Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 57: THE COMPETITION ( Chapter 26 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

After settling their bill, the mercenaries ambled down the cold street toward the game hall. Although hours had passed, a large crowd was still pushing and shoving to get in. From the direction of everyone’s attention, Soren assumed the results had been posted on the wall opposite the rules.

“We carriers get easy access, right?’ Gatrie asked.

“Let’s go check it out,” Ike suggested. “Everybody else, stay here.” He, Gatrie, and Boyd were soon swallowed by the crowd.

Soren and the others followed Titania around the side of the building. A bitter breeze was blowing tonight, but it was more comfortable here. Everyone felt full and sleepy after the meal, and conversation was sparse while they waited.

When the trio returned, they reported everyone’s standing and weight class, but they hadn’t memorized anything more specific about the breakdown or comparisons across the subcategories of fitness. Soren didn’t care anyway. As expected, he’d been placed in the lowest of the three weight classes and rated near the bottom of the standings as a whole.

“So here’s what we were thinking,” Boyd addressed the group. He was holding three papers, but he handed one to Gatrie and one to Ike. “We’d all do better tomorrow if we’re carrying someone we know. Less chance of some idiot off-balancing us or even slowing us down on purpose.”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about it?” Titania recalled.

“I changed my mind.” Boyd grinned. “It’s a competition, ain’t it?”

“What Boyd is saying is that our odds are better if we each team up with another member of the Greil Mercenaries,” Ike said, taking over the plan. “Gatrie is in class three, so it makes the most sense for him to pair up with the lightest one of us from class two. That’s you Shinon.”

“Fat chance,” he spat.

“Oh come on, bud!” Gatrie threw an arm around Shinon’s shoulders. “After all those times I carried you home when you were piss drunk? This’ll be a cinch!”

Shinon scowled.

Ike moved on before Gatrie could accept the archer’s surrender. “Boyd and I are in class two, so it makes sense for us to team up with our two class-one members: Rhys and Soren.”

After Shinon’s comments earlier, Soren had expected this. By no means was he fond of the prospect, but he did agree with Ike’s logic. “I will do what I must to secure victory for the Greil Mercenaries,” he answered stiffly.

“I suppose I would like to help,” Rhys consented. “I don’t expect to do well in my own categories tomorrow, so it may be nice to help one of you to win.”

“Yes!” Boyd roared and pretended to pick Rhys up. “To victory!”

“Please be gentle!” Rhys squeaked. He winced, and Boyd altered his attack so he merely wrapped an arm around him instead.

“That decides it.” Ike nodded with finality. “Boyd and Rhys will be a pair, and Soren and I will be a pair.” He held the paper out to Soren. “We need to sign these and turn them in by tomorrow. Does anyone have anything to write with?”

Titania and Mist shook their heads. Rolf and Mia shrugged. Rhys started patting his robes all over, but Soren knew he no longer carried a quill and ink with him since he used to break the bottles and stain the pockets of his otherwise-white robes. That left Soren, who was always prepared. He kept a stylus and small vial of liquid ink in the pocket of his tome’s holster.

Soon his and Ike’s name and numbers adorned the paper (Soren’s in perfect script and Ike’s in child’s scrawl). Then Ike, Gatrie, and Boyd returned to the game hall.

“You three have a busy day tomorrow,” Titania commended Soren, Rhys, and Shinon while the others were gone. “Be sure to rest well tonight.”

“Save it, mom,” Shinon shot back. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he plunged his hands into his pockets and strode away. He was heading into the city, rather than away from it, and Soren suspected he would be doing the opposite of resting well this evening.

When Ike and the others returned, Gatrie ran off after Shinon, lamenting: “He didn’t wait for me?” Boyd seemed like he wanted to join them. But a stern look from Oscar dissuaded him from these ambitions, and he joined the rest on the trek back to camp.

After a while, Mia suddenly said she’d forgotten a hairpin at the restaurant and ran back the way they’d come. Soren said nothing, knowing she was going back to see how ‘Percival’ had performed in the rankings.

When they entered the campgrounds next to the arena, Titania and Oscar split off to check on their horses before turning in for the evening. Oscar would be riding tomorrow, and he seemed anxious that his mare be emotionally prepared. (Soren thought this was ridiculous.)

Soon it was only Ike, Mist, Boyd, Rolf, Rhys, and himself.

“Thanks for going along with all of this,” Ike said. “I know neither of you wanted to participate in the first place.”

“It is no trouble, Ike,” Rhys answered.

Soren said nothing.

 

The water events took place in the morning, and Soren woke up at the crack of dawn to practice. The camp was already alive with the smell of breakfast cooking and the voices of excited people. While a large crowd of men migrated toward the river for the rowing competition, Soren headed toward the pond where the swimming competition would take place later. Gatrie and Oscar joined the crowd, since they’d both signed up to row. Mia was also missing, and Soren could only guess Percival had elected to row as well.

