Chapter 8- the tournament begins

I awaken blazing with heat, Devar is sleeping with one arm slung over and me and his nose tucked against the nape of my neck.

I huff for air, feeling suffocated my the warmth; so I squirm free and dress, combing out the tangle of curls that falls into my eyes like bangs. I shift my features carefully, my practiced hands once more adding a touch of masculinity to my features. Before I leave I lean down, brushing the hair from Devar's eyes and kissing him on the forehead. I can't bring myself to wake him and so I slip carefully from the room, making it downstairs.

The tavern is still bustling with people, although they are less rowdy and plentiful than they were last night. The barmaid that gave us her room catches sight of me as I come down the stairs. I smile at her and she looks back at me as if disoriented, before shaking herself.

"Good morning!" She says cheerily, dark circles showing under her eyes. "Is there anything I can get for you." I lean close and whisper in her ear.

"You've done plenty my dear, there is no need for me to hog your attention, I will grab a hot cider at the bar later. My companion is still sleeping like a rock, but I suspect you will have your quarters back promptly and Thank you." I tell her sincerely. She bites her lower lip and looks as if she is about to say something. "I hope to see you in the tourney stands, if you find the time." She beams at that.

I grab a hot cider and a quick bite to eat before making my way to the tournament grounds. My match could be at any point this morning and likely if I don't make it past the first placements I will lose any hope of entry into the dukes inner keep.

A man directs tournament contests to the side to prepare and as I move to walk past him he looks down at me in confusion. I pull back the edge of my cloak, revealing the blade concealed beneath it and he nods his head in approval, ushering me past. Scribes sit in raised chairs, ready to record and assess the fights. A crier announcing that the preliminary matches are about to begin. It is a duel of first blood and although fatal injuries are allowed, they are highly discouraged. The first match starts at 9 o'clock sharp, with only a few sitting in the stands.

It is painful to watch, two men who have clearly never swung a sword before, swing haphazardly at each other until one accidentally opens a long gash on the other-ones thigh. The man shrieks, throwing his hands up in surrender and gripping the injury as he howls. Medics quickly gather him onto a stretcher and call for the next match. Some of the men in the stands have started shaking, thoughts of glory eclipsed by the realization that this may not end kindly.

The next pair that steps onto the sand makes everyone cringe, a monster of a man walks out, trailed by a small blond boy nearly half his size. I do a double take when I see his mangled ear, recognizing Devin as he squares up against the hulk of a man wielding a mace. He has steel in his eyes and the moment the match is called the large man swings his mace down at him with all his might. Devin steps out of the way at the last second and the weapon meets the sand with a heavy whumpf. The next second he has his foot on the body of the mace and he is launching himself up the weapons length.

He strikes like a viper, slicing the man's shoulder with a short dagger and pushing himself off his chest. He lands in the sand like a cat, bloody knife in hand and a spray of blood scattered across his face like paint. The big man continues to stand and those who have filtered into the stands fall into a shocked silence. He takes two steps forwards, before looking over at his shoulder and swaying in place at the sight of the wound. He falls like a mountain, the impact shaking the arena. It takes 3 times as many men to drag his unconscious form away. The next matches last the better part of an hour and by the time my name is called the arena is a bustling mass of people, all cheering and drinking.

The moment I step onto the sand I know that I'm in deep water, the man who steps into the arena with me carries himself like a soldier. He wears simple armor, but his lean muscles show hours of work and muscle memory. He squares up across from me adjusting his footing and readying himself. I stand casually, my guard down and my thin blade undrawn. I hold in the balance the appearance of someone who is unready. I've left my cloak in the stands, along with my lute, one of the scribes watching my items as I fight.

He looks me up and down, scoffing. No doubt he assumes from my features and flagrant bards attire that I am a weakling.

The match is called and he lunges forwards, his blade aimed at my chest. I side step, pulling my own blade free and lifting it as he draws the sword back and prepares to swing at me again. I shift on the balls of my feet, slipping into a stance just as he shoots forwards. I can see his eyes widen at the sudden shift in my movement and as I catch the blade with mine and twist, he just barely manages to keep hold of the hilt. We break away from each-other, circling. It is the longest any of the matches have lasted so far and I can sense the crowds anticipation. They perch on the edge of their seats like vultures, making bets in anticipation of blood.

I let him come for me again and this time I meet his blade directly, I slide forwards along it until our guards meet. I can see the moment he realized what I plan to do, he tries to shove me back but my feet are planted. I reach for my dagger just as he twists, bringing it up and scoring a thin line up his thigh. It's barely a scratch, but it's enough.

"It's a draw!" Calls the announcer, and only then do I notice the line of blood bubbling from the shallow cut that he must have scored on my forearm. The crowd goes wild caterwauling and shouting as fights break out in the stands over lost bets.

I clasp the man's arm and he studies me cautiously with amber eyes flaring. He frowns, his homely face crinkling for a moment before he speaks up.

"I take it you're opponents often underestimate you." He states with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't get used to that if I were you, it only works once." I shoot him a bright smile.

"Of course, just make sure you also correct your own error. You would have had this fight in hand if you'd seen me as anything more than an ant." I tell him seriously, earning a wry smile as we walk off the sand.

"It's a deal." He tells me, bowing his head in appreciation.