Jack Elliot stood alone in the lists, waiting for the next contender. He swung his wooden swords around in a circle, flexing himself in his armor.
He didn’t carry a shield, so the only way they could tell his house was by his surcoat. (Description to come.)
The next man to enter the lists was in light armor and left-handed. Jack smiled, knowing this would be a challenge. He saluted the man, who returned it in kind. “Ready?” asked the herald, and after their salutes were completed, he said, “Lay on!” and got out of the way.
Jack took a step forward, and the man feinted on his right. Jack easily deflected it with his wooden sword. There were other feints, shield first, then sword, and then finally the man took a bouncing step and attacked. Jack was ready, but not ready for the flurry of the man’s quick sword arm, as it got through his defenses and clanged on his head. “Son of a bitch!” Jack yelled, and keeled over and died.
The man helped him up. “Good fight,” Jack said, meaning it. He was going to have to get Zephyr to change hands in order to beat a guy like this again.
“Thanks,” said the man, and took Jack’s place in the lists, waiting for the next challenger.
Jack popped off his helmet and found some Gatorade, drinking it down slowly as he had been trained. It wasn’t hot – in fact, it was perfect weather for a tournament. He was still in the tourney, it not being a “last man standing” event, so he went up to the scorekeeper and looked to see his place.
“Two men behind,” said the Mistress of the Lists, looking at him. She was about his height, and she looked at him like she looked at all the men in armor: with pride and want. Unfortunately, she wasn’t his type.
“You’re up, Dwarf,” called one of the heralds. Jack smiled at the mistress and put his helmet back down, heading back to the other lists.
After two more fights, he was one man behind, along with five others. The five were going to have to do a round-robin, every man for himself. The left-handed fighter wasn’t in the group, but in his group was Constantine, a young man who was the son of a many-times-made king of the Middle Kingdom. The rumor had it that people were throwing the fight for Constantine because his father had cancer and wanted to see his son win a tourney before he died.
Jack didn’t care. He fought his best, but was beaten by a gargantuan man named Ironhawk.
“Hell,” spat Jack, knowing Ironhawk was a troll in disguise. Ironhawk knew Jack as a fairy too.
Jack didn’t care who won the tourney after that. It was usually one of the same four people from this group. They didn’t want to make way for the new fighters, Jack thought sourly.
Ironhawk came over to Jack, seeing that he was heading to the showers. “Hey, Two Knives. After you’re done, come have a beer with us.”
Beer meant the possibility of food also, two things he hadn’t brought. “Sure,” Jack said. “Be there in a few.”
Jack ducked into the shower and admired some of the men there already. Jack was a member of the Blue Feathers, and wore a small one hanging off his surcoat when he dressed formally. With sideways glances, he watched the other fighters, admiring their naked, wet bodies. He turned from them, hoping that his own swelling member wouldn’t give him away.
He got dressed into his tunic quickly, staring at the wall and making sure not to look at the men there. Then he took a few deep breaths to calm himself and his cock, and he walked out of the showers, his head held high.
Ironhawk had a gathering at his tent, as Jack took the offered beer. “Thanks,” he said, drinking half of it down. It was a Corona, so it went down smooth.
“Got some eggs, and some lunchmeat if you want a sandwich.”
Jack nodded and took some eggs, cheese, and made a sandwich, though trying not to make it like a Jughead type of sandwich. Ironhawk sat with a woman on his lap who was feeding him grapes. “How do you like fighting with two blades?” Ironhawk asked.
“It’s easy. Very fluid, a lot less rigid than sword-an’-board. Flexible. You can move around.”
“Did you fight sword an’ shield?”
“At first, doesn’t everyone?” He took a bite of the sandwich. “I kept using my shield to hit people, and someone suggested I use another blade in that hand. Once I did, it was easy.”
They talked more shop. They soon came to the “No shit, there I was” stories, which they told until the sun went down and the women were walking around in shawls. Jack was feeling no pain, having graduated from beer to scotch. He didn’t know how that had come about.
“You staying?”
“I’m going to have to,” said Jack. “Maybe I can sleep by a fire somewhere.”
Said a woman, “You can stay with me.”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry, dearie, you’re not my type.”
Ironhawk laughed. “Maybe I am?”
“Maybe,” said Jack, in a low, seductive purr.
The woman on his lap had gone off somewhere, and Ironhawk got up. “Well, then, stay with me, why don’t you.”
“Thought you’d never ask.”