When he arrived at the pond, he found he was not the only one to have this idea. Over a dozen men were already splashing around in the cold water, wearing serious expressions as they tried to ignore one another. Soren stripped down to his under-trousers and threw his pack (which contained a dry blanket, his clothes, and his shoes) over the branch of a tree. He knew there was a chance it wouldn’t be there when he returned, but it was a risk he had no choice but to take. (As an added precaution he’d hidden an extra tunic in a bundle under a rock in the woods nearby. He was nothing if not prudent, and he knew too well how cruel beorc could be.)

Plunging into the water, Soren wasted no time setting himself a course the approximate length of the competition and swimming from one point to the other with a variety of strokes to see which one would serve him best. The water was brisk, but not dangerously cold. The pond’s bottom was thick with slimy green tendrils, but it was deep enough that Soren could avoid that unpleasantness for the most part.

Rhys and Shinon turned up later, albeit separately. Titania came with Rhys and sat on shore with his satchel, calling encouragement while he practiced.

Not wanting to exhaust himself before the competition began, Soren left the water and returned to where he’d placed his things. On the bright side, his satchel and possessions were still there. Unfortunately, it had been emptied and every item inside soaked before being thrown high into the tree. The sopping wet clumps were out of reach and useless now.

Annoyed and starting to shiver, Soren wrapped his arms around himself and went to the woods where he’d hidden his emergency clothes. The package was still there, but a single wrinkled tunic didn’t offer much warmth. Checking the sun’s position, Soren estimated the rowing competition would just be ending and he would have enough time to retrieve fresh clothes from camp.

Walking back dripping wet and without any shoes, Soren was reminded of how much he hated beorc, and this hatred kept him relatively warm.

 

When it was time for the swimming race, Ike, Titania, Mist, Rolf, and Mia all stood on the beach to cheer on their three comrades. Meanwhile, Soren, Rhys, and Shinon were standing with the other competitors on the wharf where locals would normally tie up their fishing boats. But there was only one boat to be seen anywhere on the pond, and it floated on the calm water, just beyond the ten brightly-painted wooden buoys bobbing in the distance. The competitors would dive in sets of ten, swim to their respective buoys, and return to the wharf where scribes and judges would record their times. It was no short distance, and the test was clearly meant to challenge those who couldn’t endure swimming at speed for a longer period of time. Soren just hoped he wouldn’t be one of them.

He would be in the second group to dive, and as he watched the first group go, he considered just how much he didn’t want to do this. He was so consumed by these thoughts that he hardly noticed the tap on his shoulder.

“Youngster,” a wiry-framed older man said to get his attention. By the fact that he was dressed only in a pair of shorts, Soren deduced he must be one of the competitors, despite his advanced age. “Perhaps you can put an end to this d’bate I’ve been having with my friend here.” Next to him stood another old man, this one with a bushy beard and barrel chest.

Soren ignored them and attempted to move away so they wouldn’t try to talk to him again. Now that they’d seen his face and his Brand, he doubted they would touch him or try to speak to him again. But he was wrong.

“Hold on there, we just want to ask a question!” The man touched his shoulder again, and Soren twisted around, irritated by his persistence.

“What?”

“Well, my friend and I have diff’ring opinions on the best strat’gy to win a race.”

“There are only two strategies,” Soren returned swiftly, “To outpace your opponent or to outsmart them, but the latter is traditionally called cheating. Your opinion on the matter is entirely your own.”

“Oh that’s not what we mean,” the friend cut in, waving his arms. “The thing is, I think the best way to mot’vate yourself to swim your fastest is to ‘magine you are swimming toward something you love.”

“And I think the fastest way,” said the first man, “is to ‘magine you’re swimming ‘way from the thing you fear most in the world.”

They both looked at Soren expectantly. “Well, what do you think?” asked the friend.

Soren glared at them, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t go away until he answered. “The solution is simple,” he replied coolly. “Merely imagine that the person you care about is drowning and let both your duty and fear propel you.” Both older men wore expressions of awe, as if such an idea had never occurred to them before. “Now leave me alone.” He slipped through the crowd and hoped the men wouldn’t follow. Fortunately, they did not.

With that annoyance behind him, Soren gazed out over the water to watch the swimmers returning. Rhys was in this group, and he was doing poorly compared to the others. However, it was impossible to know how he would compare to the rest of the competitors until all of the times were recorded.

When he finally reached them, someone had to grab his arm to help him climb back onto the wharf. He flopped onto the ground looking weak and blue. But a moment later, Titania swept down upon him with a blanket. “You did splendidly, Rhys,” she cooed, and Soren was surprised he hadn’t sensed her approach. He wondered if it was the size of the crowd or just his nerves impairing his judgment.

He had to admit he was nervous. He didn’t want to perform poorly today—not with Ike and the others watching. Now it was his turn to stand at the edge of the stone wharf and prepare to jump. He stared at the buoy that would be his target and waited to hear the gong that would start the race.

