The tournament day had arrived.
Ventren stood inside his tent as a squire helped outfit him. The usual tournament gear was provided: a klappvisor bascinet, cuirass, chainmail hauberk and aventail, along with a selection of melee weapons. Of course, Ventren chose the axe. This time, he selected one similar to his own—a colossal axe.
This tournament will pit me against other knights. I should give it my all.
The squire bowed and departed.
This time, Ventren wore a short cape bearing the colours of Ironhold. Every competitor present wore one—either honorary knights granted the title for their victory in the qualifiers or lesser noblemen with a talent for the blade. The full-fledged knights competed in the army's own tournament, held separately.
The herald's voice rang out across the grounds.
"Let us welcome the Prince Regent, Vaenir Valkraun, and his entourage to join us here today at the Great Tournament!"
The crowd erupted in excitement.
The prince possessed long black hair and a neatly kept beard. Upon his head rested a crown diadem adorned with small wyvern-like decorations. From this distance, Ventren could not make out the prince's eyes. Standing beside him was a member of the Royal Guard—the only one present in the kingdom. The infamous Sir Harketh clad in black oxide armour. Rumour held that Harketh was a dark elf who had served the crown for three generations. He was never seen without his helmet—a visored barbute with a hanging black plume.
"The Prince Regent shall witness the rise of a victor," the herald proclaimed, "the undeniable champion among burghers, mercenaries and honorary knights—one worthy of joining the new generation of the Royal Guard of Valkraun!"
Ventren emerged from his tent, axe gripped firmly in both hands.
The tournament tents were vibrant with colour, and the prince's stage was grand. Halzyon's city councillors and the kingdom's councillors with the exception of the Chancellor and Archmagus occupied elevated seating on the left and right respectively. The prince and his guard positioned at the centre, with banners scattered throughout the grounds, even among the spectators.
The seating itself rose along the wall—the highest seats occupied by the poorest peasants, no doubt due to the poor view and lower price. Wealthy merchants and visiting noblemen sat closer, encircling the combat pits. From nearly every seat, the duelists could be clearly seen.
"To my right," the herald announced, "an honorary knight, victor of the Ironhold qualifier tournaments—so renowned in fact that he has been granted a nickname by the people! A name that may shock even the prince himself!"
He paused, "Sir Ventren the Immovable!"
"Interesting," Prince Vaenir murmured, leaning forward slightly as Ventren's sheer size caught his attention.
"Harketh," he said quietly, "tell me everything about him."
Ventren turned his gaze to his opponent. The man bore the colours of Ludmerin to the east—black, with crossed arrows upon a red circle. His weapon of choice was a flanged mace.
In plate-versus-plate combat, Ventren was at a disadvantage. Axes were not meant to cleave armour and his weapon was better suited to unarmoured or lightly armoured foes—the sort he usually faced. Still, with sufficient force even plate could be bypassed through concussive trauma and internal damage.
Ventren had not come unprepared. Strapped to his arm was a wooden arm shield which allowed him to wield his axe freely while retaining additional defence.
"To my left," the herald continued, "Sir Henry of Ludmerin! Champion of the city of Ludmerin! It is said that two men who fought Henry later died from blunt force trauma!"
Sir Henry gave a mocking bow toward Ventren, his posture dripping with disdain.
"Huh. A brute."
Ventren ignored him and raised his axe high, drawing a roar from the crowd.
"The first duel of the day!" the herald cried. "Let us see how it unfolds! Begin!
Ventren circled Henry slowly. Though Henry would never admit it, Ventren's sheer size and the presence of the massive axe unsettled him. Neither man moved for nearly a minute.
Henry struck first, swinging low with his mace. Ventren parried with the haft of his axe, knocking the blow aside then smashed the butt of the weapon into Henry's helmet. He followed with a wide frontal swing which Henry barely managed to block after recovering his mace.
