Victor of Tucson

Book 9: Chapter 13: Playing the Fool

Victor sat on a stone bench, one of several in the ready room of the arena at Westhome. He’d only caught glimpses of the city as they traveled from the portal hall, but he’d been rather impressed by its austere beauty. The streets were wide and cobbled with smooth stones laid so closely together that the carriage had hardly rumbled as it rolled through the city. The buildings were spaced apart from each other, and they all had matching marble facades; it was like riding through his imagined version of an ancient Greek or Roman capital. Everything was clean, gardens and parks abounded, and, most striking of all, he only saw a handful of citizens; the place was a ghost town.

Kynna had explained the lack of populace as a byproduct of every kingdom having portals to the true imperial capital on the eastern continent. This city existed as a formality, a foothold for the empire on the western continent where parades, ceremonies, and celebrations could be held for the nearby population. She’d indicated that duels between champions were one such ceremony.

Victor wondered if he’d see any representative from the Ruhnic Empire attending his duel. Surely, they were interested in such a thing. There may be nearly a hundred kingdoms in the empire, but it wasn’t every day that a war was settled. “Damn,” he sighed, squeezing his spear in his hands. He was nervous and desperately wanted to talk to someone he could trust.

He'd been true to his word the night before, crafting letters to most of his loved ones. He didn’t want people to worry, however, so he hadn’t exactly confided in them. What he wanted was to talk to Valla. He wanted to hold her and have her stroke his hair and tell him he would be fine, that he hadn’t overdone his playacting, and that he’d be able to beat this champion without showing all his cards. She wasn’t there, though, and he had to accept that. He’d been trying. He'd written to her half a dozen times in his journal; he just didn’t have the guts to put any of those words into the Farscribe book they shared. “If I win,” he promised no one in particular.

He looked at the fancy bronze clock ticking away on the wall near the portcullis that would let him into the arena. “Twenty minutes.” Victor stood and began to rehearse his battle plan. He thrust with his spear, parried an invisible sword, dodged, and even rolled on the hard marble floor, trying to build up a sweat. When he looked at the clock and saw it said five minutes, he stood before the gilded iron bars and went through some calisthenics, keeping his heart rate up as he waited.

He did that for several minutes before a crystal mounted near the clock glowed orange, and a man’s voice resonated from it, “Champion of Gloria?”

Victor stopped moving. “Yes?”

“Apologies, but the Grand Judicator has requested a late start. Please remain ready; the duel will begin in half an hour.”

Victor sighed heavily and turned back to his bench. “Okay.”

“Thank you. Do you require anything?”

He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “No.” The crystal stopped glowing as he sat, and he was once again alone. He scanned the room, ensuring no other crystals were mounted on the walls, and then he summoned Arona’s phylactery bone from his storage ring. As soon as it was in his hand, her ghostly, ethereal form began to coalesce in the air, raising goosebumps on his arms as the temperature near him plummeted.

“Victor! We’re no longer on Sojourn!”

“Yep!” He smiled and shifted his spear so it leaned on his shoulder. “We’re on Ruhn. I haven’t got any news for you, but I have a few minutes to kill and thought maybe you could stand a little company.”

“I’m happy to be out of that bone for a while!” She turned in a small circle, observing the room, her gaze lingering on the portcullis. “I’d ask if you were imprisoned, but you’re armed.”

“It’s a ready room. My first duel is coming up.”

He might have thought she paled at the words if her face wasn’t already ghostly and near-translucent. Her eyes widened, though, and she drifted closer. “Are you worried?”

“Honestly? Maybe a little. If I’m going to pull off Dar’s strategy, I have to hold back most of my abilities, and this pendejo seems pretty tough.”

“Strategy?”

“I have to come off as kind of a dipshit for a while, I guess.” Victor shrugged. “It’ll make it easier for the queen to get people to agree to duels and then to get the terms she wants out of them. Dar wants her to have ‘momentum’ before people realize I’ve been sleeping on my skills.”

Arona frowned. “What do you mean ‘sleeping on’—” Her lips curled into a smile as understanding lit up her eyes. “You mean downplaying.”

“Right. And this pinché asshole seems like he’s going to be a real bastard. Rumor has it that his main affinity is momentum. I was told that he gets stronger the longer he fights, so it seems like my strategy of bleeding him out, bit by bit, might be problematic.”

“Well, you know I’m not a martial expert, but I’ve seen many physical contests. Might I suggest something?”

“It’s why I summoned you, chica. I’ve got ideas, but, at this point, I’m kind of just planning to go with the flow and see how things shake out.”

Arona nodded. “Well, if you’ve already been playing the fool, why not lean into it? Struggle. Barely escape his deadly blows but let some others through. Fumble your attacks; fail to show any rhythm or grace. Let him build his confidence and goad him into trying to humiliate you. When he thinks he’s won, when he’s so cocksure that he lets his guard down, destroy him.”

Obert’s sword flickered with pale, white flames as he held it in the air, and the blade gleamed like liquid silver as it shifted in the light of the sun. It was a beautiful weapon. However, Victor had tested his spear against the edges of many powerful weapons, and he felt confident it would hold up against Obert’s. If Dovalion Boarheart couldn’t chip the dense wood, surely Obert couldn’t cleave through it.