The instant he heard it, he dove, and then his singular focus was on swimming in a straight line. He kicked his legs rhythmically, at a pace he judged he could sustain, and he arced one arm after the other, breathing as he turned his head. He couldn’t afford to veer off course, so he tried to maintain a balance of motion on either side and glanced up sparingly to be certain he was still on track. Efficiency could be a deciding factor in this race.

When he finally reached the buoy, he tapped it and changed direction as quickly as he could. He couldn’t afford to lose precious seconds floundering here, no matter how tired he’d already become. Although he was focused almost entirely on his technique, he was also aware that there were several men ahead of him. This was to be expected, but since Soren didn’t know how the other nine in his group would compare to others, it was worthless to compare himself to them. He could only swim as fast as he could. 

But he was quickly losing energy. Recalling the two men who’d harassed him before the race, Soren wondered if he should take his own advice. He didn’t often vouch for the power of imagination, but another swimmer had just passed him so Soren decided to give it a shot.

Perhaps he was desperate to prove to himself that his unnatural and unhealthy obsession with Ike could somehow be beneficial if harnessed correctly. After all, there had been many battles in which he’d rushed to Ike’s aid, and he’d always felt fastest in those moments. With this thought in mind, he tried to convince himself Ike was bleeding out on the wharf or some such nonsense. He couldn’t be sure if it worked, but soon he reached the stone wall and the race was over. Turning around with his hand on the rocks, he saw four people still swimming behind him. It was better than being last.

Ignoring the people offering him their arms, Soren gripped the ledge with both hands and lifted himself up. He was shivering from the cold and the exhaustion in his limbs, but he refused to lay vulnerably on the ground like Rhys. With teeth rattling and legs feeling like jelly, he stumbled through the crowd.

However, he didn’t make it far before someone tackled him with a blanket. For a moment he thought he was being attacked, but then he realized Titania had come to greet him just as she had for Rhys. Ike was there too, grinning widely. “Nice job!”

Soren nodded once, not quite trusting his voice, and wrapped the towel around his shoulders more tightly. He couldn’t stop the small smile stretching his numb lips. Now that it was over, he had to admit it’d been somewhat exhilarating.

He pulled on the shirt, trousers, and boots he’d worn here, but they were immediately dampened by his wet body and under-trousers and did little to help him feel warmer. Instead of staying with the others to watch Shinon swim (a pastime he had absolutely no interest in), Soren returned to the camp and changed into dry clothes for the second time today.

Then he took his tome back to the pond and used wind magic to knock his possessions out of the tree while everyone was busy watching the final swimming race. With that, the morning’s trials were behind him. Soren hoped the rest of the competitions would be less embarrassing—but he knew they wouldn’t be. 

 

The footrace was the most popular event of the day and took place just after noon. Soren had the chance to eat beforehand but decided to wait. The other mercenaries participating in this event had made the same decision, except for Boyd who’d stuffed his face, asking, “Why not? More fuel to burn, right?”

Once his turn came, Soren ran as fast as he could without wearing himself out prematurely. He was immediately outpaced by men with longer strides, but he knew his gait was more efficient and sustainable. He regulated his breathing as if he were in a battle, and he didn’t relent. Toward the end of the race, he once again tried the imagination technique he’d suggested to the old swimmers. Although he felt foolish letting the silly idea get into his head, he did feel a spike in his blood—and perhaps felt he could run faster—when convincing himself of Ike’s imminent doom. When he crossed the finish line, panting hard, he swore he would never let Ike know about this. He would surely find it touching, and Soren didn’t want to coddle the young commander.

Soren and Rhys had run with the same group, and he was relieved to see he easily outstripped the healer. How he compared to the rest of the mercenaries (Ike, Shinon, Boyd, and Percival) would remain to be seen.

 

The day’s penultimate event was the horserace, which should have been easy for Oscar except for the fact that, shortly before the race, he discovered someone had tampered with his saddle by completely cutting the girth strap. Ike was furious, but Oscar asked that he stay calm and not make a scene on his behalf. Titania lent Oscar her saddle, and although it was not what he was used to, he and his steed still performed exemplarily. Soren, however, didn’t actually watch the race, because after Titania solved the sabotage problem, he and Mia had departed to the woods beyond the campgrounds for their first training session.

 

As evening approached, the time came for the final event: the carrier race. Everyone was tired, most competitors were finished for the today, and relatively few showed up to spectate (which was fine by Soren). The members of the carrier race stood at the starting line while their ‘wards’ lined up behind them. An announcer explained the course and had a young boy he introduced as his son help him model the various forms of carrying that were permitted: in arms, over the shoulders, piggy-back, and a third uncomfortable-looking position in which the ward hung up-side-down with their legs clamped around the carrier’s neck.

Soren watched Gatrie throw a very limp Shinon over his shoulder, and waited for the inevitable complaints to begin. But to Soren’s surprise, Shinon had stopped being angry about the arrangement and was now playing along. He’d broken off arrow heads and attached the shafts to his back along with a mess of fake blood. A crowd of young women gathered around him and Gatrie, giggling and telling them how clever the joke was.

