***
Once at the festival grounds and settled, Bolly Heath and his wife Milvred, rounded up coins from a dozen other traders that trusted them. The old tinker handed Loudin a sack heavy with copper, silver, and more than a few gold coins. There was half a hundred gold pieces worth, in all. The problem was, people had already heard about the Valleyan Stallion. The current odds were barely two to one. After tonight’s preliminary bout, they would be even lower, for the Stallion was certain to pulverize the squat grappler from Xwarda he was supposed to fight.
“It’s not a lot then, is it?” Loudin asked, thinking just the opposite. He wasn’t out to rob these people. He was just brokering a wager for them after all. This was far more than he’d hoped to have to work with though. If he just kept betting on the Valleyan at even odds, he could win as much as the other way, but finding even odds would prove hard after this night.
“It’s a fair bit of coin if you ask me, sir Loudin,” Bolly said. “We’re hoping to get two coins to one in return, as you suggested.”
Loudin had faith that he could make enough to cover these folks investment, so he said he would get them their odds and was off. He found a reputable Wildermont gambling pavilion and placed all fifty gold pieces worth of coins, at even odds, on the Valleyan to beat the Xwardian in his first preliminary bought.
“Can’t you tell us who to be rootin’ for?” the trader asked when Loudin returned. Loudin chuckled, realizing these people though he just made a bet on the outcome of the entire competition and didn’t know who he’d taken.
“I can’t say,” Loudin smiled confidently, “But I wouldn’t be cheering for Willa the Witch’s man when the time comes.”
The trader was off then, spreading the word to those who’d trusted him with their earnings. They returned before long with new concerns.
It turned out that there were two Xwardian fighters in the preliminaries. Though the traders knew who not to cheer for, they still had no idea if it was the Westland Lion, or the Valleyan Stallion who was their man. They knew it had to be one of them, for they were the only two men fighting Xwardians. Loudin, out of sheer meanness, wouldn’t tell them which.
There were two contestants from Westland, one from Wildermont, and a man from Salazar Island that carried ship timbers for a living. Ungol was the only fighter that worried him. If that bastard managed to get in the Brawl, it was all for nothing. Loudin would end up a slave, or have to run for the rest of his life. He could only hope that the second round of preliminaries would match Ungol with the Stallion, or that Ungol was beaten early.
The days passed and the festival grew crowded. There were hundreds of pavilion tents, fold-open wagon displays, and even a score of folk who just laid their wares out on blankets, or in the grass. There were hawkers everywhere. They were selling everything from fresh baked bread, to fantastical potions, to daggers that never needed sharpening. Loudin took it all in and even tried to enjoy himself while he waited on the competitions to commence.
He spent a long afternoon looking at the strange names carved into the base of the towering spike that rose triumphantly up out of the middle of the Leif Greyn Valley. It was a solid piece of black stone that was at least two hundred paces tall. The base had three sides, about twenty paces wide each. It was on those smooth, yet otherwise featureless faces that the names of the champions from the yearly competition had been carved for more years than Loudin cared to imagine. The whole thing tapered slightly as it reached up into the sky. It had to be solid. It didn’t budge and sway when the occasional gust came blasting down out of the mountains, but every banner pole in sight did.
Who could have stood such a monolith, Loudin wondered? The Gods maybe? Or that monstrous dragon they say lives out in the marshes. Whatever the Spire was, it drew the people in each summer. It marked the middle of the sacred Leif Greyn Valley, and the heart of the Summer’s Day Festival, too.
Loudin bought a meat pie and a tankard of ale. He then settled into the shadows not too far from Bolly’s camp. From the distance he watched a lute playing bard, and a pair of tumblers. Neither the catchy songs, nor the comical acrobatic antics could pull his mind from the morrow’s preliminary fights. The Stallion, and Ungol were both to battle, but not each other. Loudin was so concerned about losing his new wager with Overlord Perrywyne that he didn’t even think about the Valleyan’s fight.
After downing a second tankard of ale, Loudin found his bedroll and let the drink’s effects carry his thoughts into slumber. When he woke, it was from a dream in which he had been trying to kill Ungol so that the man couldn’t win his way into the Brawl. The dream, and the idea that murder was a better choice than slavery, stayed with him throughout the impossibly slow day. When the preliminary fights were finally being announced, Loudin found he was too nervous to be excited.
In the first few seconds of the first fight, the Valleyan made short work of the squat Xwardian grappler. Ungol defeated a Westlander called Quaidon, while the other Westlander, a man called Lord Lion, narrowly escaped the thundering blows of the Wildermont man. In the last fight of the night the Islander destroyed the last Xwardian, leaving only four. It also left just one chance for Loudin to win his bet with the Dakaneese Overlord.
The fighters were given a day to recoup, while preliminary events in archery and axe throwing were carried out, but the evening after next the Valleyan would battle the Islander, and the underdog Westlander would face Ungol.
Loudin was disgusted with himself. He heaped all of the hundred gold pieces he now had onto the counter in the gamblers pavilion. He could only get eighty coins against his hundred on the Valleyan. He was about to make the wager when he saw a man write on the displayed parchment that the odds on the Lion Lord of Westland to beat Ungol of Dakahn, had risen to nine coins to one. He went ahead and put eighty five of the hundred gold pieces on the Valleyan to beat the Islander. At least he could get square with Bolly Heath, and his friends, before he was enslaved. The other fifteen coins he put on Lord Lion, to beat Ungol, and he prayed to the Gods, that it would be so, for if Ungol won, he was in a fix. To further punctuate the truth of the situation, one of Overlord Perrywyne’s men arrived in the area and began watching him from afar.
