The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Picayune hitched a breath, abandoning his spell mid-cast and twisting just in time to slip past the incoming fist. His feet slipped in the churned soil and he fell to the ground with a wet smack. He frantically rolled aside as another punch cratered the dirt where his head had been and scrambled away. One final desperate dive bought him enough space to spin about and trace a circle in the muck with his shoes as his fingers sketched a frantic pattern upon the mud inside it.

Liederkranz was right upon him again but a hard ethereal shell flared to life from his drawn rune to block her explosive kick. Two more strikes and the defensive barrier fizzled pathetically. He was already moving, lungs burning, mud sucking at his boots.

She closed the distance again, fist poised. He raised an arm to parry, but the slick ground betrayed him. His footing slid again, his counter collapsed, and his wild limb clipped her elbow on the way down, taking her with as they toppled together in a graceless sprawl. Pinned in the mess of limbs, Picayune saw her head draw back, ready to crack forward like a ram. With no way out, he squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the blow.

Picayune waited for a snap of pain—but the impact never connected. Instead, a familiar, playful voice coaxed his eyes open. "Wow, get a dimension you two… oh, wait."

The Arena of Dionysus swam into focus. The Game approached the two slumped fighters along with Dionysus and a few more unfamiliar onlookers. And then there was Liederkranz, sprawled across his chest, her heavy breath hot against his cheek. The closeness might have looked suggestive, if not for the fact she'd been a heartbeat away from breaking his nose, not kissing it.

Too drained to blush at the Game's insinuation, Picayune only wiped the sticky sweat clinging to the edges of his newly forming beard. Liederkranz disengaged herself from his body and the lifted weight finally let his lungs seize the air they had been crying for. He drank it down in greedy gulps, eagerly inhaling every bit of relieving air he could. His muscles were aching and bruised, his clothes dyed with blood and spew old and new. Picayune's discombobulated mind swirled about struggling harshly to reorient itself. "how many… how… how many months… months has it been?"

His question was welcomed with the entertained chuckle he had so long ago associated with the Game. "Six days. I've got my own match coming up, and I don't want to be distracted by maintaining your game simultaneously to my own.

Picayune blinked at the words, his oxygen deprived mind slow to piecing them together. Liederkranz, already upright and unbothered, nodded. "Thanks for the help, Gamey. I'm sure Picayune appreciates it."

All he could manage was a groan, which only drew more laughter from the gathered crowd.

"No worries," the Game said with a grin. "Always happy to help put a mokoi in their place."

Liederkranz smiled, but quickly turned thoughtful. "By the way, it feels strange calling you by your Tournament title. The rest of us are on a first name basis, but we still don't even know your family name."

The Game's humor immediately soured, suspicion sharpening his voice. "And it's going to stay that way! Who told you to ask me that?"

The sudden bark made everyone flinch. Liederkranz raised her hands, quick to recant herself. "Sorry Gamey, no one asked me, I didn't realize that was a sore spot. Consider the topic dropped."

The Game lingered with a defensive unsurety, but soon returned to his usual jovial demeanor. "It's fine. Just don't bring it up again for at least…" His gaze flicked skyward as he ran through his memory. "…another eight months." He flashed a smile—equal parts sly and boyish cheek—that left Liederkranz blinking in confusion.

Liederkranz wasn't given long to think over the Game's strange request before Dionysus interjected. "Well, it is lovely that you all are getting along so well but you must move along now. We have an arena to make presentable."

The group was summarily ushered off the arena grounds. Picayune sluggishly trudged off—surely to reunite with his beau—while Liederkranz excused herself to wash up. The Game didn't mind being left behind. Solitude suited him in the hours before a match.

There was nothing he could do so late into the final hours to prepare so he made his way to the dining hall to enjoy a vitalizing meal. He went through the motions of a meal, piling his plate high and chewing slowly, but each bite turned to paste before he could swallow. Flavor slid past him, unregistered. He eventually pushed the tray away half-finished and retreated to his quarters.

A romance novel waited on his bedside table, a habit he'd never admit to even upon pain of death. He cracked it open, thumbed to his page, and stared. The same paragraph blurred before his eyes again and again. He wasn't reading—just tracing words with his gaze, his mind pacing elsewhere as his fingers drummed the book's spine.

He was nervous. How long had it been since he had last been nervous?

The Topiary was an opponent far beyond what he was typically used to; the bookie even said he was playing against his odds. And the reward was so high: a wish divinely granted. He almost laughed. As if that mattered. As if it drove him more than the sixty-three other souls clawing after the same prize. After the war, everyone wanted something—or someone—back. He wasn't unique.

A knock startled him upright. He slid the book under his pillow in a single practiced motion.

"Coming!"

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He smoothed his unkempt ginger hair with one hand and rolled his shoulders loose. Motivations didn't matter, performance did. And performance—that was his craft.

When he opened the door, a Tournament official stood waiting, signaling that it was time. The Game drew a steadying breath, shaking his arms loose as though he could scatter the nerves from his body, then gave a nod to be led on.

The walk was long, a winding detour through narrow service corridors—necessary with the main halls clogged by the roar of spectators flooding to their seats. Every turn approaching the building's center pressed the noise closer, a living tide rumbling through the stone until it thrummed in his chest.

At last, the official left him in the arena's antechamber to await his introduction. From behind a grated gate, he caught a sliver of the arena proper: seats packed to bursting, their collective anticipation spilling through the bars like heat from a furnace.

