“That one. How does he rate?”
“One of the best,” the Elf informs her. “The under-fifteens champion of Corinthal.”
Makri takes the wooden sword from her bag, strides up to the Corinthalian youth and without warning makes a cut at him. The Corinthalian, taken by surprise, still manages to parry the blow. Makri backs away, leaving the young Elf looking puzzled.
“Bet your cloak on Isuas,” says Makri.
“What?”
“If he’s one of the favourites, then bet everything we have on Isuas.”
I can’t see how Makri can possibly have made such a judgement after only one stroke, but I trust her when it comes to fighting. I retrace my steps to the bookmaker’s, stopping on the way to tell Osath the cook that, in the opinion of her esteemed trainer, Isuas stands not only an excellent chance of winning her first bout but will do well in the rest of the tournament. The cook and his companions are sceptical.
“Well, that’s what Makri says, and when it comes to single combat she’s an excellent judge.”
By this time the entrants for the tournament have been announced. I’m too far away from the field to see Lord Kalith’s face when he learns for the first time that his youngest daughter has made a late entry into the lists, but I can imagine his surprise. I can foresee some heated domestic arguments in the near future between him and Lady Yestar, but what is done is done, and family honour will not allow him to withdraw his daughter once the announcement has been made.
I arrive back at the clearing with a slip of paper in my pocket acknowledging that I have a large wager on Isuas at the excellent odds of five hundred to one to win the tournament outright, with another bet on her winning her first fight. Normally, for an event like this I’d have a large-scale plan of campaign worked out and I’d be betting on several of the contestants to cover myself, but I haven’t really had time to organise such a strategy, nor the opportunity to study every entrant’s form. I’ll just have to cope with any emergencies as we go along.
There are sixty-four entrants, eight of them female. It’s a straight knockout competition, so to win the tournament a fighter will have to defeat six opponents. The first bout is already under way. I watch with interest as the two young contestants engage rather tentatively with their wooden swords. The fighters are meant to hold back slightly and not deliver blows that might severely damage their opponent. An experienced Elf judges each fight. The first fighter to inflict what would be lethal damage, were a real weapon being used, is declared the winner. The spectacle takes place right in front of Lord Kalith and Lady Yestar, and I can tell from Kalith’s face that he was not pleased to learn of his daughter’s entry. Around me the crowd are still talking of little else, and the common opinion is that their ruler has lost his senses in inflicting such an ordeal on his notoriously weak daughter.
The first bout comes to an end when the fighter from Ven delivers a neat cut to the throat of the Avulan and the judge waves a small red flag indicating that the affair is over. The winner departs to generous applause. For all their fondness for poetry and trees, Elves are keen swordsmen, and appreciate any display of martial skills.
Makri and Isuas are sitting on the grass at the front. I use my body weight to force my way through till I’m close enough to lend assistance if necessary. Makri, lone bearer of Orcish blood in a huge crowd of Elves, might possibly find herself in some trouble if anything goes badly wrong. Isuas looks nervous but doesn’t have long to wait. Her opponent is a fellow Avulan, a tall lad of fourteen who advances with a grin on his face that implies that he knows he has easy passage into the next round. He has a wooden sword in one hand and a wooden dagger in the other. From the way he holds them I can tell that he’s thinking that while he had better not seriously damage the daughter of Lord Kalith, he isn’t going to have to try too hard to defeat her. The crowd crane their necks in anticipation, but as it turns out there is little to see. Isuas’s opponent makes a lazy attack and Isuas quickly and confidently parries the blow and runs her sword up his arm to his neck. The lad looks surprised, the judge holds up his red flag, and the fight is over. Isuas trots back to Makri an easy winner with the crowd wondering if Isuas just got lucky or whether her opponent let her win.
“Daughter of Lord Kalith or not,” says the Elf next to me, “she won’t get it so easy in the next round.”
I collect up my winnings, place another bet on Isuas for the next round, then cut through the crowd in the direction of Lady Yestar. I have some trouble reaching her and am obliged to elbow a few attendants out of the way. Yestar smiles as I arrive.
“An excellent victory. Who would have thought Makri could do so much in such a short time?”
Beside us Kalith is being congratulated by the Turanian Ambassador. He acknowledges the compliment but he sounds like an Elf Lord who’s suffered a severe shock. I lower my voice to a whisper.
“Lady Yestar, I need a favour. It concerns Elith-ir-Methet. And whoever is in charge of Lord Kalith’s wardrobe. . . .”
Lady Yestar leans forward, and listens to what I have to say.
The sixty-four entrants are whittled down to thirty-two. I see quite a lot of good fighters, and several excellent ones. Each island has sent their junior champions and the combat is of a very high standard. Best by far is Firees-ar-Key, the son of Yulis-ar-Key, finest warrior on Avula. Firees is large for his age and wouldn’t look out of place on the battlefield. His first opponent is swept away in seconds and the crowd bays in appreciation. Firees is the firm favourite and is being offered at odds of just two to one, by no means a generous price in a competition of this nature.
The second round gets under way. Firees skilfully dispatches one of the favourites from Ven and another bright hope from Avula is defeated in a long struggle by a girl from Corinthal. The sun shines down on the arena and the watching Elves burst into applause each time they see a skilful manoeuvre. Makri sits quietly with Isuas, offering a few words of encouragement. Soon it’s her turn again and there is some collective intaking of breath from the crowd when it is seen that her next opponent is Vardis, a youth of striking size from Ven who carries a wooden sword that appears to have been made from the branch of a particularly large tree. He towers over Isuas and looks like an Elf who does not intend to show any mercy to his opponent, daughter of a Lord or not.
He leaps at Isuas and beats her back with a series of heavy blows. Isuas gives ground, retreating step after step till it seems like she must soon run out of room. However, as Vardis thrusts forward with a stroke that would gut an ox, Isuas calmly takes the sword on the edge of her dagger and uses Vardis’s momentum to turn him round, an advanced technique of which Makri is a master. Vardis finds himself looking in the wrong direction and Isuas wastes no time in stamping viciously on the back of his leg, which brings him down on one knee. She smashes her forearm into the back of his neck, sending him slumping to the ground, and then runs her sword over his back in a motion that, if performed with a real weapon, would let daylight into his vital organs.
There is pandemonium in the crowd. The Avulans cheer with delight and the Venians complain about the brutal manner in which Isuas has won the fight. Nothing she did was against the rules, however, and the judge declares her the winner. Lord Kalith’s mouth is hanging open in shock. Beside him Lady Yestar has a broad smile, and applauds along with the other dignitaries.
As the second round continues I consider what else needs to be done, and go in search of Gorith-ar-Del. I find him close to the bookmaker’s.
“Making a bet?” I enquire politely.
“No.”
“You should. I’ve picked up a bundle. I’m starting to enjoy life on Avula. And I’m soon going to enjoy it more. After the tournament, I’m going to unmask the killer of Gulas-ar-Thetos.”