75 A Risky Gambit

The round of eight, if anything, was less of a challenge than any of the previous rounds. Maybe it was just his luck that he'd face stiff competition so early, but his opponent had seemed to barely know how to hold a weapon. Jacob shook his head. That wasn't quite true; he'd just grown used to competing with the likes of Cynthia and training against Provost Thomson.

Offering a hand to his fallen opponent, Jacob glanced towards the nobles' boxes. Though she was quite difficult to see at this distance, Angelica was most assuredly busy not caring about the events of the tournament. A part of that indifference got a rise out of him, but Jacob stifled it.

Cynthia, unsurprisingly, won her own match. It was much more exciting than his own, her longsword swinging near constantly. A flurry of blows meant to confound and trap the spear-wielder in front of her. Both of them utilized shields, but both of them seemed equally determined to ignore them. For Cynthia, it was because she didn't need it. For her opponent? There simply wasn't enough time to raise her arm.

The round of eight concluded with pomp and circumstance. These had been the quarterfinals, and the Duke was going to milk the event for everything it was worth. Jacob was ushered away from his seating in the now remarkably empty competitors' section and into some kind of back room away from the stadium.

Cynthia joined him. "I'd say I'm surprised to see you here, but you got matched with easily the weakest person left," she said, leaning against one of the small room's walls. Jacob resisted giving her the side-eye; this was probably as close to a compliment as he could come with Cynthia.

"Your match was very well done as well, Cynthia. You're facing the last free warrior, correct?" he asked politely. Cynthia shrugged in response.

"I suppose I am, but it's not like they'll be able to beat me. I've been watching him throughout the past two rounds. His method of fighting is… unorthodox. No, it's repugnant. Your style, Jacob, is an affront to everything a proper warrior should aspire to. But his is an attack on honor in general. Two daggers, like some kind of assassin. Anyone with half a head can see how this is going to go down," Cynthia sighed, as if her opponent weren't worth her time.

Jacob wanted to discuss strategy with his begrudging ally, but she slid down the wall and started to snore. "You've got to be kidding," Jacob whispered. Crouching down and staring her dead in the eye, she didn't flinch so much as a muscle. Cynthia, if insufferable, would make for an excellent soldier. Few were capable of falling asleep at such short notice. Cynthia had a real talent for it.

No other warriors entered the room, evidently separated by the institution they were representing, but the music from the festivities outside reverberated throughout the building, jaunty pipers' tunes carrying the crowd to a jovial frenzy. And just when the crowd reached a fever pitch, the music stopped. It was time, then.

Summoning a small globe of water, Jacob dropped it on top of the sleeping Cynthia's head. She woke with a start, sputtering and cursing. She fixed a glare on Jacob and was about to say something when one of the tournament officials opened the door to their room. Praising his savior, Jacob escaped through the open door.

However, as the music faded into memory, Jacob felt the tension return. But it was only when he caught sight of other servants, iron collars around their necks that his fury returned. Duke Hycinth was nothing more than a puppet of the King, a mouthpiece for the cruelty that continued in perpetuity throughout the kingdom.

Jacob gripped his sword until his knuckles grew white. He had only suffered this injustice for a fraction of the time that others had. Winning… maybe it was beyond him, but there was a real chance. His green cape marked him as one of the King's, but the King was far from here. His collar protested these mutinous thoughts, heating up and scalding him. Turning his thoughts to instead at the fight ahead of him, a small part of him knew that it would take more than this to break him.

Stepping into the sunlight, Jacob felt the sand of the arena floor under his feet once more. His opponent, the warrior from Dauntless, had already taken his place at the opposite end of the field. Wielding a war hammer fitting for a giant, Jacob felt his anger and confidence dissipate into nervousness. Getting hit by that thing would do more than just injure him… it could kill him if he wasn't careful. While killing wasn't exactly encouraged, Jacob was a servant. His life was meaningless compared to the other warriors around him.

The announcer began his spiel. "Delton Drayr from the Dauntless Blade College facing Jacob of Leafburrow from Relentless Blade College! These two warriors are consummate in skill, and their clash will be nothing short of extraordinary, I am sure! On my count, warriors!"

"One!" Jacob breathed, tempering his emotions.

"Two!" Jacob settled into his stance, sinking slightly into the ground and placing his sword in front of him.

"Three!" Jacob launched off like an arrow, hoping to mitigate his opponent's distance advantage. Delton, to his credit, understood immediately what Jacob was trying to do. Swinging his hammer in wide, sweeping arcs, Delton forestalled any of Jacob's attempts to step forward. It was almost like he had built an impassable wall.

Delton, capitalizing on Jacob's inability to move anywhere but backwards, started to push him towards the edge of the arena, to where there would be no further retreat. Sweat ran down Jacob's brow. His magic was unavailable to him as per the rules of the tournament, and though he could use it to save his life, if needed, it would get him removed from the contest. He didn't want that.

Instead, Jacob bet everything on a single play. Delton's hammer swung around once again, and Jacob stepped forward as it passed through the bottom-most part of its path. He'd have a few seconds to reach and attack the burly man. Jacob lifted his sword… and screamed.

His foe's hammer found itself a home in Jacob's side in one moment, tossing Jacob away like an unwanted sack of potatoes in another. Pain erupted, and his vision blurred. Coughing up saliva, Jacob fought to stand up to face his grinning opponent. He tried to take a step, but found that he couldn't. Any movement was too much for his ribs, which were certainly broken.

Delton knew this, and his march forward was as terrible as it was inevitable. Jacob knew that he'd need to surrender. As his mouth opened, however, he caught eyes with a few of the servants that stood at the edge of the stands, leaning into the arena. Their eyes were filled with hope, and a few waved encouragement. Jacob's mouth closed.

The hammer swung once more, coming down on Jacob's head, if he had stood still. Instead, Jacob dove forward, sword outstretched as if he had become a human missile. His blade took Delton in the chest, just shy of any critical organs. Jacob's spatha went through the armor, fracturing as Jacob put all of his might into a last-ditch attempt. Fortunately, though the blow itself was relatively minor, it was enough force to cause Delton to tumble backwards as if he were a century-old tree. He collapsed with as much grace as one, too.

If Lady Luck were on his side, Jacob figured this was the best proof of it. Delton had hit his head just right to knock himself out. And with that, the match was his. An exhausted smile dancing on his lips, Jacob tumbled into an oblivion of his own.