His eyes tracked upward, landing on the contestants' belvedere. The Apprentice, Band, and Flare lounged there with food and drink in hand. The sight steadied him with a smile. Liederkranz and Poetaster's fight might have been a spectacle, but he was going to show them what a true show looked like.

They wouldn't have to wait long, the Game hardly had time to settle himself before he heard the choir-like voices of Dioynsus's many synchronized mouths echoing across the arena from atop the contestant's belvedere.

"Hello and welcome back, everyone, to the Tournament!" The crowd's answering roar rattled his antechamber walls.

"I know it has been an unbearably long week since the first bout—" Dionysus was cut off by a rising roar from the audience. He chuckled, waiting for the noise to crest and fall before continuing. "—but I promise you, the wait will have been worth it."

He let the silence stretch, surprised and delighted when the audience leaned forward instead of shouting over him again. "We have quite the interesting duo to witness today, and I would love to introduce them to you… but first, a story."

A ripple of groans stirred from the impatient few who wished they could just skip to the action.

Dionysus ignored them, his many mouths smiling. "The Cruor Swamps, what a vile, reeking place. A place full of monsters, poison… rot. The place is so inhospitable that no human has ever traversed it and survived..." He paused, this time purely for dramatic effect.

"Correction, there has been but one man to have made it to the swamp's centre and returned. One man who has since wandered to nearly every edge of Trammel, every unexplored cave, and every insurmountable mountain. Over the course of multiple inhuman centuries, he has travelled and witnessed far more than any of you could possibly dream."

Dionysus's voices boomed, "You may not know him. But after today, you will remember him. I present, Palmer: The Topiary!"

The arena erupted. On the far side, Palmer emerged from his chamber, unfazed by the cheer which shook the very building. His face was carved from steel, unreadable as he strode to the centre.

The Game's mind was whirring with a thousand thoughts sparking at once and dissecting the information Dionysus let slip to recalibrate his own expectations for their upcoming fight.

Seeing Palmer again, the Game reminded himself of how short he was, even with his dirty black top knot, Palmer would barely come to his chin. The Game noted that he could use his superior reach to his advantage.

Palmer wore a long white robe whose base fell to his ankles and collar flared all the way up to his nose, defensive against elixirs and spells but pointless against a blade, and the extra loose fabric could prove an opportunity to unbalance the man.

It was also the first time that the Game saw the shorter man without his basket of fruits. It made sense to doff the unnecessary hindrance, but the Game was sort of hoping that the man's neurosis would be stark enough to force the issue.

The Game's eyes then narrowed on the thick purple rope cinching his robe at the waist, but more importantly for the upcoming fight was the two sheaths stuck through it. One of the holsters was a small plain wooden sheath carrying a thin black knife, the other, a long smooth curve of lacquered purple. Empty and hollow without blade.

The Game's breath caught for half a beat. He definitely recognized that sheath, and The Game had to once again recalibrate his expectations for what was to come.

Dionysus continued his speech with a practiced flamboyance "And to face him, we have someone who is no stranger to competition. You have seen him hosting many different contests around Trammel, and no doubt you few brave enough to challenge him have found your purses lightened in the process. Some of you have seen him outwit the brightest minds of Ersatz University. Some of you have seen him outplay the conniving Clotted Forest Mercenaries. And now, we will see if he will out-battle the Topiary." There was a humming energy radiating from the expectant crowd.

Dionysus spread his arms wide, grinning at their rapture. "Yes, he has been around and made a name for himself, but you do not know him by name, nor do you know him by blood nor banner; but you do know what he does, I give you… the Game!"

The arena detonated with applause. The ovation swept across the stadiums in a wave of spirited celebrity. The Game stepped forward onto the grounds, nerves coiling beneath his skin, the eyes of thousands driving him toward his place opposite Palmer.

The Game found himself thriving in that anxiety, the tension pushing his excitement for the coming bout. He shot his opponent a smile, "Where's your fruit basket, Palmer? First time I've seen you without it."

The stoic man was clearly analyzing the Game as much as the Game was him. "I wouldn't want you making a salad in the middle of our fight."

The Game laughed at that, then tilted his chin pointedly at the curved purple sheath at Palmer's side. "Is that Ishin Denshin? It's sixth of seven isn't it?"

For the first time, Palmer's composure cracked. His hand brushed the empty sheath, almost protective. "Can't really call it that without a blade." Palmer looked the Game up and down assessessingly. "You know your weapons well. Very few even know about the seven great weapons, let alone can recognize one… by just its sheath." Palmer made a second read of the Game and then noticed that he bore no weapons of his own.

The Game split a wide cheeky grin, "Easier to recognize it by the sheath. I imagine most people who meet the blade directly don't do so twice. I'm not much of a swordsman, but I consider myself a collector. Any chance you'd gamble it on our fight? I could make it worth your while."

Palmer scoffed. "Not a chance."

"Even for just an empty sheath?"

"Still no."

The Game shrugged, not particularly surprised. "Worth a shot. Regardless of the results, no hard feelings right?"

Palmer's steel glare finally broke, a small grin peaking at the edges of his lips before being quickly squelched. "No hard feelings."

The two then turned their attention towards Dionysus's presentation coming to its end, "Now I don't want to keep any of you waiting. So without further ado, let the fight commence!"