reason.

Dionysus's voice echoed across the dome without origin. "The stage is set for two warriors. Our first, a legend of history. Enlisted to the Pangean Entente at the young age of thirteen. Original member of Murugan Squad and one of very few humans to ever step foot upon the Mokoi Badlands and return. She is feared by her enemies as the 'Little Butcher', and is praised by her allies as the 'soul of Murugan'. I give you none other than the One Woman Army, Liederkranz: The Band!"

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Then the day star flared back into existence—but instead of filling the dome with light, it cast a single, brilliant beam down to the stage, isolating one person.

Liederkranz stood. She was dressed in a formal marching uniform, her leader's baton hanging by her hip. A marching bass drum with a cymbal mounted on top was strapped across her shoulders.

The audience erupted into a fanatical cheer, everyone seemingly uncaring of how raw their throats were turning.

Liederkranz struck her drum, and the crowd was instantly silenced. The moment held, and she struck the drum again. Slow at first. Then a little faster. Once a steady rhythm was managed she marched in place with the beat.

Dionysus's voice resounded out once more. "Our second opponent needs no introduction. A mysterious stranger who appeared from nowhere twelve years ago and blessed our screens. The most famous human to ever live. Our world's first I.F. star. This person brought us the first program to ever grace our Incalescent Fireboxes: 'Incalescent Views'. And would later be the genius behind so many works that have become modern cultural icons like 'New Stars' and 'The Egg Votary'. I give you, none other than The Star of Trammel themself, Poetaster: The Flare!"

Then with a crash into her cymbal, the impossible spotlight expanded revealing a vision of otherworldly splendor draped in a flowing gown encrusted with iridescent gems that shattered the daylight into a spray of coloured beams. The beams turned the gown into a living prism, the light casting dappled pools of colour across the audience as though the day star itself joined the performance.

The crowd roared with even greater hysterics than for Liederkranz upon Poetaster's reveal, much to Poetaster's delight.

With a measured step to the center of the arena, Poetaster stretched their arms wide and the crowd was magically hushed again. Poetaster exclaimed, the acoustics carrying their voice all throughout the dome,

"Welcome to the Tournament!"

Picayune's magical sound dampener fell away, and the roar of the audience erupted, reverberating through the dome and shaking the very city itself.

The cheers slowly ebbed, into a tense, expectant silence. Only a faint, measured drumbeat broke the stillness. Liederkranz rolled a quiet solo, her sticks caressing the drumhead in a delicate prelude that gradually built in tempo.

Poetaster's voice then rose, perfectly resonant, each word so melodic it was nearly singing:

"Today is a special day, for nay was an erstwhile fray, but now to say that a worthwhile play will come stay to still relay an unexpected belay of the dispirited!"

Throughout the performance, Poetaster paced about the arena with a flowing, ethereal gait; each step was light, almost floating, clear and deliberate yet seemed like a dance. Poetaster's gossamer gown wafted behind, catching the light in brilliant sparkles.

Poetaster halted suddenly, their voice booming,

"We present a monument!"

At that instant, Picayune's spell relented and the day star blazed wider, revealing Liederkranz's rack of instruments. She took a trumpet off the rack in one hand, blowing the notes in time with the steady drumbeats of her other hand.

Poetaster spun a half-pirouette, abruptly stopping and declared,

"Future's history—it is this moment!"

Liederkranz dashed her drumstick across a series of increasingly heavier drums on the instrument rack, swelling the song into a complex marching band. The darkness abated even more as the day star now nearly lit the entire arena.

Poetaster's dance evolved, shifting from the previous flowing ethereal motions into a powerful, acrobatic march along to the rhythm of Liederkranz's impossibly multitasked orchestration. It couldn't have possibly made sense, yet somehow the dance maintained that alluring hypnotism.

Every purposeful stomp of Poetaster's feet left a luminous trace on the arena floor, gradually forming a multi-coloured, living tapestry of light. With a high leap, Poetaster summersaulted in the air once over, twice over, thrice over, and even a fourth time before crashing down. With the impact to the floor, the darkness surrounding the arena was blown away, returning the day star to illuminate the world's whole once more, momentarily blinding the audience.

Poetaster's proclamation echoed,

"The Collision of Two Opponents!"

Liederkranz tossed aside her instruments and pulled free her leader's baton. She took a deep inhale. She lifted her baton aloft; then, with the force of her whole body, she shouted… in silence. Her unspoken note sent a wave of ethereal light rushing out her mouth, striking the rack behind her. The dozens of brass instruments sang to life. The crowd went electric. Liederkranz pumped her baton in time to her marching feet, conducting an entire band of inanimate musicians into a musical drill.

Poetaster joined in her rhythm to exclaim with the roar of a lion.

"Welcome to the Tournament!"

In perfect synchronicity with Poetaster's explosive announcement, Liederkranz hurled her bass drum at Poetaster's head. The audience gasped. As if precognizant, Poetaster twisted mid-step, catching the drum with an outstretched hand and shattered it into a cascade of prismatic sparks.

Liederkranz cried furiously and snapped her baton forward. Her army of instruments blared an angry assault. The sounds played took shape as coloured notes and shot across the arena like a firing line. Poetaster ducked, weaved, and spun, sending needle-like beams from their fingertips to burst the visual notes releasing the music a second time in an intricate musical cannon. The battle played out in a tapestry of sound and colour, but the audience soon clued in; it wasn't a fight, it was a dance.

As the song climaxed, Liederkranz took a trumpet from the rack and threw it at Poetaster. Mere moments before impact, Poetaster summoned another spark, launching it at the musical missile. The spell collided with the trumpet, igniting it with a brilliant white flame that shot the instrument skyward. High above the arena, the trumpet burst into a blossom of fire with trailing burning wisps. A thunderous crack then shook the stands, the sound slamming into the chests of its spectators.

Undeterred, Liederkranz took another instrument from her rack and the duel continued. Each rocketed instrument marked a musical and visual crescendo as instruments were transformed into an increasingly more bombastic fireworks display. With the final trombone obliterated, only Liederkranz's leader's baton remained. The music ceased. The spellbound spectacle concluded.

Poetaster and Liederkranz approached one another at center stage, took each other's hand and bowed to the audience. The applause was ear-splitting. The duo bowed a few more times, then turned to each other, bowed and shook hands with a smile. They then turned and walked a fair distance apart and faced once more.

They waited a beat for the audience to realize, the roaring excitement tapering into silence. Picayune at the edge of his seat. The hush thickened with suspense while the combatants waited longer, studying each other.

Then—Liederkranz charged.