Boyd, meanwhile, was trying to psyche up Rhys by shouting about the power of teamwork and how they both needed to visualize the finish line in their minds. Rhys seemed nervous. “If you say so,” was all he said.

Ike was serious about the competition too, but not as much as Boyd. He and Soren chose to do the piggy-back position, agreeing it would be the most well-balanced. “Be sure to pace yourself,” Soren advised.

When it was almost time to start, he hopped onto Ike’s back, and as he stood up, testing Soren’s weight, he immediately chuckled. “Maybe not as light as a heron princess, but you sure are close.”

“Oh, shut up,” Soren sighed, grasping his own elbows and trying to keep his arms on the top of Ike’s chest rather than against his neck so not to choke him.

Ike looped his arms under Soren’s knees. “This’s going to be easy,” he said encouragingly.

“Just focus on running,” was Soren’s reply, while in his mind he berated himself: Don’t enjoy this. Don’t enjoy this. Do not enjoy this. He could smell the back of Ike’s head, and he tried to distract himself by looking at the other competitors. Those on either side were staring at them with a mixture of envy and frustration. Perhaps it seemed Ike was cheating by carrying some kid instead of a fellow competitor.

A moment later, the gong clanged, announcing that the carriers should start running and the wards should no longer touch the ground.

This race seemed to contain more shoving, attempts at tripping, and men trying to cut one another off than the regular footrace. But the judges rarely scolded anyone, and no one was disqualified or penalized. Soren wondered if he just hadn’t noticed the same shenanigans during the footrace because he hadn’t been targeted. Now he was seeing the competition from Ike’s perspective. He was someone the other competitors feared, so they did their best to make him fall down or fall behind.

But Ike was quick and wary, and he had Soren watching his blind spots and warning of oncoming attacks. Neither of them hit the dirt, and they managed to stay near the front of the pack throughout the race. Boyd was right beside them, with Rhys wincing and saying “Ow, ow, ow,” every time Boyd jostled him.

When they finally crossed the finish line, Ike and Boyd raised their arms victoriously, and Soren and Rhys dropped to their feet. He was glad to be on solid ground again but also felt a sharp pang, immediately missing the physical contact he’d shared with Ike. Even though he hadn’t exerted himself beyond merely holding himself in place, he did feel breathless, and Ike’s scent still lingered in his head. It was an oddly comforting and familiar smell, which brought back memories of their time shared in a small Crimean town. He wondered how someone’s hair could smell the same after so many years.

“Great job, Soren!” Ike congratulated him. “We made a good team.”

“I don’t feel I did anything,” Soren replied, “But if I was not too much of a burden, that is enough.”

Ike rolled his eyes as if this had been some sort of joke. “Empty your pockets next time though,” he laughed, “You were stabbing me in the back the whole time.” Clapping him on the shoulder, he turned his attention to the incoming runners.

“With any luck, there will never be a next time,” Soren replied coolly despite blushing red hot. Ike wasn’t looking at him, so hopefully he didn’t notice.

Soren didn’t care to wait for Gatrie and Shinon, but he was pinned between Ike and Boyd. Since he couldn’t easily slip away, he resigned himself to being a spectator. The crowd of girls who’d gathered around Gatrie and Shinon at the start of the race had moved here, and he could hear them broadcasting the pair’s approach with increasingly frequent bouts of giggles. When they finally crossed the finish line, Gatrie roared, “Your mighty hunter has returned!” He slung Shinon into their awaiting arms, saying, “And I’ve got dinner.” The girls laughed and immediately fell upon Gatrie in addition to hugging and hanging off of Shinon’s arms, who was smiling smugly in their midst.

Soren couldn’t stand to watch any more of this idiocy and managed to sneak away while Ike, Boyd, and Rhys attempted to get the pair’s attention and convey their congratulations.

 

Although Soren was probably more exhausted now than he had been since the end of the war, he knew the day wasn’t yet over for him. There was only a little daylight remaining to practice with Mia before the accuracy competitions tomorrow. He found her sucking down noodles with some new friends and dragged her away, much to her disappointment. “You’re still on about that?” she grumbled.

“I performed well enough today to advance,” Soren answered.

“That’s not what I meant.” She crossed her arms. “Why do you want to win anyway?”

“I have no delusions about actually winning this thing,” he scoffed. “But I decided to participate, and when I set my mind to something-”

“You weren’t interested at all before,” she cut him off.

“Mia, you made a deal,” Soren reminded, and that was the last of her protestations.

When they were safely concealed in the woods, Mia took turns practicing by herself and correcting Soren’s form. Sometimes she would stand in different parts of the clearing, watching from various angles to be sure the throw and spell were cast seamlessly. If anyone noticed the knife changing velocity or direction, they’d cry foul. Soren would be searched, the page of spells would be discovered, and he would face the greatest humiliation of his life in the grasp of the stockades.

When the sun had set and there was just a glow of daylight left, Mia sighed and said, “Well, it looks pretty spot-on to me. Even better than I can throw.”

