Fighting isn’t an art. That’s what these fancy gladiators from Saarkand don’t understand. They come over to our shores thinking they will be the next big thing in the arenas of Salazar ‘cus they made a name for themselves already in a two-bit fighting ring entertaining nobles in the city states of Finderan or Nikea.

  It’s not the same lads, I’m telling you. They look good with their fancy armour and their little tridents and nets, but it’s a fucking joke, honest! They’ve never smelt blood and shit smeared across a deck. Never fought in storm-wracked seas or boarded a vessel filled with reavers out for their blood. They’re peacocks! Pretty little birds for the rich to laugh at and coo over.

  If you’re ever worried about your opponent’s skill, just ask yourself this; would you fuck ‘em?

  If they’re pretty, then they can’t fight. Simple. You ever met a Salazan arena champion you’d fancy? Nah didn’t think so. Point made.

  Come on then lads, go out there and embarrass some pretty little birds.

  - Excerpt from a speech by Pirate Lord DreadFlame to his team of fighters before the legendary defeat of the Salazar pirates to the gladiators of Saarkand.

  *Vera*

  Nathlan fought hard, but there was little to be done in the face of overwhelming power. He used his impeccable footwork and long reach to stay in the fight for as long as possible, but the end came all the same.

  An aborted slash with the great axe from the powerful woman turned seamlessly into a strike with the haft of the weapon that broke through Nathlan’s guard. It was a nasty blow, mashing his lips and causing blood to spray to the side.

  Vera tensed, but knew it would do the boy some good to face defeat in a controlled environment. She hadn’t meant to get so protective of him, had initially been sceptical even, given her history and Nathlan’s past. But he had won her over quickly. To walk away from what he did showed a spine and diamond-hard moral framework that most she had met had lacked. Especially those from similar positions.

  He stumbled back, and though his sword still remained between himself and his opponent, the large woman was fast enough to close the distance before he could recover. A wide swing of the black-hafted axe finished the fight, but Vera knew the Holder would do their job and so wasn’t initially concerned.

  She had worked hard for years at controlling the roiling volcano of rage bubbling within her chest at every waking moment. While she slept too. It was only those long years of diligent practice that had kept the beautiful cave they inhabited from bursting into flames as she watched Nathlan’s opponent stomp his knee backwards even as the Holder intervened.

  The armrest splintered beneath her hand, but no aura leaked out into the world, and nobody was looking her way to see the fire blazing hot in her eyes. They were all watching the scene below unfold, as Nathlan fell, and the Holder intervened to prevent his death.

  Everyone in the room was over their 2nd tier, and all could see plain as day that his opponent had had no intention of pulling her strike. Sadrianna called in outrage, and her parents began a rapid-fire conversation with her.

  Jorge turned to catch her eye and flipped her a bottle of something while speaking. “Go and see him, give this to the healer attending.”

  He didn’t need to say more. She stood and moved towards the tunnel at the back of the cave, stepping aside adroitly to avoid a finely dressed warrior entering. The man was broad in the shoulder and wearing ornate armour made from overlapping plates of carved bark. He smirked at her as he brushed past, and if she hadn’t been in such a hurry she would have made him rue his arrogance.

  But she was. Nathlan would be in a healer’s tent soon, and she would not have him wake alone.

  *Sadrianna*

  “I agree it was unnecessary, but sometimes young fighters struggle to control their emotions in the circle. This is why we do this – to give them a chance to learn where the consequences are not so deadly.”

  Sadrianna scoffed at her father’s words. “It was a cheap shot, and you know it. That’s Hastor’s daughter, right? Apples and trees” she replied, turning to see the newcomer enter the room.

  “Speak of the devil” muttered her mother quietly, as Hastor himself swaggered into the room, looking immensely pleased with himself.

  In a louder voice that carried across the cave, she stood and spoke to the armoured man. “Welcome Hastor. Congratulations on your daughter’s recent victory. To what do we owe the honour?”

  Sadrianna knew her mother wasn’t necessarily one for politicking, but as a member of the Sworn Triarchy, she had a responsibility to the tribes as a whole. As such, she had learned a sliver of the craft of pretending not to hate those she wanted to kill. It seemed to take considerable effort for her mother to apply that craft at that moment.

  A tightness in the eyes, the smile a fraction too broad, with just a few too many teeth to be entirely friendly. Nonetheless, Hastor seemed not to notice, grinning with bravado and approaching for a firm handshake.

  There was idle chatter for a few moments, with both her parents talking kindly to the snake of a man who still retained enough personal power to warrant politeness, despite his reputation following his wife’s untimely death. Rumours. Detailed, and likely true rumours, but unsubstantiated rumours, nonetheless.