They traded blows several times. Then Ventren surged forward bashing Henry with the full weight of his axe and following with an upward strike that slammed into Henry's shoulder and torso. Henry advanced again and Ventren attempted a thrust—leaving himself open.
Henry capitalised instantly, striking Ventren square in the chest.
Ventren roared in pain and retaliated with a brutal wide arc. Henry raised his mace to block—
—and it shattered in half.
Henry was thrown backwards. Ventren pressed the attack with a relentless flurry. Henry blocked every strike but failed to notice the sudden kick. He stumbled, and Ventren smashed his cuirass repeatedly as Henry struggled to rise.
The referee rushed in, throwing himself between them and forcing Ventren back before the blows turned fatal.
"Victor," the referee declared breathless, "Sir Ventren—the Immovable!"
Ventren retreated to his tent, clutching his chest. The mace's impact had rattled the flesh beneath his armour and the pain lingered—deep and heavy—but he remained standing.
"That fucking guy…" Ventren muttered as he lifted his visor and spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. The blow Henry had landed had clearly rattled more than just his armour—his internal organs had taken the brunt of it. The witch appeared silently at the corner of his tent, already seated atop his resting bed.
"That's not good."
Her sudden appearance slightly startled Ventren.
"Can you do something about this?" Ventren asked, his voice strained.
"I can dull the pain," she replied, examining him, "but you'll still be bleeding internally. That's the best I can do. Healing isn't my specialty. Hey, come on—you have to win. This was only the first fight."
"Argh. My next bout is in two hours," he growled. "Do whatever you can. Stay here—I'll fetch bandages from the infirmary tents."
The infirmary tents were large but mostly empty, the tournament having only just begun. Ventren returned quickly, bandages in hand and ducked back inside his tent.
"First, we need to remove your armour," the witch said. "I need to be as close to your skin as possible."
She carefully undid the cuirass straps, then helped him out of the chainmail hauberk and gambeson. Once the layers were set aside she placed both hands against his chest.
A dull, numbing sensation spread through him as she worked—less of healing, more leaning towards suppression. The pain receded to something bearable though the damage beneath remained.
Ventren remained there for nearly an hour, breathing steadily as she focused her magic.
"I'll be going now," she said at last. "Take care, Sir Ventren~."
She vanished, as usual.
"This damned pain…" Ventren muttered, flexing his shoulders. "I'll have to fight through it."
He called for a squire who soon arrived and helped him don his armour once more, layer by heavy layer, until he stood ready again.
The roar of the crowd had not yet fully settled when Ventren was called once more to the pit. Dust clung to his greaves as he stepped out beneath the open sky, the ache in his chest a dull reminder of Sir Henry's mace though it did not slow him much. Across the arena, a new figure emerged.
Sir Otto of Wahenburg.
His colours were stark and unmistakable: white and ash-grey, sigil of a bottle of their famous wine. His weapon that drew Ventren's full attention, the flail.
The haft was short and solid, capped with iron studs, but the real danger lay at its end: a long chain terminating in a spiked steel ball. It swayed lazily as Otto walked like a tail. A murmur rippled through the stands. Using a flail isn't recommended in tournaments, they were unpredictable and hard to defend against as either the user or the opponent.
Otto raised the flail and rested it across his shoulder, studying Ventren with calm, pale eyes.
"So," he said, his voice carrying through the pit, "you're whom they call the Immovable. Did not expect a filthy peasant mercenary to be granted that title."
A non-martial focused lesser noble, then?
Ventren planted his axe head against the ground and leaned into it slightly.
"Sir Otto, a slight correction. I am Sir Ventren of Ironhold, while you're the man who brought a stupid ass weapon," he replied flatly and in an unrefined manner.
Otto smiled thinly. "Of course the peasant would use such crude and vulgar words."
The herald raised his staff.
"Sir Ventren of Ironhold versus Sir Otto of Wahenburg! Begin!"
Otto moved first.