Obert played up the crowd, raising his sword high and turning to glare into the stands. If Victor had thought they were loud before, he learned his mistake. The ground shook, and the sand danced like it was layered atop a snare drum.

Victor wanted to summon his banner and go berserk. He wanted to summon Lifedrinker and wave her massive axe head through the air with great whooshing cleaves. He didn’t, though; it was still time to ‘play the fool,’ as Arona had said. He waved up at Queen Kynna, Chamberlain Thorn, a little boy he’d yet to meet, two other nobles he recognized but didn’t know the names of, and the guards arrayed around them. He thought he recognized Bryn among them; she had a certain judgmental posture that was hard to mistake despite the visored helmet.

“Citizens!” a voice boomed out, and Victor looked up to see a disc of perfectly clear glass or crystal floating in the air above. A man rode the disc like a surfer on a board as it swooped around the arena. He was tall, with flowing silvery hair and a robe that shimmered like spun silver as it fluttered in the breeze behind him. “I am Grand Judicator Lohanse, and I am here to ensure all rules of law are abided by, that the agreed-upon terms are upheld, and that no outside interference mars the sanctity of this most venerated ritual of succession. Do any dare challenge my authority in this place?”

A hush fell over the arena, and Victor lowered his arm as he recognized the man for what he was—a veil walker. He’d assumed the “Grand Judicator” would be a representative from the empire, but he’d apparently underestimated the level of participation the veil walkers of Ruhn took in the political affairs of the empire. He supposed it made sense; there were a lot of rules and ceremonies these people abided by, more so than seemed likely for people of great power. The only thing he’d ever known to control men and women like the kings and queens of the Ruhnic Empire was fear. He chuckled softly to himself. “Always a bigger fish.”

“I have read the terms of this duel of succession. Queen Kynna of Gloria, do you agree to abide by them?”

“I do!” Victor was surprised by how Kynna’s voice rang out. Was the veil walker amplifying it? Was she? He shrugged. For all he knew, it was just a function of the box seats.

“King Vennar of Frostmarch, do you agree?”

“I do!” the dark, stony man boomed.

“Champions! You will not be permitted to access storage devices or use potions, tinctures, salves, or other consumable aids during this duel. Are you each equipped to your satisfaction?” He swooped down close to Obert. “Champion of Frostmarch?”

“I am ready!” Obert howled, hefting his massive sword.

The Judicator circled him once, examining him closely with his bright, pale eyes, and then he swooped over to Victor. “Champion of Gloria?”

“Um, one moment, sir.” Victor held up a finger and shrugged sheepishly as he looked up at Queen Kynna’s box. “Bryn!”

One of the soldiers jerked her head down toward him, and despite the distance and the narrow gap in her helmet, Victor imagined he could see the mortification in her gaze. She turned to Queen Kynna. When the queen nodded, shielding her eyes, perhaps embarrassed, Bryn leaned over the railing and called down, “Yes?”

“Can I borrow your, um, bracer? The left one.” Again, Bryn looked to the queen, and again, Kynna nodded; this time, she shrank down in her seat as the crowd began to murmur.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the Judicator boomed, swooping toward Victor. He was a very tall, very imposing man. His skin glowed with inner light, and his hair flowed in a mystical breeze that only it could feel. Victor felt himself being weighed and dismissed behind that severe gaze.

Victor set his spear down, leaning it against his shoulder, and slapped his wrist with his open palm. “I saw that guy’s sword and figured I should have something to block with.”

The Judicator looked from Victor to Bryn and then back again, narrowing his eyes. In a voice pitched so that Victor was fairly certain only he could hear, the man growled, “Don’t make a mockery of this ritual, titan.”

Victor replied in a normal voice, figuring the veil walker would mask it if he didn’t want others to hear. “The only person I’ll be mocking is myself, sir.” He glanced at Obert and added, “And I guess that cocky pendejo.”

“I recognize your game. It’s within the bounds.” He nodded solemnly, then drifted up to the box seats where Bryn still stood, staring uncertainly, gripping her silver bracer. The Judicator took it from her and then tossed it to Victor.

Victor grinned and held it up. “Thank you, Bryn!” While the crowd began to murmur, laugh, and even applaud, he snapped the bracer around his wrist. It wouldn’t resize, thanks to likely being bonded to Bryn, but he shoved it on, bending the metal so it clung to his forearm like an oversized bracelet, not the heavy length of armor it was intended to be. He nodded to the Judicator. “Ready, sir!”

Victor gripped his spear, stepped to the middle of the arena, facing Obert, and readied himself. He lowered his center of gravity, renewed Sovereign Will to boost his agility and vitality, and then cast Inspiration of the Quinametzin. It was a potent spell, but not a flashy one. Only Obert would experience its effects and only second-hand as it boosted Victor. Even if he survived, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. The world became a little brighter, Victor felt lighter on his feet, and Obert didn’t seem so intimidating—he was just a man—a man with a deadly sword, an unknown number of magical abilities, and a hunger for Victor’s blood, but still, just a man.

The Judicator swooped high into the sky, and his voice reverberated through the enormous arena: “Fight!”