  It was hard to listen to, and she turned her attention instead to Jorge. The older man sat quietly, dismissed by Hastor as soon as he was introduced, and seemed content to avoid the attention. Her parents likely understood the reasoning and helped along with diverting questions whenever the big man looked over at Jorge.

  She saw no tension in the older man’s posture. Indeed, he seemed serene as a still lake, no emotion marring the surface of his lined face. She wondered if seeing one of his disciples beaten to bloody unconsciousness truly stirred no anger, or whether he just hid it well.

  The next two fights were a rote affair. Strong, if uncreative, warriors matched against similar opponents, leading to boring fights. And then Sandent Varselli took the stage opposite Jacyntha of clan Grey-Rock, and things became interesting once more.

  Even Sadrianna had to admit to being impressed when the young woman summoned ice from the flowing water all around her before sending a hundred flying shards at her opponent. Jacyntha seemed to just bull her way through, numerous cuts opening along her arms, legs and face, though her heavy chainmail shirt protected her torso from the storm of projectiles. Sadrianna did suspect a defensive skill in use though, as there was a slight sheen of grey sheathing her limbs as she burst forth through the hailstorm – a legacy of clan Grey-Rock if she had to guess.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Perhaps that was the correct approach though, because it allowed her to close in enough to force the young mage to cut off her weave of elementalism and defend herself physically. A rope dart flickered out, fast as a viper and accurate as one too, given the way Jacyntha winced even as she ducked aside.

  Another line of blood added to the others on the dais, and the young woman backed off. So the fight continued for many breaths; Sandent would begin some great working of magic and Jacyntha would push through it with speed and toughness alone, taking minor wounds all the while, before attempting vainly to hurt the slight girl.

  It seemed a strategy that would favour the mage, given that she was sustaining no injuries while the bigger woman was being bled steadily, but spirit-drain was a significant concern for someone who relied on big, powerful skills. Sandent was a genius by all accounts though – by no means the most obviously powerful or combat focused of her generation, but an unsurpassed talent in the weaving together of magic, and so she was unlikely to experience an exhaustion of life-essence from using a few skills in a short battle.

  High-level skills and excellent essence control would result in very efficient skill use, and Jacyntha was paying a cost for each approach, be it in blood or essence herself, as she kept flaring her defensive skill to weather the proverbial storm.

  Hastor paced in the background, muttering to himself as the fight progressed, his mood growing darker as it became more and more clear that Sandent was winning the fight.

  Something changed after the waif of a girl landed an unexpectedly heavy blow with the braided-rope she wielded in her off-hand. It whipped out, somehow extending in her hand to whirl through the cascading water outside the arena. When it emerged from its arc, it was sheathed in frozen water, shaped like a maul made of solid ice.

  The magical weapon smashed into Jacyntha, who had barely managed to interpose the haft of her great-axe between herself and the incoming weapon, and she was sent flying across the dais, shards of ice scattering in every direction.

  Sadrianna had thought that would be the end of it, and Hastor had cursed loudly then, but his daughter rose swiftly from her crumpled heap. Her shoulder appeared dislocated, and Sadrianna winced as she imagined the crack! as the woman slammed it back into place with her other arm. A ghostly green light began to waft from the scars that marred her limbs and neck, and she seemed to swell on that dais, somehow taking up more space than before despite her stature remaining unchanged.

  Sandent was clearly aware of the change, whether or not she understood the source, because she frantically began to weave more ice from the cascading water that surrounded them. Jacyntha crossed the space in moments, axe leading the way and determined to carve a piece from the younger girl.

  Sadrianna was shocked by the scale of the transformation. It was like watching two different fighters; Jacyntha had previously been a relatively powerful, if uncreative fighter, who possessed middling skill with a weapon and a sharp tactical mind. Now she was a very powerful fighter, with little in the way of strategy or tactics, and no skills to speak of. She no longer even bothered with the defensive skill as she rushed in, and Sadrianna was shocked to see blood splashing in strings from her arms and face as she dashed through a storm of icicles with little thought.

  Her sweeping cuts with the axe missed Sandent by only inches each time, and it was surprising to see the genius pushed so hard that she had to rely on physical skill rather than magical might to evade her opponent. How had Jacyntha managed to pressure her so quickly? She was moving faster than should be possible, as if a sudden boost to her attributes far beyond any enhancement skill Sadrianna had heard of in the 1st tier.

  “That’s it, girl! Show them the might of Grey-Rock!” Hastor was practically screaming, pacing interrupted to watch with rapt attention as his daughter herded Sandent into a corner of the circular dais, difficult as that feat was.

