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Now there were only eight competitors assembled around the fighting circle. They stood nervously, trying to avoid each other’s eyes while the crowds settled like a flock of birds onto the benches. Elan was standing close to Tom, and was at least a head taller.
Orlas announced the second round and pulled two more names from the helmet. The satyr was called to fight the Cervini from the first fight. The contest was close and hard fought, both of them muscular, tall and broad shouldered. The Cervini’s skin with its dappled markings seemed to ripple in the sun, and the satyr’s deer feet moved nimbly, his horns and yellow eyes making him look malevolent. But as Tom now knew, their appearance was deceptive – satyrs were in fact the most social and even-tempered creatures in the Realm of Earth. Tom watched them both, admiring their skill and strength, but once more he was distracted by Elan, which annoyed him. Again the satyr won and Tom thought he would probably win their section; he seemed too good.
He was jolted out of his reverie by Orlas, who called his name with Elan’s. Inwardly his heart sank, but he headed into the ring, head held high, buoyed by his earlier success. They bowed to each other and Elan looked him in the eyes, showing only contempt. Tom had the feeling this wasn’t going to be a normal fight.
Elan started quickly, testing Tom’s reflexes with quick jabbing movements and sweeping attacks, and Tom had to keep defending, finding no gap in which to retaliate. But then Elan seemed to falter, almost stumbling, and Tom took his chance to attack before realising Elan’s move was a feint, designed to lure him in and then throw him off balance. Elan struck and Tom retreated rapidly, only just able to defend himself and hold on to his sword. He heard the crowd’s sharp intake of breath. His heart pounded and sweat streamed down his face, and he chided himself for his stupidity. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and heard Arthur’s words of advice from the many sessions they had fought together: Sometimes, Tom, you just need to let your opponent wear themselves out.
Rather than attack, he just kept defending. The crowd’s cheers turned to jeers, but Tom ignored them, pleased when Elan became frustrated, his attacks becoming more wayward as he grew angrier. It was time for Tom to seize the advantage. As Elan finished a flurry of attacks that saw Tom bringing up his shield and side-stepping furiously, Elan fell back, out of breath, and Tom ran forward, mercilessly attacking. Finally he swiped at Elan’s legs, and he fell. Before he could roll away, Tom stood over him, holding his sword to his opponent’s neck, exerting just enough pressure to make him uncomfortable.
Tom had won. He stared Elan down, as Elan scowled back at him, furious.
Tom withdrew his sword and stepped back, then bowed to the roaring crowd who had clearly enjoyed the fight. Then, suddenly, there was a collective intake of breath, and shouts of warning. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of movement, and he ducked and rolled quickly, narrowly avoiding Elan’s sword.
This was no longer a contest, it was a proper fight.
He barely registered Orlas and Duke Ironroot stepping forward before he ran full charge at Elan. He was furious – what was Elan thinking? The air rang with the clash of swords, and Tom felt a sting across his arm as Elan cut him. He retaliated and slashed Elan across the cheek, a line of blood immediately welling up. But before they could continue, Orlas and Ironroot intervened and Elan ran for a gap between the benches and the competitors’ area. He was fast, and his run was so unexpected that he was gone before anyone could catch him.
Woodsmoke vaulted over half a dozen benches, closely followed by Bloodmoon, and the pair gave chase.
Arthur joined Tom, Orlas and Ironroot in the ring. “What in Herne’s name is going on?” he said.
“I have no idea – he attacked me! Although I gather he’s been watching me.”
“How do you know that?” Orlas said, looking worried and examining Tom’s arm. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Adil, the Aerikeen I fought, noticed him.” He shook his arm free from Orlas. “Don’t worry, it’s just a flesh wound.”
Ironroot hustled them all to the side of the ring as the crowd started to murmur. He pulled them aside, his arm muscles flexing impressively. “Let’s get on with the last fight, Orlas,” he said.
Orlas nodded his agreement and raised a hand to still the restless spectators. He announced the next fight while Ironroot stood impassive, carefully watching the crowd. He had a stark warning for the last two competitors. “No funny business, or you fight me.” The pair glanced at each other nervously and then stepped into the circle.
While they fought, Arthur said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought it was nothing, or that maybe he had a grudge for some reason.” He shrugged, not wanting to worry Arthur. He already had enough on his plate today.
“Tom,” he sighed. “I know you’re lying.” His tone was hurt, but trying to be patient. That of a worried older brother rather than a father figure.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Arthur! I’m fine, so stop fussing. He’s gone now, and I have another fight. Go!”
With Elan gone Tom felt able to relax a little, and even enjoy the final fights. All too soon they were down to the final four and he was called to fight Clia, a female Cervini. Orlas proudly introduced her, but gave Tom an encouraging grin too.
As Tom started the fight he realised he’d found a rhythm he hadn’t had before, even when he’d been practising for hours. In the short time of the competition he’d actually learnt a lot. Arthur and Woodsmoke had been right, as usual. Although he was hot and sweaty, and his muscles ached, a thrill of adrenalin kept him alert and strong. Clia was a good opponent, but he found he could anticipate her moves. Before he knew it he had disarmed her and won. They bowed respectfully to each other and then to the crowd, and left the ring. Tom was in the final.
––––––––
The crowd hushed in anticipation. Tom stood in the ring looking up at the satyr, Satini, thinking his luck might have run out. The sun was now falling towards the horizon, and shadows were stretching across the grass. The grounds, however, held the heat, and a trickle of perspiration fell between Tom’s shoulder blades.
They bowed and the fight began.
The arena rang with the clash of steel and Satini’s and Tom’s grunts. Both advanced and fell back, testing the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Every time Tom defended a blow he staggered back. Satini was strong. Tom blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried not be intimidated by Satini’s size, or his Otherwordly appearance. He couldn’t help noticing that Satini didn’t seem to sweat or tire, and realised he was losing ground.
The crowd followed them step by step, blow by blow. With one final, enormous swing of his sword, Satini flicked Tom’s from his grasp, and Tom sank to his knees. He had lost.
Satini bowed graciously to the crowd, then grinned and pulled Tom to his feet, engulfing his hand. “You fight well,” he said in his gravelly voice. “You are a worthy adversary.”
“You fight better,” Tom said, breathing heavily. “But if I had to lose to anyone, it would be you.” He shook Satini’s hand and then both turned to Orlas and Ironroot. The crowd was bellowing and a few satyrs started singing something Tom didn’t recognise. It seemed the party had begun.
