Chapter Sixteen: Valour (Part Two). 

She wasted no time. The goal was not victory, but blood. All she needed to do was cut him. She feigned a thrust but swirled the spear around. It clipped the side of his helm, rattling him and sending him reeling for an instant. She took the chance to tear her spear back and thrust it properly this time. She aimed for the slits in his helm, hoping to at least catch his cheek.

The great warrior roused himself and ducked to the side of her strike, though he was too late. The spear caught a groove in the steel of his helm and sent it flying from his head. He was still in the fight, though. He managed to wrap his hand around the spear and yank it from Ash's grasp.

His blade tore through the air three, four, five times. Each strike bore his full strength, and his full wrath. Ash just kept backing away though she was quickly running out of space to retreat into. If she left the bounds of her battle space, it would mean defeat.

The beast slashed and then threw out a wild left punch towards her. She just barely managed to get her own left hand to it and parry it away, which was when she remembered her one advantage. The gauntlet.

In a split second, her eyes danced over the clawed knuckles of her black steel hand as it cruised past his punch. By instinct, more so than strategy, she twisted her hand just enough to catch his arm with the piercing end of her claw.

A drop of blood came with the torn flesh at his arm, and it marked an easy victory.

She stepped away and lowered her hands, but the beast did not. His rage had grown with each missed strike and now he saw an opening. He tore forwards, his blade pointed at her belly until a small sting broke his focus and sense caught up to him. She saw his gaze jolt from her blooded gauntlet over to his own arm. His rage dissipated in an instant, and a gracious smile comforted his defeat.

"A dirty trick, well played," he darkly chuckled.

"Fighters!" The voice immediately announced. "In this round, we have three victors! The Kovayeshi clown!" The crowd roared at the name. Clearly, his battle had been an entertaining one. "The Soft Specter!" The announcer continued, and again the crowd erupted again. A young man raised his hand in victory and shone a cocky smile to his slain opponent. "And... Huh? The- err... Sparrow-Knight! By sheer technicality."

It wasn't as much a cheer, as it was confusion. It seemed the entire arena had bet against her and was utterly baffled as to how they could have lost their money. She awkwardly nodded to her fallen foe as he walked away with his head held low.

"And... now for the next contestants!"

It was a dwargon man at Ash's feet this time. He equipped a strange crossbow and readied it with a bolt.

"Dumb luck won't save you this time, girlie," the dwargon cackled. Then the fight came, and all the bolts in the world couldn't save him from a broken nose.

"The round is... over? The Sparrow-Knight survives yet again!"

To call it tense would be inappropriate. Nobody seemed angry at her victory, but not a noise was made and neither jeer nor cheer called out. It must have been sincere shock, or maybe contemplation. One victory could be luck, or a dirty trick, but to win a second round in such an easy way had to mean something...

"And a natural victory for the Kovayeshi clown! A mighty showing for a mighty merrymaker!"

The crowd took a moment to awaken from their stupor, but the sheer power of Amell's performance managed to breathe new life into them. That life sprouted as raw mania. A torrent of spilt ale and scattered snacks. A thousand-voice chorus singing of the Clown commander, the Kovayeshi killer, the blue behemoth.

The third battle had yet to be completed. He who was named as the 'soft spectre' battled a flame-haired shield sister, though the eventual outcome was fairly obvious. The spectre was more so toying with his foe than battling her. He skimmed and pranced around her like some sort of Renbic ballerina.

He was an elegant man, as soft-stepped as his name would suggest but she doubted his fleetfooted stance was from where his moniker was drawn. Instead, it must have come from his gentle face and slender frame. Despite his height and apparent skill, he was no muscle-strapped warrior. He was barely broader than Ash, despite being nearly twice her height. He was also the first man she had ever seen without even a wisp of a beard. Where most men seemed proud of the roughness of their jaw, his skin seemed smoother and shinier than even his fingernails.

He wrapped his shortsword around his foe's shield and gently slapped her with the flat of the blade. It served no purpose but to enrage her, and he seemed to glow under her wrath. The flame-haired mistress struck her mace down with all her vast might. He simply stepped aside and let the mace shatter the stone stage on which he danced. He stole her chance to strike again by running the dulled edge of his blade across her cheek with a gentle twirl which ended in a terribly exaggerated bow.