Soren nodded to show he agreed. “I will not be aiming for the bullseye,” he said. “I don’t want to call too much attention to myself.”

“Ever practical.” Mia wrenched a blade from the target they’d carved into a tree.

They returned to camp together, and when they arrived, they found a paper pinned to one of the tents and Ike, Titania, Rhys, and Mist talking in hushed tones. On closer inspection, Soren noticed various items, bits of refuse, and even shirts, shoes, and pieces of armor strewn about the ground and spilling out of the tents.

“What the hell happened here?” Mia asked, noticing the same. She plunged the javelin she’d borrowed from Oscar into the ground, and no one asked why she had it.

“See for yourself,” Ike said grumpily, standing out of the way so they could read the sign. “Someone reported us for having ‘illicit materials’, so we had to let guards search our things.”

“Obviously they found nothing condemnable,” Titania added, while Soren skimmed the text. His gaze was drawn to where his and Rhys’s names and numbers were written.

“Except Rhys’s light tome,” he interjected, “and my wind tome.” He wondered if he could have avoided this inconvenience if he’d taken his whole tome with him today instead of just a few pages.

“Well, possessing such items are not against the rules,” Titania countered optimistically, “You’ve merely been served a citation. We must keep this silly paper on display, and you and Rhys will be searched more thoroughly before tomorrow’s events. That is all.”

“It is a nuisance,” Soren replied dryly, refusing to betray the fact that this would interfere with his plans.

“That’s assuming we make it to tomorrow,” Rhys added. “I don’t think I did well enough at all.”

Ike clapped him on the back. “You sell yourself short, Rhys,” he said. “You did fine.” But his words of encouragement lacked any real heart, and he was clearly still angry about this whole thing. “Anyway, we should discuss this with the others. I’ve got a feeling the same people who reported us were the ones who sabotaged Oscar’s saddle. It might be our friends from last night.”

“Those bullies,” Mist pouted.

“Has anyone else reported altercations with fellow competitors?” Titania asked Ike.

Ike shook his head.

Soren decided not to mention the fact that his clothes had ended up in a tree this morning. He didn’t know whether it was related. Regardless, he set about picking up his things (which were now intermixed with everyone else’s) and started planning how he could use magic tomorrow without the guards noticing a page of spells on his person. 

 

The mercenaries discussed the sabotage that evening, but no one had anything further to report. They all had a hard time focusing on the matter anyway, because Shinon had brought a young woman into the camp to join them for dinner. The couple spent the twilight hours flirting, kissing, and making eyes at each other for everyone else to see. Soren wondered what made this woman special, since Shinon usually kept this part of his life separate from the rest of the mercenaries.

That night, the archer pitched a separate tent and moved all of his belongings into it, so he and the woman could have privacy. He hadn’t paid for a permit to erect another tent, but Soren doubted he would get caught and fined. Apparently the other mercenaries thought the same, because no one advised against it. They were probably just grateful he and the woman wouldn’t be sharing the tent with the rest of them—Soren certainly was.  

 

That night, Soren and the rest of the mercenaries were awoken by a terrified, high-pitched scream. Ike was the first one out of the tent, with the everyone else climbing over each other to get out and see what was happening. Soren was at the back of the group, his mind suddenly awake and alert. He wasn’t immune to the panic surrounding him.

Outside, he saw Titania launching herself out of the other tent, with Mist and Mia hot on her heels. Mist had her Heal staff in hand, as if instinct told her she’d need it. Everyone’s hair was a mess, they wore only wrinkled sleep shirts or long underwear, and their faces were confused and vacant from sleep. They all converged on Shinon’s tent, and Soren managed to tuck himself under the open tent flap, where he could see what was happening. Ike had just tackled Shinon off his new girlfriend, but Shinon’s fingers wouldn’t let go of her throat so she just came tumbling along with them.

“What the blazes are you doing, bud!” Gatrie fell to his knees to help pull Shinon’s hands away while Titania and Oscar held the girl’s shoulders.

Titania found her pulse. “She’s alive.” At her words, the young woman’s eyes fluttered.

Meanwhile Ike and Shinon were wrestling, trying to restrain each other’s arms. Ike was on top and landed a blow on Shinon’s jaw. “Stop it!” Ike ordered, but Shinon just struggled further, managing hit Ike above the eye. An instant later, Ike returned the punch exactly.

“The bitch broke my bow!” Shinon managed to spit, and Ike froze. Shinon lurched and knocked Ike off of him, but Gatrie and Oscar were now between him and the woman protectively tucked under Titania’s arm.

The tent was quite full, even with Soren just kneeling in the doorway. Boyd and Mia were behind him telling people outside that there was no emergency and that they should return to their bedrolls. At least a dozen had emerged at the sound of the scream. Meanwhile, Rhys, Rolf, and Mist were all trying to peek inside.

“What happened?” Ike demanded, righting himself.

