Argh. I just bought this set of armour and horns…
The complaint stayed unspoken as he rode through the grey light of dawn towards Ironhold. Every so often he glanced back at the unconscious girl strapped securely to his mount, checking the bindings and making sure she had not slipped.
Before these patrol military camps existed it had been the Freeholds who guarded the trade roads—bands of sellswords keeping merchants alive where the Crown would not. Now all of them were gone and disbanded under the order of the Prince Regent.
Couldn't have bandits wiping out the locals' only protection.Those bandits had rusted, worn and cheap armour. Wasn't so hard to cleave them. Good warm up.
At the edge of the city, he dismounted and lifted the woman with care carrying her into the nearest military post. He gave a brief account of what had occurred to the garrison commander. The man listened intently, nodding then frowned when it came time to write it all down.
Ventren waited.
Both Ventren and the garrison commander was illiterate—like most of the peasantry—and had to summon a clerk. The process dragged on far longer than Ventren liked but he stayed until it was finished. Only then did he turn away.
Figured I might as well repair the horns and get rid of the blood.
He walked to a nearby armourer and set his horned greathelm and battered plates on the counter. The squire flinched slightly at the smell as he helped strip away the pieces, taking the blood-slick steel with careful hands.
"Hey, shopkeeper," Ventren asked, voice low, "where's this tournament being held?"
"Registration's just beyond the street to the left."
"Good. Get my armour a full shine."
He dropped a handful of the old coins onto the counter. They were worth far more than they appeared.
The shopkeeper's eyes widened. "You're very lucky. The Prince's reforms made our currency far more valuable than it used to be. How did you even come by coins this old?"
"…."
Ventren did not answer which disappointed the shopkeeper.
He had no desire to step outside with his face uncovered so he seated himself on a narrow bench meant for customers and waited. Two hours passed. When his armour was returned—cleaned, repaired, horns fixed he donned it and made his way towards the registration booth.
"Name?" the administrator asked without looking up.
"Ventren."
A pause. "Of?"
"Of… Marport, I suppose."
The man glanced up then, eyes travelling slowly over Ventren's massive frame. He swallowed and returned to his ledger. Bald, middle-aged and human. Ventren couldn't help but feel he'd seen him somewhere before.
"You are registering for the qualifiers of the Great Tournament through Ironhold," the administrator said. "On the off chance that you manage to win—" He hesitated, reconsidered his wording after another look at Ventren. "—you will advance to the capital, to Halzyon's arena. Armour will be standardised. Each participant will wear the same set, differentiated only by waffenrock. Weapons are of your choice."
"What are the options?"
"Halberd, poleaxe, spear, mace, morningstar, flail, warhammer, axe, double-headed axe. Various swords."
"I'll take a merovingian axe."
"Paired with a shield?"
"Without."
The administrator nodded, scratching it down. "Very well. Ventren of Marport you are… registered. Tomorrow, eighth bell in the morning. Your first opponent will be our local Blacksmith, Matthew."
Ventren inclined his head. "Rules?"
"Mandatory armor set we will provide consists of gambeson, chainmail hauberk with collar, cuirass, knee guards, sabatons, bascinet with klappvisor. Intentional murder and the use of magic are prohibited except imbued magic—that is using magic to buff your weapon." The man shrugged. "That's about it."
Ventren nodded and made his way towards what had once been a Freehold Guildhall, now repurposed into an inn. At the door, he detached the horns from his greathelm, fastening them to his horse's belt and did the same with his colossal axe. Only a short sword remained at his hip as he entered.
Vesper was left at a nearby haystack, the horse seemed to have a feast of his own.
The inn was warm and orderly, furnished in dark brown wood polished to a dull sheen. Burghers filled the tables, well-fed and well-dressed. It reminded Ventren of his years with the Blind Stars—of walking into inns dressed for battle while others came placing contracts and offering rewards.
Even without the horns he still looked out of place. Full plate had that effect indoors. He seated himself alone and ordered a beer.
Strange,
He had not slept properly in days, yet his body felt untouched by it—no heaviness nor weakness. Only his mind felt strained, thoughts pressing in without rest. The witch surfaced again. Her words, her eyes and the Blind Star party's betrayal.
He drank deeply, trying to calm the nerves.
"Who was she?" he muttered inwardly. "Du…?" He wondered. "What did she say at the end?"
He scratched at his helm without thinking, metal against metal. Everything felt lighter than it should have—his axe, his steps, even the bandits earlier that night. Too easy. Easier than any fight had a right to be even for him.
"I guess they were not even wearing gambeson… Maybe that was why?"
He then looked around, slipped off part of a gauntlet and glanced at his hand.
It looked unnaturally pale.
"What is this…?"
He scanned the room. No one was looking so he quickly refastened the gauntlet.
Am I a vampire?
The thought was peculiar—and yet it lingered. He felt no hunger at the sight of blood nor pull towards flesh or warmth. Nothing that fit what he saw and fought as well as stories told.
Before he could dwell further, something slammed into his table.
A man flew past him, crashing to the floor. Ventren was on his feet in an instant, senses snapping back as he took in the room. The inn had erupted into a brawl—tables overturned, fists flying and tankards shattering against wood.
He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed it begin.
These idiots are probably beefing about the qualifiers. That's my cue to get out before I accidentally kill someone.
Ventren edged towards the wall, careful not to draw attention. A drunk staggered into him, bounced off his cuirass then looked up.
"The fuck's yer problem?" the man slurred.
His gaze travelled upward.
"Oh—uh. I didn't mean it," the drunk muttered, already backing away. "Sorry."
No sane man would pick a fight with someone in full plate—least of all one built like Ventren.
He left the chaos behind and climbed the stairs to his room. There, he lay down still fully armoured staring at the ceiling.
Sleep came easily.
Though he wasn't physically exhausted, he still needed a break after all that had happened.