  It was a tactic that had served the large woman well in her previous fights, but unfortunately for her, the edge of the dais brought her opponent closer to the frothing water that smashed relentlessly into the rock all around the arena. Sandent Varselli was not an enemy you wanted near into a large body of water.

  The young girl’s mouth moved from its firm line for the first time in the fight as she spoke. Sadrianna couldn’t begin to guess at what she said, but it was likely a chant of sorts to help shape her magic into a particularly complex form. Moments later, Jacyntha’s legs froze, captured by a thick shroud of impenetrable ice from the waist down.

  She tried to wrench herself free with her no doubt impressive strength, but had no luck. She brought her great-axe in an attempt to crack the encompassing wall of frozen water around her legs, but Sandent’s rope dart was already winding around her neck, the bladed tip licking out and then back in to rest against her throat.

  A single yank by the young girl would spell the end of Jacyntha, with or without a defensive shroud such as the Grey-Rock inheritance that she’d demonstrated earlier. The Holder leapt in quickly, dispelling the ice with a casual flick of her wrist. Sandent retracted the rope-dart with a flurry, and Finanda grabbed the bigger woman by the arm as she seemed set to charge after Sandent even now.

  It was a startling display, a key reminder that while the young peodigy may be known as a mage, she hadn’t neglected her weapon’s training and shouldn’t be thought of as a 1-dimensional problem to solve. Jacyntha had forgotten that at the end, and had paid the price for it.

  Still though, it was a good showing for the Grey-Rock barbarian, no matter how Hastor muttered venomously under his breath at the loss. Sandent Varselli would proceed, and Jacyntha would fight for the position of 2nd. It meant she would be meeting Lamb on the arena floor at some point, and Sadrianna wasn’t feeling confident about the lowlander’s chances.

  *Lamb*

  Something was different this time. I could feel it.

  The crowd was probably smaller, although I still couldn’t hear them over the roar of the waterfall surrounding us. Despite the lack of volume though, there was a feeling in the air when large groups of people were present, and I was starting to get a sense for it. Perhaps it was simply my sense for sources of mana nearby that I mistook for some human instinct, but either way, I sensed that fewer people were present for this fight.

  Or perhaps it was because I had heard of the outcome of her last fight? My opponent had nearly killed the young prodigy, and only lost because the Holder had trusted in the Ice Flower’s skill to deflect a lethal blow. Knowing I was facing someone skilled enough to nearly defeat the girl that had mopped the floor with me not two bells prior was surely enough to give one some butterflies.

  But it wasn’t nerves that had my skin prickling. My opponent didn’t look nervous either. She was raging. I could see even from here, a dozen meters across from her, the fire burning in her eyes.

  Her brows were heavy, a frown marking her otherwise beautiful features in what seemed to be a familiar expression. Hulking shoulders - knotted with muscle and criss-crossed with ritualised scarification - heaved as she drew in shuddering breaths. Her hair was combed back so tightly that it stretched the skin of her forehead, and her knuckles were white from where they gripped the haft of her massive great axe.

  I thought of Vera, and it seemed an apt comparison. Strange then that my attributes seemed limited. Strength was down, endurance down, agility and cognition and perception mostly normal. How had this woman given Sandent such a tough fight?

  From the version of events I’d heard, it was very much a battle between skill and strength, with skill coming out on top. Yet my attributes were limited to just above what they had been when facing Sandent Varselli. It didn’t make sense to my mind.

  And perhaps that was the reason for my unease. My body was screaming in silence. Sweat wicked my palms and the short stubble on half my scalp prickled in the mist from the cascading water nearby.

  “In the interest of allowing both of you to showcase your abilities, I will be allowing minor wounds to stack uncontested. Our healers can sort out most minor injuries, but amputations will be difficult, so please pull your blows if you are expecting anything lethal or debilitating.”

  Finanda looked at both of us, but I thought her gaze lingered longer on my opponent, likely in a silent rebuke for her actions when facing Nathlan.

  “I will be watching and will be sure to intervene and make sure it is counted.” The Holder’s calm voice flowed over me but did little to repress the shiver I felt worming its way up my spine.

  “Jacyntha – are you ready?” she asked.

  My opponent didn’t take her eyes off me as she answered. More a grunt than words. Her bare feet flexed against the stone, and her axe glittered in the sun. Fuck, she’s intense.

  “Lamb – are you ready?”

  I nodded, determined not to swallow and show my unease. It was bad form to let an opponent know they had you rattled. Besides, what do I care if I lose this match? It’s all experience in the end. The thought didn’t help settle the pit in my stomach though, no matter how I tried to believe it.

  I waited a few more breaths before realising that Finanda was awaiting verbal confirmation, and I looked over.

  “Ready” I said.