"And another natural victory for the soft Specter! It seems some strong contenders shall vie for the crown this eve! Whom shall it be, by night's fall? The hulking beast from the east with his overwhelming power? The gentle strider and his delicate murder? Or... could it possibly be this ashen spear maiden and what can no longer possibly be dismissed as sheer dumb luck? Man and fellow folk, I contend that this competition is only just beginning! But for now, allow your bets to be made while our fighters take their well-deserved breaks!"

Amell took the cheers in stride, but he didn't bask in them. His focus remained on Ash, for some reason. He looked almost worried, though he never lost the grin in his eyes. The ageing man crossed the field of petty war and stood before her with his borrowed helm barely containing his glee.

"Good work, Spinny," he beamed.

"Spinny?"

"I've never seen anyone spin around that much in a fight," he chuckled. "It was a sight to behold."

"Is it a bad thing?" Ash grimaced.

"Not at all. It's a uniquely huntress style, meant for dodging massive beasts that are too large to block. Most wouldn't be able to translate it so well to real combat, but you move so purposefully. Though your footwork does need improvement, and you need to improve your close fight tactics," he explained with an excess of passion. This was not an old and reluctant master imparting his painful knowledge onto a naive and ultimately doomed student. This was the glee of a father who had found a shared interest with his distant child.

"Is... that why you brought me here?" Ash accused. "So you can train me?"

"I... I intended on helping you improve your skills. I thought this would be an... interesting way to-"

"Study me?" Ash interrupted.

"To see what makes you different," Amell somewhat shamefully corrected.

"I thought we were here to have fun," Ash sighed, "get away from everything like that for a while."

She didn't know why, but she was upset. It actually took some focus not to get angry. He hadn't cared to spend time with her without an ulterior motive, without the thought of their quest. She couldn't escape it. Every waking moment spent in service of the supposed apocalypse. Why was it so urgent to everyone? She could look around and see no grand darkness, no great enemy. No dark lord rose from ashes to bring damnation to the world. Yet every waking second she had spent since getting the damnable mark, had been focused entirely on the quest.

This... tourney, was the first distraction she had been allowed; the first time she had really wasted. Yet it was no waste at all. It was Amell's attempt to better focus her training. It was preparation for some future battle and conquest.

Amell couldn't have known how she felt, but he did have the wisdom to look ashamed. He took the risk of raising his helm so that their eyes could meet before saying, "You're right, Ash. I'm sorry. I know you're under a lot of pressure; I shouldn't add to it here. Don't worry about training, just do your best and have fun. I'll stop appraising you, I promise."

"I-" Ash tried to say after a while of cold quiet. "I don't... mind 'Spinny'," she finally managed to whisper, though she said it as though it were some great shame. He smiled at what he saw as an olive branch before sealing his helm shut again.

"Good, though I fear you have little choice either way," he chuckled. "Now come on, ashen spear maiden, let's get some drinks."

"Is it wise to drink before a fight... Clown commander?"

"Ha! Always! Keeps you brave and loose," he laughed.

"Excuse me, Sparrow was it?" A strangely musical voice called from behind Amell. He stepped aside to reveal the Soft Spectre and the woman who had won the earliest bout. Ash recalled her moniker as being the Silken Smile. The two held a striking resemblance, completely identical twins despite their differing genders. She and her pixie-cut auburn hair matched his own shaggy auburn mullet. Both had piercing copper eyes and bore a wide toothy smile. If it wasn't for the apparent difference in height, Ash might have thought herself as seeing double.

"Sure, or Ash," she answered.

"A pleasure," the man snickered as though some joke were told.

"We go by tourney names here, keeps things from getting personal. After all, it's all just a game; right?" the woman grinned.

"Sure," Ash simply answered.

"Quite. Now I won't bother you long, we were just hoping to have something of a word before our little bout," the sister said.

"Sure," Ash repeated.