Soren understood the situation and could have answered, but he let Shinon tell his story. On the ground beside his bedroll was his prized bow: one he’d crafted himself and named ‘Silencer’. The string was cut, and the wood fractured. A knife lay on the ground beside it.

“I woke up and she was going through my things. She hurt my bow,” Shinon growled furiously.

Ike assessed the damage. “You have other bows and strings, don’t you?” he asked.

“That’s not the point.” Shinon seemed to be calculating the odds of getting past Gatrie and throttling the woman again. She looked terrified. “It was my best one, and the string was worn in just like I like it.”

“That’s no excuse to kill anyone!” Ike countered.

For the first time, an emotion other than thirst for revenge flashed on Shinon’s face, and it may have resembled regret.

“He wasn’t trying to kill her,” Soren surprised himself by speaking on Shinon’s behalf. “There is a knife right there and he’s a trained mercenary; if he wanted her dead, she’d be dead.”

Shinon seemed surprised Soren was vouching for him. “Yeah,” he finally replied. “What the pipsqueak said.”

Ike sighed and gingerly touched his bruised eyebrow while he edged around Shinon toward the woman. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked, and Soren was glad he didn’t appear taken in by her scared little mouse act.

“I-I-I d-didn’t,” she began to sputter, but Ike cut her off:

“You did,” he said. “Get this straight: I trust Shinon a lot more than I do you. And that’s saying something. Now are you one of the ones who’s been trying to sabotage us all day?”

She shook her head furiously. “It was Bordo, he made me do it!”

“What else has Bordo been up to?” Ike pushed.

She began shaking. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“Is he acting alone?” She made a pained expression, and Ike asked again, more forcefully: “Is he acting alone?”

“N-no,” she answered. “He has his team, and then, well, other competitors. He’s p-popular here. I know him from- from previous years. I mean, i-it’s not just him. Everyone w-wants you gone. You’re not even from Begnion.” She covered her own mouth, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Stop crying. We’re not going to hurt you.” Ike promised.

Titania righted the girl so she was sitting on her own. She put her hands on her thighs. Shinon kicked up one knee and leaned against it. He was glaring at her, but he no longer seemed to want to attack her. As a sign of trust, Oscar and Gatrie moved back.

“Mist,” Ike called toward the tent flap, “Can you heal the bruises on her neck?”

Mist squeezed by Soren, traded places with Oscar who ducked out of the tent. Once outside he started explaining the situation in whispers, but Soren suspected they’d heard everything and knew well enough what was going on. Tent walls were not thick.

“This way she won’t have proof Shinon did anything,” Ike said as Mist worked. “He can’t get into trouble.”

“Why would I get into trouble?” Shinon pouted.

“Because those working against us would do anything to have us thrown out of the games and removed from Telgam City,” Soren replied. “We mustn’t give them a reason.” He glanced at Ike, who nodded in agreement.

“We can’t fight this,” Ike said, sounding tired. “We’ve just got to stick it out and be more careful from now on.” He turned his attention to the woman. “You won’t help Bordo anymore, and you won’t report Shinon for hurting you.” It wasn’t a request.

She gave a burst of trembling nods, but Soren wasn’t convinced. “Unfortunately,” he said, addressing Ike. “Mist’s healing will be of little value. Either she will return to Bordo of her own will or he will find her and demand to know what happened. When he learns the truth, he will strangle her himself and blame it on Shinon. There are many who heard her scream tonight. We will be powerless against the truth.”

“I w-won’t bring any charges against you,” the woman ensured, glancing around at everyone’s faces. “I promise.”

Soren shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you promise, Bordo will see you as a liability. He will crush your larynx and kill you.” The woman touched her neck with both her hands, the fear of her attack still fresh in her eyes. “Unless, of course, you leave town tonight. Stay away until the games are over…perhaps longer.” Soren finished flippantly, “That may save you.”

She nodded once, more solemnly this time, and Soren believed her.

“Alright, get out of here,” Ike gestured at the door. “Do as Soren says, and be safe.” His eyes were compassionate now.

The girl picked herself up, still shaking, and walked out of the tent. Every step was hesitant, as if she suspected a trap, but once she was clear of their campsite, she picked up her feet and started running. Ike and the others emerged from the tent and watched her disappear.

Ike yawned again. “What a night.”

“Let me heal you both before going back to bed,” Mist offered, stepping up to him and Shinon. “That won’t be any fun to sleep on.”

Ike settled down for Mist’s ministrations, and Shinon set about taking down the extra tent while he waited his turn. “You okay, buddy?” Gatrie whispered, but Shinon shrugged off his hand. His pride had been injured more than anything tonight.

Mia stretched and returned to the smaller tent, and Titania was right behind her saying, “See you all in the morning.”

Soren entered the men’s tent and found Oscar and Rolf already inside. Boyd crawled in behind Soren, and Rhys came next. Then Gatrie entered, and finally Shinon and Ike came in together. Soren had long since laid his head on his arm, but he was still awake and acutely aware of Ike tiptoeing over to him and crouching down in the dark. “Good thinking about getting her out of town,” his whispered. “But you don’t actually think she was in any danger, right?”