The traders had no idea if it was the Lion Lord or the Stallion they were to cheer for, so they were rooting for both. Few of them actually thought the Westlander had a chance. Bolly was relieved when Loudin finally told him that their money was on the Valleyan. The others were relieved as well. Loudin had no such comfort, for Lord Lion’s head was swollen like a melon from his previous bought, and it looked like he would fall over before his battle with Ungol even began.
The Valleyan fought first and when he hit the Islander once and the man went straight down, the crowd booed and booed. The Stallion responded by kicking the man, and chastising him, until he stood to defend himself. The Stallion then proceeded to pummel the Salazarkian into the turf with a savage pounding attack.
Loudin was too worried to be pleased by the win, but he brought Bolly Heath and one of his fellows to the gambling pavilion and told them what he’d done. They were angry, but only until they collected their heavy sacks of gold coins. Of the Hundred and fifty three coins their fifty had grown into, they gave Loudin fifteen. They hired a pair of Red Wolf guards as escorts and were discussing the possibility of making a wager on the final Brawl as they left. Loudin spent one of his earned gold pieces on a prime place to watch Ungol and the Westlander fight. There was more at stake than wealth in the next bout, and the odds seemed stacked against him, and his battered fighter, as well.
Loudin cringed when he got another good look at the Lion Lord. The man’s face was swollen, his eyes nearly shut. He was just a bit smaller than Ungol, but wiry and corded. He was bruised purple across his back, as if he’d been bashed with a tree branch or an ax handle. He walked with a slight limp. Loudin had to fight to keep from grinding his teeth apart. Then Overlord Perrywyne slipped onto the bench beside him and grinned as if he’d
already won. Now Loudin wouldn’t even have the chance to run.
When the horn blew, and the two combatants squared off, the Lion let out a roar that strangely calmed Loudin. The call was as full of rage, as it was pride. It was the sort of call a man makes on the battle field when he knows he has to fight or die. It was the sound a man makes when he is about to give his all.
Loudin noticed that there were several Westland soldiers, and a huge Lord sporting the Westland gold and green, staring at the Overlord beside him. Loudin had to shake his head. Fat Overlord Perrywyne must have bet the fat Lord of the West a large sum that Ungol would prevail. The simple fact that the Westlanders all looked as if they expected to win was enough to give Loudin hope. When the Lion Lord of Westland started fighting, Loudin’s full attention was on the fighting circle. After a few minutes he started laughing and couldn’t stop.
Ungol moved like he was stuck in molasses. His slow laborious swings went whooshing over the Lion’s head. In return, the lanky fighter exploded into Ungol’s ribs with a series of quick repetitive blows that only seemed to get more vicious the longer the flurry lasted.
Ungol brought up his knee and lifted the Lion by his chin. The move took the crowd’s breath away, and caused the Dakaneese slave lord beside Loudin to get in a laugh of his own. The Lion Lord landed badly. Loudin could tell he waseHeHe only half conscious, because he stumbled sideways, like a drunkard, when he tried to get up. Finally he stopped weaving and hunched over with his hands on his knees. Lord Lion was looking at the packed earth and slobbering strands of dark blood from his mouth.
Loudin’s heart sank as Ungol went stepping in to punt the Lion’s unprotected face. He couldn’t watch, so he put his face in his hands. The sudden gasping intake of breath from the Overlord beside him caused him to look though. It had only been a second, but here was the Westlander holding Ungol’s foot, while Ungol landed hard on the back of his head.
Instead of pouncing, as everyone expected, Lord Lion went forward with Ungol’s leg and flipped him. First the pit fighter’s knees, then his feet, slapped hard into the ground, then the Lion was on Ungol’s back. In less than a heartbeat he was expertly choking his opponent from behind. He stayed that way until Ungol went slack and he was finally called out as the winner.
The wave of relief that washed over Loudin was palpable, like being splashed with cold water on a sweltering day. The man beside him was feeling no such elation, for the Westland soldiers were closing in. They looked to outnumber the Dakaneese by three to one. Loudin didn’t care, his debt to Perrywyne was settled, and he still had a fine sack of coins to collect from the gambling pavilion. Nine coins to one, the Lion Lord of Westland had earned him. He was amazed. He could pay off the rest of his debts and have plenty left over. He knew he wasn’t betting against Lord Lion in the Brawl, but he wasn’t certain the wily man could win. He decided it didn’t matter. He was relieved at being out from under Perrywyne’s thumb. As he strode away, Loudin pumped his fist up into the sky and let out a heartfelt roar of his own.
Thus Ends “ROAR” A Wardstone Short.
Loudin Drake, and the Lion Lord of Westland are characters in The Wardstone Trilogy. The results of Lord Lion’s Brawl, and a whole cast of characters, both great and small, await in Book One – The Sword and the Dragon - A spectacular 235k word epic fantasy novel.
To read a huge free on-screen preview please visit: www.mrmathias.com
Or start reading ‘The Sword & the Dragon’ on your kindle here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B003X9775Q
Here is some Wardstone Flash Fiction for you to enjoy as well
The Blood of Coldfrost (A Wardstone Short)
by M. R. Mathias
Copyright 2010