"Hmm. Well, tis' simply that I saw how you won your first bout. Not a victory of class, but sufficient enough. It would be a shame to end our own fight so... anticlimactically. I would beg an agreement. We wouldn't want others to say victory was won through ill means."

"Sure."

"Excellent! Then shall we agree that victory is called only via a true strike of the blade?" She offered out her left hand and Ash was forced to return the gesture with her gauntlet. The auburn woman made no attempt to hide the fact that she simply wanted to get a better look at the item as they shook hands.

"Sure," Ash agreed with a sigh. She stood unmoving for a moment while her opponent gracelessly scoured over the oily black metal at her hand.

"I suppose we shall be facing too, clown," the brother smirked up at the older man. "I hope your age shall not deny us a contest."

"And I hope your age shall not deny you the wisdom to learn from defeat," Amell politely replied.

"You truly believe you can keep up? A lumbering old man like you? I've seen younger mountains and faster trees. Though, it certainly would be an impressive sight."

"A housefly has seen a pot of flour and boiling kettle. Doesn't mean it knows the heat of a volcano nor the smell of a fresh crop. Live a little longer, you'll see more impressive things than I."

The brother didn't know how to react but kept his sly smile as he and his sister drew away.

"See you soon, Toodles," the sister called as she turned her back.

"Right," Amell sighed. "By the wrath of gods, I need a drink."

"Couldn't agree more. I'll buy," Ash chuckled.

"Aren't you going to say 'sure'?" He smirked.

"I really don't know what that was about," she half cried and half laughed. "I just forgot every other word."

"Incredible. Such raw majesty and grace."

A little kiosk stood at the centre of the stadium. A sign might have read 'fighters only' but Ash couldn't possibly know. What could be seen was a bundle of fifty or more battle-ready killers all vying for a single barman's attention. A powder keg waiting for a spark, and by the vile glances, such a spark may well have been the filthy Sparrow-Knight.

Amell seemed utterly unaware of the dark looks as he gladly sauntered along towards the bar. Few stood in his way as he politely moved along. The same couldn't be said for Ash. What tide had parted for the old knight, crashed shut before her.

"I'll just get you something!" Amell called over the contemptuous crowd.

The little Champion retreated from the villainous glares and found for herself a quiet little nook at the far end of the grounds. It didn't take long for Amell to make his way over, two iron tankards in hand. He sat himself down on a stone table while she sat on the floor with her back resting against it.

"What is it?" Ash asked before taking a swig.

"Awful," he chuckled.

She snorted gently before taking a deep swig. It truly was awful, and yet she went straight in for another gulp. It was best described as a pint of shrimp whiskey by taste, but a thick milky cream by texture.

"Have you ever had a drink that wasn't?" She asked, looking up at him as he appraised his drink with astonished disappointment.

"Everything's great... when you've had enough of them."

"Aye, but what about something great at first taste?"

"Hmm," he scratched his bristles as he considered. "Yes," he finally realised. "My... wife, would make this concoction. Lavender, violet and some other herbs from the garden. The smell alone was worth waging a war for. And that taste! You could drink them like water and never realise you were getting thoroughly pissed." He paused for a while with an ever-weakening smile before he continued on, "But I was too much of a 'man' back then. Good taste is for women, men drink swill and enjoy it! It's funny how little, things like that come to matter as you age. If I wasn't so proud, I'd have burnt the recipe to memory. I'd drink it every day."

"Your wife... How did she...?" Ash quietly asked.

"I was... punished, for my 'valour'. Too busy conquering the continent to remember that the whole world lay within my home. Some felled foe from some pointless battle saw fit to set my home afire while I slaughtered his countrymen," he mournfully recalled, though he did seem to try and laugh at his failings.

"I'm... sorry, Amell. I can't imagine."

"Of course you can," he all too lightly said. "Is that not why you fight? You fear losing young Evara so you rage against the apocalypse. It's why you'll hold together the crumbling horizon; so she'll have ground to stand on."

"I guess."

"Am I wrong?"

"Not... entirely. I don't know. I fight for Ev, that I know at least. But there's something more, something worse. I think... I enjoy it."