“I do not care one way or another about any danger she may be in,” Soren answered. “My concern was the reputation of the company.”

“Of course it was,” Ike sighed. “Good night.” With that, he navigated back to his own bedroll in the dark.

 

Before the events of the previous night, all of the mercenaries had discovered that they’d moved on to the events of the second day (even Rhys, who’d just narrowly scraped by). So they all woke up early the next morning, excited for the new day of challenges. Before breakfast was served, however, Soren pulled Mia aside.

“Bad luck about that citation,” Mia commiserated. “But you’re probably better off. At least now there’s no way you can get caught.”

Soren glanced sidelong at her while they walked. This was too dangerous a conversation to be had in one place and risk being overheard. “I have no intention of retiring my efforts,” he eventually replied.

Mia frowned as if she’d worried that was the case. “That why you asked me for this little stroll? You want me to do something.”

“You will carry the page in for me.”

“No.” She shook her head energetically. “No way. In the arena with all those people watching? There’s absolutely no way I’ll be able to pass it to you without being seen, and then we’ll both be caught!”

“Lower your voice,” Soren hissed, “and calm down. All you’ll have to do is carry it discreetly on your person. I do not need to be in physical contact with the spell for it to work.”

Mia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I just have to bring it in with me, that’s all?”

“If you can stand as near to me as possible when I throw, that would be preferable. But yes, that is all.”

“I’m still not sure about this. What if I get caught with it and they think I’m the one cheating?”

Soren raised an eyebrow. “You are already smuggling in two illegal pieces of equipment, what is one more?”

“Two pieces o-” Mia seemed confused at first but then covered her chest, laughing: “Soren!” she mock-scolded.

Soren didn’t react or reply. Having navigated in a circle back to the camp by now, he quickened his step toward the scrambled eggs being divided over the fire. Behind him, Mia kept laughing.

“Hey, you two working on your comedy routine?” Boyd called with a wave. “I gotta tell you, it needs work.”

Mia shook her head. “You didn’t hear the joke.”

She reached the fire, where Boyd and Gatrie kept pushing her to tell them what was so funny, but to her credit, Mia refused to reveal a thing. After all, outing Soren was as good as revealing her own subterfuge. 

 

The first event of the day was the javelin-throwing contest, and Soren walked to the arena with Gatrie, Shinon, Oscar, and Rhys. Ike, Titania, Rolf, and Mist would come spectate after cleaning up breakfast, and Boyd had elected to guard the campsite and work on his latest hobby: whittling. He was so bad at it, Soren had little hope an hour or two of practice would make any difference. Mia was meant to be off training children in the way of the sword, but Soren knew she was dressed as Percival somewhere nearby.

As they’d been forewarned, Soren and Rhys were both flagged by the guards and patted down all over before being admitted to the arena. It was an embarrassing and uncomfortable violation, but at least when it was over, the mercenaries had the tact not to make jokes about it or risk his ire.

When it was his turn to throw, Soren stood at the mark and eyed the large round target. The javelin still felt heavy and awkward in his hand, but he recalled his lessons from Oscar and worked through the motions he’d practiced with Mia. He had already located her in the crowd of competitors waiting their turn, and as promised, she’d pushed to the front to be as close as possible without overstepping the boundaries. That being said, she was still fifteen feet away.

It would not be easy. In fact, accessing the spell at this distance was sure to hurt. But Soren had no choice but to proceed. He began murmuring the familiar words under his breath as soon as the announcer said, “Ready!”

“*Spirits of wind, slash*-”

“Set!”

“-*the flesh before me*!”

“Launch!”

Soren released the javelin in time with the end of the incantation, and the winds leapt to life, carrying the silly stick like a boat on a river of air. In the milliseconds that it was flying, every fragment of his attention was focused on containing the winds so the grass would not wave, maintaining speed and direction, and dulling the spell so it wouldn’t tear the javelin apart or shred the target.

 When the spear embedded itself in the intended position in the upper left of the circle, he could hardly believe it. For a moment, he let a sense of pride wash over him—but then the headache hit. He couldn’t help but grimace as the pain shot through his head. The sunlight became piercing and the applause of the crowd deafening.

The throwers on either side of him reached for their second javelins. Biting his cheek and pushing through the throbbing in his head, Soren repeated the process two more times, but on the third, he released the spell early and let the momentum drop the javelin where it may, which turned out to be the very bottom of the target (but still technically on the board).

He managed to walk out of the arena, although he winced at the sunlight reflecting off a woman’s earrings, a man’s belt buckle, and so on. He tried to numb his ears to the innumerable voices chattering around him, but he was aware of some mercenaries congratulating and patting him on the back as he passed. He heard Ike say, “Hey are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

Soren shook his head even though it made the world spin. “I’m fine.”

