A Test of Mettle [Azrael versus Resator]

[Resator O'Caariel]

“Combatants!” exploded the announcer’s voice, bursting upward like a geyser to meet the cheer of a modest crowd. The elf – dressed in elaborate viridian robes laced with gilt leaf stitching – lifting his arms, twirling to garner the attention of all that were present. He pantomimed a clap, and the spectators followed his voiceless instruction, creating a slow, abrasive heartbeat for the earthen amphitheater.

The failing sun’s light stabbed through the space between the massive wooden doors, making everything beyond a hazy silhouette. Resator had been waiting behind the gladiatorial gate for less than a quarter of an hour but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was causing his mental clock to creep from second to second. He measured his breaths, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. The leather of his gauntlet creaked audibly as he tensed and relaxed his grip upon the hilt at his side.

Typically the Knight-Errant wouldn’t be nervous about engaging in mutual combat. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if what he was feeling at that moment was anxiety. He knew that his technical swordplay was among the best in all of Greater Hammerfeld. Combine that with the raw talent for the art that he’d inherited from his father and there was fair justification for all the tournaments Reese had won. No, the young swordsman wasn’t so much concerned with battle itself but with whether or not he’d impress the audience.

Resator wasn’t the gladiator-entertainer type. While his swordsmanship could be called flashy at times, his use of the blade was more of a discipline – one he had a healthy respect for and took very seriously. Honorable combat, in his mind, wasn’t to be done before a crowd of onlookers. Death was in no way exciting. Still, the third son of House O’Caariel knew that to get the attention of powerful people you had to play in their arena – even if that arena was a literal one. Winning a fight or two would hopefully garner the eye of someone with the answers he sought.

The hefty wooden doors swung wide, moaning in protest as dust swirled upward from their bases. Gripping the hilt of his family sword, Resator O’Caariel uttered an oath beneath his breath and strode into the middle of the coliseum.

By now the crowd’s clapping had increased its tempo into a barely-uniform cacophony. Men and women, elves and men, stood from their respective seats, carrying the contestants into the center of the ring on the backs of their hands, the notes of their whistles. The noise was so much that Reese barely noticed the other three warriors entering from doors equidistant to his own, also marching their way towards the elven announcer.

It was warm, even as the day drew to a close; fresh lit torches and the humidity Underwood was notorious for were beginning to cause beads to form on Resator’s brow. The sun was in his eyes, so his opponents thus far were little more to him than imposing silhouettes. Even so, with the crowd having devolved into an eclectic, unabashed roar, Reese doubted he had the brain power to differentiate between one man and the next. Instead the young knight focused inward, steeling himself for the fight to come.

“Liliana,” he let fall from his lips, barely even a whisper, “This is for you.”

“Battle!” boomed the elf, his arms simultaneously dropping and sending the crowd into an even greater fury. Like a tidal wave of sound the cheers, jeers, stomping and clapping descended into the arena, no doubt deafening everyone present. It had always shocked Reese how even a small group of people could create so much noise – so much chaos.

Immediately he dismissed the thought, resolved to focus on the matter at hand. Stepping back the knight drew his heirloom blade, the steel gleaming in the afternoon sun. He gripped it comfortably with both hands, leveling the weapon in what would appear to be a casual stance; feet somewhat wider than his shoulders’ width apart, his following heel dug into the coliseum’s dark earth floor.

He took a deep breath, tasting the humid forest air as it filled his lungs, and slowly exhaled. Suddenly, Resator O’Caariel was precisely where he needed to be.

[Azrael]

It was a lazy afternoon. A tavern stood on the outskirts of town. Sunlight poured in from the dingy windows, and just outside, a few townspeople could be heard going about their day. An old man with tattered clothes sat by the bar, drawling on about nothing in particular. His voice hung loose in the background, along with the gossiping of the maidservants who had nothing else to do when there were not much patrons around. Azrael Talmatt sat by a table in the corner. His placid eyes stared at the door as he waited impatiently. One of the maidservants looked at Azrael curiously, as if questioning if he wanted company. Azrael gave her a curt smile, but from the expression on his face, she knew he wanted to be left to his business.

Finally, the door to the tavern opened. A middle-aged man entered with a rough expression and looked around the place, searching. As soon as he saw Azrael, the man walked towards him in long strides. They greeted each other with a nod of the head, and the man sat across Azrael. A maidservant was about to approach him to ask if he wanted anything, but the man quickly gestured her away.

“Janus has decided how you will pay your debt,” the man said as he looked at Azrael intently. “You are to battle in Dansdel... and win.”

A few years back, Azrael had been on a job with Janus and his men. Due to greed and selfishness, Azrael had double-crossed them at the last minute—he ran out with all the stolen goods. Azrael knew he had to hide since he knew how powerful the man was, and how menacing he could be with traitors. However, the world is too small to never be found. When Janus found him again, the goods were all gone. But Azrael was a clever one—instead of being killed on the spot, he convinced Janus to let him pay him back on Janus’s own terms.

Looking slightly amused, Azrael replied, “That’s it? That’s all you need?”

“Yes,” the man sighed as he impatiently drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “You are set to go up against a knight-errant of House O’Caariel. You are to eliminate him and the other warriors as well. Janus has put a lot of wager into this match, and if you dare to lose, your life will be the alternative.”


*****

Azrael stood behind the massive doors, waiting. Before them, he could hear the loud cheering. The crowd was ready for bloodshed. He could never understand this type of entertainment; neither did he care for it. The door opened with a heave, and Azrael walked into the arena. He eyed the massive space. The ground under them was plain dark soil, and the walls that surrounded them were aging but sturdy. On top of the walls were the audience, urging for the fight to start. There seemed to be nothing else special about the arena, as if the warriors were simply thrown into a massive cage with nothing but their weapons and the clothing on their back.

Taking the time to finally look at the other combatants, Azrael scanned them one by one. They were three in number. One of them was a fighter by the slave trade, made obvious by dark markings on their skin. He was here because his master needed him to win. The second seemed too young—maybe just a child in his early teens. If only judging by appearance, he probably wouldn’t make it through the day. The slave held a battle axe, while the young boy seemed contented with the sharp daggers in his hands. Finally, Azrael placed his eyes upon the fourth combatant—the knight-errant. The man stood with an air of strength, and his armour and weapon said that he was ready. He wore clothing that proposed that he came from a prestigious house.

Azrael gave the knight-errant a small smile, as if letting his presence be known.

As soon as the announcer signalled the start of the fight, the slace and the young boy immediately and simultaneously went after the knight. Of course, they would eliminate the biggest threat first. Azrael unsheathed his sword but made no move, waiting for what was going to happen. He was anxious for the fight to come, and at the same time thought that this was unnecessary.