"The thrill of conflict? The purpose of destiny?"

"Hurting people," she shamefully admitted.

"Child..."

"Not... I... There was a boy, in my village. He was a hornblower for the bandits that attacked us. I... tortured him. I smiled. I felt so... confident; so in control. He was an evil man, he hurt my friend and he was going to hurt my sister. He even threatened to rape me for gods' sake. I... cut his finger off and barely noticed. I had the smith crush his hand, one knuckle at a time. After a while, I stabbed him through the heart and left him in the mud."

"You were traumatised. Nobody can blame you for deviled actions against the devils themselves."

"And what of the Veytors? I had a direwolf drain a man. His mind, his soul, his organs. Even his bloody bones, and again I didn't care. I- I'm a huntress, I-I- I know sometimes you need to kill to survive. But those times are almost sacred, certainly filled with regret. Every time I was sloppy and got caught by a wolf, I hated that I had to kill it. Yet I see a man willing to die for his convictions – a priest so sure of my wickedness that he would throw himself on a spear rather than walk away from me – and I kill him in the worst possible way."

"They wanted to do you harm, Spinny, you had no choice."

"But how long is that excuse going to last? How long before I realise that I'm just a vindictive bitch; that I enjoy hurting people?"

Amell didn't answer. Instead, he drew the dirk from her holster and pointed the grip towards her.

"Take it," he quietly ordered. She obeyed with a resigned sigh, gripping the pommel tightly. He, in a flash, pulled her hand closer to him so that the blade slashed across his exposed palm. A spurt of hot blood gushed over her hand and stained her blade.

"Amell! I'm so sorry! Are you okay? What was that?"

"Did you enjoy that?" He asked with a sly smile.

"Of course not! Show me your hand, we need to bandage you up," she nearly shouted. She tore a strip of cloth from the skirt of her armour and wrapped it around his hand frantically. "Stupid old man," she grumbled.

"Then," he winced, "you don't enjoy causing pain. Simple as that." He wrapped his unharmed hand around both of hers and brought a stop to her panicked tending. "Look at me."

She did. His big blue eyes tore through hers and, where she had expected pain or even shame, she saw two jewels of absolute beaming pride. "You have been through more in the past few weeks than most go through in a lifetime. You went from an idyllic and a – quite frankly – sheltered life to being steeped in godly dread and bloody death. I don't think even you understand how hard it's been on you. How many times have you felt alone in this? How many times have you had to act without Evara, to protect her or to allow her some... ease? Ashtik, the forgotten Goden speaks in your head; a feat even the greatest of gods cannot claim. It is beyond a miracle that you have not been driven utterly mad."

"But if I do turn out mad? Amell, I've had dreams where I'm an empress. More than dreams. I can't do that if I'm some... monster."

"I will be at your side," he promised. "As will Evara. All the way. Trust in her as your moral guide, if you do not trust in yourself."

"So that's it? I turn into an evil queen while Ev begs me to stop or you put a knife in my heart?"

"I would never. Your fate is my own, no matter how dark. But destiny is not so simple as good and evil. You are not on a path to become some dark sovereign. You are on the path to becoming Ashtik Sai-Weleg, and only you get to decide what that means. So try; try to be kind, try to be gentle or try to be brilliant. You will fail, time and time again, but so long as you keep trying; you will never be truly evil."

"And when I enact some more 'righteous' murder? When the people claim me to be a hero for my villainy?"

"Then feel bad. Regret. Sometimes the difference between what is necessary and what is cruel is as simple as regret. Make yourself regret that your hand was forced to do such evil. That regret will drive you to improve, to ensure that you needn't make the same terrible action ever again. When some new action comes, equally as terrible, and you are forced to partake; regret it. That is all I can offer you, child, I'm sorry."

"How can I regret killing killers? Am I supposed to mourn murderers?"

"Cherish life, Ash. It can be beautiful and it can come from terrible places. A terrible killer can be a father to the most... wonderful little son. Every life has some worth, not just the kind ones."

"Fighters!" The magical voice interrupted. "Take your stands!"