Back at the campsite, he rested in the relatively cool, dark tent with a damp cloth over his eyes. Boyd was outside working on his whittling and swapping greetings with anyone who passed by. Soren wished he would be silent. Not only was his vision and hearing overloaded, but his sense of smell had suddenly become more acute as well. He could smell Boyd’s sweat from here, and it was nauseating. On the other hand, he realized he could be imagining it, or it could be that Boyd had left a rather sordid pair of underpants somewhere within the tent. He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. He just needed the pain to pass in time to subject himself to it again this afternoon.

 

“You didn’t eat or drink anything strange?” Ike asked later, when he returned from the ax-throwing competition. “No one gave you anything?”

Soren had recovered enough to give him a patronizing glare. “I am not a small child who is liable to accept sweets from a stranger.”

“But I’m worried this is somehow that guy Bordo and his crew messing with us again,” Ike replied, his concern unabated. “I mean, you hardly ever get sick!”

“He’s not sick,” Shinon sneered. He had his bow and quiver over his shoulder and was about to set out for the archery competition. “He’s just pretending so he can wheedle his way out of the games before he gets booted out. He must be embarrassed by how bad he did this morning.”

“Soren actually did rather well this morning,” Oscar cut in. Turning to Soren, he added, “You must have been practicing.”

Soren turned his glare on the paladin. “Well, Mia and I weren’t exactly going on a date,” he snapped. “What did you think we were doing?”

Oscar raised his hands in appeasement and then turned his attention to where Boyd was struggling to scrape some horse manure from the bottom of his boot. “Boyd, are you ready yet? You three should get going if you don’t want to be late.”

“I ain’t waiting for you,” Shinon snarled.

“Coming, coming!” Boyd called, giving up on the boot. He, Shinon, and Ike headed off to the archery range, although Ike spared a backward glance as if still worried about Soren’s health. If he’d been feeling better, he might have had the patience to feel touched by his concern. But as it was, he did not. He crawled back into the tent to get more rest before the last event of the day.

 

His headache had decreased to a dull throb by the time the knife-throwing competition rolled around, but Soren wasn’t optimistic about having to do the trick another three times.

Rhys was standing beside him, looking extremely dejected. “Why do I even bother?” he muttered to himself. “I performed so badly with the javelin this morning, there’s no way I can make up for it.” Some bystander patted him on the back and offered sympathetic words, which was just as well for Soren, who was never going to give Rhys the consolation he was asking for. Mia was nearby as well, fiddling with the brim of her hat.

There were not many competitors assembled here, because archery had been by far the most popular event of the day and knife-throwing the least popular. This meant there were fewer spectators and fewer eyes to notice foul play if he made a mistake.

Rhys was in the first group, and as predicted, he failed miserably. Mia (or rather, Percival) was in the second group, and she performed well enough given the fact that knife-throwing had never been more than a hobby to her. Soren was in the third group, and as before, there was between fifteen and twenty feet of space between him and the precious page of spells on Mia’s person. Again, Soren waited for the first consonant to leave the announcer’s lips: “Ready!”

“*Spirits of wind, slash*-”

“Set!”

“-*the flesh before me*!”

“Throw!”

As before, Soren focused on containing and directing the winds. He needed complete control and concentration for just a fraction of a second. The javelin had been easier to hold up due to the surface area along the shaft, but it had been more difficult to maintain a natural appearance. The knife, on the other hand, was harder to keep within the wind’s control, but appearance was less important.

The blade hit its strategically selected mark on the target, and this time Soren was prepared for the wave of pain and nausea that swept through his head and the back of his throat. He braced himself even while reaching for the second knife.

“Go, Soren!” Mia whispered-yelled from the sideline, and Soren gave her a withering glare. As Percival, she shouldn’t reveal the fact that she knew him. If the judge suspected cheating and thought they were connected, he could frisk her and discover both their secrets.

But then Soren realized he shouldn’t have heard Mia cheering him on. A beorc wouldn’t have heard her voice among the others. He willed himself to calm down. He was usually good at filtering the daily barrage of sound and only responding to that which he would not be suspicious to overhear. But his headache was making him careless.

Taking a steadying breath, he threw the second knife, whispering the spell almost inaudibly and trying to move his mouth as little as possible. The pain in his head reached a crescendo.

Finally it was time for the third throw, and dots were floating in his vision. Soren screwed up his eyes and repeated the coordinated release of spell and blade for a final time. His posture and angle were off, but he hoped no one would notice that the trajectory of his projectile was incongruous with his improper form.

It was done, and the ache now stretched down Soren’s neck into his shoulders and the top of his arms. Tight waves of pain pulsed through the base of his jaw, and even his teeth hurt.

“Hey, were you whispering something, little guy?” asked the man who’d been throwing on his left. “You don’t look so good. Do you need something?”

Soren detested being called something as demeaning as ‘little guy’, but he knew he should remain calm. “Just a prayer,” he lied. “I am not feeling well today, so I hoped Ashera would make up for what I lack.” It was some nonsense Rhys might have said, and it seemed to fool this man. “If you’ll excuse me.” Soren walked past him, intent on leaving the arena before he passed out and made a scene.