Dawn broke over Ironhold's tournament grounds.
Decorated canvas tents stood in neat rows beyond the lists, each marked with sigils and colours denoting the city's registrants. Ventren remained within his own, the flap drawn shut, the sounds of the crowd muted to a distant hum.
A young squire knelt before him.
The boy worked quickly but carefully, clearly trained for this task. Chainmail was lifted and settled over Ventren's body, the links whispering as they slid into place. The hauberk hid everything it needed to—pale blue-tinged skin, unfamiliar musculature and the subtle lines that would betray Merrow blood to a trained eye. Over it went the padded gambeson, then the cuirass fitted snugly and strapped tight.
Ventren stood still throughout, arms raised and posture relaxed.
Poleyns were buckled at his knees, sabatons enclosed his feet. The squire checked each strap twice, tugging then nodding in approval. Finally, he lifted the bascinet.
"Helm," the boy said.
Ventren lowered his head as the bascinet slid down over his concealed features. The squire adjusted it, ensuring the padding sat right, then reached up and carefully lowered the klappvisor, locking it into place with a practiced click.
His vision narrowed and breath echoed softly within the helm.
Good.
The squire stepped back, satisfied with himself. "You're set, sir. May Myriam guide you."
Ventren inclined his head once in thanks. He reached for the tournament axe provided—shorter than his own, lighter but well-balanced. He tested its weight, rolled his shoulders.
Hm, I wonder if the same Matthew made these axes and armors…
He stepped out into the morning light.
The arena was a wide sanded circle bordered by wooden barriers. Burghers and peasants filled the stands and their voices were swelling as the first bout of the day was announced.
"Ventren of Marport," the herald called. "Versus Matthew the Blacksmith of Ironhold!"
Matthew entered from the opposite side.
Ventren's waffenrock was plain and unadorned, a field of white without sigil or colour while Matthew's bore a sandy hue marked proudly with a hammer and anvil.
He was broad and thick through the arms, with the build of a man used to hammer and anvil rather than battlefield marches. His armour fit well enough though it bore the marks of local manufacture. He carried a mace and heater shield, face hidden behind his own klappvisor.
The two men faced each other. Ventren felt nothing but calm though he knows to never underestimate his opponents.
The signal horn sounded.
Matthew advanced first, shield up and mace cocked back. He moved cautiously, aware of the size difference. Ventren matched him step for step, axe held low while testing the distance.
Matthew struck first—a probing swing aimed at Ventren's shoulder.
Ventren caught it on the haft of his axe, redirecting the blow and stepping inside the arc. He did not counter yet. Matthew retreated to reasses.
They circled.
Matthew feinted left, then lunged forward, shield-first trying to bowl Ventren off balance. Ventren absorbed the impact as his boots dug into the sand, then twisted sharply and hooked the edge of his axe around Matthew's shield rim.
He yanked.
Matthew stumbled, barely keeping his footing. Ventren followed with a quick chop aimed at the helm. Matthew raised his shield just in time, the axe biting deep into wood.
The crowd roared.
Matthew retaliated with a heavy mace forward strike, catching Ventren square in the chest. The impact rang like a bell. Ventren slid back a step as armour creaked but he did not falter.
He answered with a controlled swing to Matthew's knee. The blow glanced off the poleyn but forced Matthew to retreat again, breathing heavier now. Ventren pressed this opportunity. He advanced steadily cutting off angles, forcing Matthew towards the barrier. Each swing was measured—no wasted strength nor wild aggression. Matthew blocked, parried and struck back when he could but his movements grew slower and his footwork less precise.
A misstep which allowed Ventren to seize and exploit the advantage.
He struck low then high in quick succession, forcing Matthew's shield up before smashing the haft of his axe into Matthew's helm. The blow stunned him and crushed the visor. Matthew's face was bloody. Ventren followed-up with a shoulder check that sent Matthew crashing into the barrier.
Matthew slumped, barely upright. Ventren stepped back and waited. Matthew spat blood and pushed himself up, pride refusing to let him yield. He charged, mace raised overhead in a desperate committed swing.
Ventren sidestepped and brought the axe down hard on Matthew's forearm. The mace fell from numb fingers. Matthew dropped to one knee, gasping.
The referee moved in immediately with his staff raised. "Yield?" he demanded.
Matthew hesitated—then nodded.
The horn sounded again.
The duel was over.
"You really fought well, Blacksmith. Did you make the tournament weapons?"
"Aye," Matthew said with a tired chuckle. "Guess my place is at the forge anyway. Thought I'd give this a try… turns out I was wrong."
"Your skill at the anvil is great," Ventren replied. "Don't mock yourself because you lack the combat. Besides—I was a mercenary before."
Matthew nodded, the sting eased if only a little.
Ventren lowered his axe and stepped away as the referee helped Matthew to his feet. The crowd applauded—it was a spectacle.
Ventren left the arena back to his tent.
Inside his tent the squire was already proudly waiting. He helped Ventren remove the helm, lifting the bascinet away carefully, unfastening the klappvisor. Cool air washed over Ventren's face. His features remained hidden in shadow as the chainmail stayed firmly in place.
"Well fought," the squire said, genuine awe in his voice. "Keeping the rest of the armor until the tournament is over. It'll probably be a while before then."
Ventren said nothing.
As the noise of the arena faded, Ventren rested his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. This was only the beginning.