The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 3.1: A Lesson on the Fairground

The group fell silent as they digested this news.

Reluctantly, Cal confessed, “I am not taking the field.

For a long moment, Hal did not reply. Finally, he shrugged. “’Tis no matter. We will try our strength when you are ready.”

Cal clamped his mouth shut as he struggled to quell his anger at Hal's baited words. Wilfrid broke the tension by pouring another round. The group went back to drinking as they waited for another contest. After about twenty minutes, they had become fast friends.

Growing impatient at the delay between matches, Rollo screamed in the general direction of the crowd, “C’mon, fight like men!” The young nobleman followed his slurred words with an insane laugh that confirmed his drunken condition.

Cal seconded the accusation by boisterously chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Wilfrid screamed a wild, “Yeah!” Rollo roared with incoherent approval. Earwin sat quietly and drank his wine. His face turned red.

The men surrounding the group of young nobles treated them with long, angry stares. They said nothing. Glowing with the support of his peers, Cal added another derisive comment, “I’ve seen maidens with more courage.”

Rollo and Wil laughed.

Haldric, however, stalked Cal with cold eyes. In a challenging tone, he demanded, “Why don’t you fight him?”

The laughter stopped. Wil edged away from Cal and moved towards his brother. Calidon and Haldric closed toward one another, each trying to stare down the other. The heat of their anger seemed to have purged the alcohol from their veins.

What does he think he’s doing? I have at least three stone on him.

Hal seemed undeterred by Cal's size. “In Stannis, we choose to build our courage—not our bodies. Perhaps if you had not wasted your time laboring like a peasant, you might have been Knighted by now.”

Earwin shoved his thin frame between the two older squires. “Quit it, you guys! Let’s drink some more wine and...”

Hal refused to stop. “Are you afraid of a peasant?”

Cal straightened into a proud carriage. His voice rang strong and regal as he cited a passage from The Art of Knighthood, “It is not seemly for a Knight to Sport with those who are not Born to bear Arms.”

Hal snorted in disgust. “Listen to the Hero. If you’re such a noble warrior, why aren’t you fighting in the Tournament?”

The proud Heir of Stannis continued to stare at Cal before he spat two utterly contemptuous words. “I am.”

Curse Aldon—and curse my father!

Hal’s voice shifted to a squeaky, mock-feminine screech, “Fighting is beneath me! Fighting is beneath me because I always get beat!”

The crowd laughed, glad to express their scorn now that one of the nobility had taken their side. Hal stuck his face right in front of Cal. His breath stank of wine when he demanded, “What’s wrong? Do you need your vassals to fight another war for you? Or are you man enough to handle it yourself?”

Earwin grabbed Haldric by the arm and spoke in a sensible tone, “Hal, our fathers have made peace. There’s no need to...”

Haldric shoved Earwin away.

Cal’s eyes narrowed. He replied in a low, dangerous voice, “All right, I’ll fight him.”

Cal pushed through the gathered peasants and made his way to the ring at the center of the crowd. The poor Champion of Eldrich looked back and forth between the two angry young noblemen. Despite being bigger and older than Cal, he seemed afraid.

“M’lord, I mean no disrespect, but I cannot...”

Haldric quickly recognized the problem. He shouted, “I bet thirty silvers on the Champion of Eldrich!”

The peasants were stunned. Most of them could not earn thirty silver pieces for an entire season’s crop. After a brief silence, a gaggle of frenzied voices shouted out bets.

The wrestler looked sick. The man did not relish fighting a Baron’s son; the Baron might get upset. Nevertheless, now that the Heir of Stannis had bet thirty pieces of silver on him, the wrestler could not throw the match.

Hal read the uncertain expression on the wrestler's face. “I will pay you twenty silvers...if you prove victorious.”

The wrestler gasped. A happy gleam flashed in the man’s eyes; Cal guessed he had visions of what he might buy with twenty silver pieces.

The wrestler’s face abruptly dimmed.

He’s afraid of what I might do to him, if he wins.

Cal had mercy on the poor farmer. “You must uphold the honor of your village, just as I must uphold the honor of my Barony. I shall hold no grudge against you, no matter the outcome of our match.”

A surprised ripple ran through the crowd at this speech.

Cal only carried twenty silver pieces in his purse. He borrowed ten from Earwin to cover his wager. Rollo held the bets, since he had nothing at stake.

He took a few deep breaths as he studied his opponent. The Champion of Eldrich was bigger than he was, both taller and wider. The older man, however, had a body rounded with fat; loose flesh jiggled on his biceps as he moved his arms, and his belly swelled against the bottom of the tunic. On the other hand, Cal’s chiseled physique was the product harsh days spent on the practice yard.

The grappling techniques I know were designed for men wearing armor. Still, I can’t image a peasant can overcome my training.

The two big men circled. The young nobleman’s fine linen contrasted oddly with the wrestler’s rough brown tunic. Unaware of his body’s poor condition, the wrestler moved around the ring with easy fluidity. Suddenly, the peasant charged. Cal met him head on. As the two big men butted their massive chests against each other, Cal began to slide backwards.

The wrestler’s right hand grabbed the back of Cal’s neck and rammed his head down. The teenage knight-in-training bent half-over under the intense pressure.

Frantic to escape the wrestler’s dominant grip, he whipped his head to the side and leaned forward to slam his left forearm into the wrestler’s inner right thigh.

Had he been wearing armor, the top of Cal’s vambrace would have featured a sharp steel spike. The young squire’s blow would have struck a vulnerable point. Lacking this equipment, his forearm strike accomplished little. The brawny peasant leaned on the young noble’s bent back with his heavy chest. Cal slammed face-first into the ground while the wrestler flopped on top of him.

The man hooked his forearm under his powerful opponent’s sprawled right arm and turned him on his back. Before he could gather his wits, the wrestler had him pinned.

The crowd gleefully shouted, “One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

The peasants burst out in applause. Cal staggered to his feet after the wrestler’s massive body rolled off his chest. Thick dust smeared Cal’s formerly colorful suit, making it appear as plain as homespun.

Quietly, he congratulated the man on his win. The cheering peasants, however, drowned out Cal’s voice. The Champion of Eldrich responded by patting the younger man’s back with a lordly gesture, before raising his arms in triumph as he soaked in the crowd’s admiration.

Haldric snatched the purse from Rollo’s hand and held it high in the air, making sure that Cal would see it. He called out so all could hear, “And you called yourself a Knight!”

The peasants shared derisive laughter.

Leaving his “friends” on the fairground, Cal stalked off alone toward Dannik-town.

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