The flail came alive with a sudden and vicious spin. The chain whistled as the spiked ball carved a wide arc through the air forcing Ventren to step back instinctively and block hits with his arm shield. Otto advanced, rotating the weapon in controlled circles, each swing probing distance and timing.
Ventren had faced axes, swords, maces—hardly ever a flail.
Unpredictable,I must watch his stance and movements instead of the ball.
The flail snapped forward without warning, the chain extending with terrifying speed. Ventren brought his axe haft up to block—
—and the ball wrapped around it.
Metal screamed against wood and steel as the chain coiled tight. Otto yanked hard, trying to wrench the axe free.
Ventren answered by stepping forward instead of resisting, using his weight to crash into Otto's space. The sudden loss of distance forced Otto to abandon the pull, jerking the flail back just in time to avoid being headbutted by Ventren's bascinet.
Ventren swung immediately, a brutal horizontal cut aimed at Otto's ribs. Otto ducked low, the axe passing inches above his helm, and countered by snapping the flail upward.
The spiked ball slammed into Ventren's shoulder.
The impact rang through his armour like a bell. Pain exploded down his arm as his vision flashed white for a heartbeat—but he did not fall.
The crowd gasped.
Ventren roared and surged forward, slamming his arm shield into Otto's chest. Otto staggered, barely keeping his footing as Ventren followed with an overhead strike.
Otto barely raised the haft of the flail in time. The axe crashed down, driving him to one knee, dust erupting around them.
Ventren pressed the advantage and brought the axe around again—but the flail lashed out sideways, the chain wrapping around Ventren's thigh. Otto twisted and pulled, trying to drag him off balance.
Is he stupid? There's no way he actually thought he could yank my leg.
Ventren grunted as the spikes bit into his armour. Instead of resisting, he stepped into the pull, yanking Otto forward with sheer force, which Otto was not ready for it.
Ventren drove his shoulder into Otto's chest, knocking the wind from him then hammered the axe butt into Otto's helmet again and again. Otto reeled, stumbling back, desperately trying to bring the flail between them.
The spiked ball slammed into Ventren's ribs.
This time, the blow drove the air from his lungs. He staggered back, coughing.
Otto did not relent and the flail spun faster now, whipping around Ventren's guard, striking his shield, his arms and his legs. Each impact was painful, rattling bone beneath steel. The crowd roared as Otto pressed forward, momentum building.
Ventren retreated, step by heavy step, boots digging furrows into the sand.
Fuck you, pitiful noble.
As the flail came around for another wide strike, Ventren made his decision.
He stepped inside the swing, the spiked ball smashed into his back, the force staggering him—but the chain went slack.
Ventren seized it. His gauntleted hand clamped around the chain just above the ball.
Otto's eyes widened. Ventren yanked hard, dragging Otto forward, then swung his axe in a savage diagonal arc. The blade struck Otto's shoulder, crushing plate and driving him to the ground. Otto screamed, the flail slipping from his grasp and Ventren did not pause.
He kicked the flail away, then brought the axe down—not with the blade, but with the flat—hammering Otto's chest again and again.
Each blow dented the cuirass deeper, forcing the breath from him in choking gasps. Otto tried to raise a hand but Ventren smashed it aside with the axe haft, then planted his boot on Otto's chest and raised the axe high.
The crowd held its breath but before the final blow could fall the referee hurled himself forward, arms outstretched.
"Enough! Enough!"
Ventren froze, axe trembling above Otto's helm.
Then Ventren lowered the weapon and stepped back. Sir Otto lay motionless, chest heaving, armour crushed and caved but alive. The referee turned, voice ringing.
"Victory goes to Sir Ventren of Ironhold!"
The arena erupted.
"THE IMMOVABLE!" the crowd chanted, the sound echoing off the walls of Halzyon.
Ventren stood alone in the pit, chest rising and falling heavily, blood seeping beneath his armour where the flail had struck. He rolled his shoulder once, testing it then turned and left the arena without a word.
High above, Prince Vaenir watched him go with fingers steepled.