When the Heavy Gate opened and the godjinn Jhuuba reached through it nearly a century ago, the sprawling desert northwest of the city sprung to life in response. The Nam-Yensa desert became the Nam-Yensa sandsea, a sprawling expanse perpetually churning and shifting on the whims of the Earthen deity. The city of Moghad stood just past the southeastern edge of the Nam-Yensa sandsea like a gateway to the Yol-Jhuuba principalities beyond.
The thriving city offered a number of amenities, not the least of which was the arena. Every city of any renown in Akkreja held an arena; in smaller cities the arena might double as the public square. Though the kingdoms of Yol-Jhuuba did not hold physical combat in the same regard as their equatorial neighbors, Moghad's proximity to Akkreja ensured a bustling, well regarded arena flourished there too. Inside it, in a broad lobby reserved for contestants, not spectators, a young man argued his case to one of the arena's many employees.
He'd expected more from this place. More theming: dirt and dust, glistening gems, or solid stone intricately carved by expert masons like in the stories his countrymen told about this place. Yol-Jhuuba, a sprawling land of mines and merchants formed less than a century ago from the more than two-dozen fiefdoms that dotted the stonelands. The country lay less than a week's journey southeast of his homeland of Akkreja, assuming a smooth trip across the unpredictable sandsea.
Travelers' tales swore that in Yol-Jhuuba, (frequently shortened to 'Yolj') a man's worth was measured by his money, not his might, and freedom was bought, not earned. Isaiah Wylde looked forward to discovering for himself what kind of place so many of his fellow initiates from the Wylde school had traveled to in order to test their mettle and their spellcraft.
He'd expected glitzy, ostentatious splendor and feverish movement and noise from a sprawling port city that might as well be one giant bazaar. Who wouldn't want to sign up for an arena this big, this widely advertised throughout the city? Instead, the broad youth stood in a long chamber ringed by drab, sand-colored walls. A solitary employee stood behind the counter at the end of the near empty room, yawning and staring at a clock near the counter.
Isaiah Wylde rolled his neck, took a deep breath, and prepared to change his whole life.
“I'm here to fight. Where do I sign up?” He smiled, dark red eyes catching the sunlight through a window. He was here to take his place among the proud lineage of Wylde Style fighters who'd traveled the land sharpening their signature style until they were ready to return to the school, complete their initiation via sundance, and earn the title of Wylde disciple. Isaiah had come here to write the next chapter of his own story and the school's.
But the woman behind the counter couldn't care less.
He repeated himself, louder this time, looking to elicit a greater reaction than disinterest. His sturdy shoulders twitched with nervous energy, and he ran a thick hand across the low tower of tightly coiled ash gray hair atop his head.
“Sorry... who're you?” The arena's employee answered, her voice sleepy and apathetic.
“I'm a Wylde Initiate, though you probably knew that from the tunic and sash...” He smiled sheepishly. He'd removed the sleeves of his school's signature tunic enough to show off his impressive muscles. The cord marked him as an initiate wound around his bicep, its near-white color bright against his rich brown skin.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” The slender woman asked, and she and the would-be competitor shared a confused stare while they each expected the other to explain themselves. Isaiah found his resolve first. He swallowed hard and explained the world as he knew it.
“The Wylde School is one of the most popular endeavors,”
“Endeavors?”
“Endeavors. You know, groups. Schools. Warbands.” He gestured. “The Wylde School is, was one of the fastest growing in Amaru. In Akkreja.” He explained, more nervously than he'd intended. Everyone knew the city of Amaru and there was no need to explain the nation it sat in. “We're not as storied as the oldest ones, but we're growing quickly. Or... at least... we were.” The color drained from his face as he tried to shrug off the nightmarish memory he'd mistakenly unearthed. “The students have to leave the school and travel to finish their initiation, and a lot of the Wylde initiates came here to fight in the arena for a few months or a few years.”
“I don't think so...” the woman cocked her head to the side, partially covering her tan colored skin with her loosely curled auburn hair. “I've been working here for half a year and you're the first person I've ever seen dressed like that.”
His deep red eyes widened, and his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths that lifted and dropped the scuffed metal chest plate sewn into his tunic. Had it been a year? Could it have been? His fists tightened until he consciously unwound them like massive knots. He'd so far avoided thinking about the last time he'd seen the Wylde School, or the reason he'd left. But that was becoming increasingly impossible to do, and the memories that followed sent chills across his skin that even his flame magicks couldn't quell.
“Where's Ruth?” He tried to regain the confidence in his voice, to sound like the reliable man he needed to be now and now the cocky teen he'd been.
“Ruth?”
Sheist. Did this sleepy-eyed woman know any words that weren't questions? He ground his teeth and tried to imagine a flame burning in a fire pit. Burning bright, hot, but contained, useful. Warm. He needed to be that flame.
“Ruth Obeya. She ran this place. Every Wylde that came back to Amaru mentioned that all they had to do was show their tunic and sash and 'Aunty Ruth' saw to it they were taken care of. Apparently, the teachers at the school maintained some kind of agreement with her.”
“I... think I've heard of her?” The woman put her finger on her cheek, light brown eyes staring at the tiles of the ceiling as if someone had stuck an answer up there. Isaiah Wylde dropped his traveling bag from his shoulder and imagined that campfire again. It wavered beneath the cold night winds but stayed lit, perched above the logs that were its throne. The cowardly night could not swallow it. The profane screeches of the wind could not quench it, try as they might. He was that sacred flame.
“I'm here to sign up for a fight. If you don't know Ruth, bring me someone you do know. Someone who knows more people than you do.”
The woman met his gaze with her own defiance. For a moment the young sunland man worried that she might tell him to go pound sand or kick rocks or count pebbles or some other Yolj idiom. Instead, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned away from him. It was only after she left that Isaiah realized he did not remember if she was attractive or not. Was this a sign of some burgeoning maturity, of an ability to stop evaluating every man and woman he encountered as a potential bedmate? Or had he simply been too anxious and frustrated by turns to consider anything beyond the bright future she seemed intent on obscuring?
The clerk returned, and the stern eyed man she brought with her was a far cry from every definition his schoolmates had ever given of “Auntie Ruth.” A smile did not ever crease his light brown face the entire time he spoke with Isaiah, and his wavy brown hair hung loose onto the shoulders of his ornate blue and gold tunic. It was clear at a glance who was the superior and who was the clerk between the two Yol-Jhubba citizens behind the counter.
“Rozette says she hasn't recognized one name you'd said since you arrived. And that you won't go away either. So out with it, sunlander. What do you want?”
But worse than all the rest of him combined were his eyes. Cold and intense, as if scouring everything within view. Appraising its value. The way this man stared at him, Isaiah might as well be a cheap vase, or a lame calf.
“I'm here. To. Fight. You've got an arena. You hold sundances. I need a partner and an audience.” The young man forced himself to meet the proprietor's gaze. “Now I don't know if Ruth Obeya still runs this place or not bu-”
“She doesn't, though I love the way you Akkreja talk about duels. 'Sundance' is such a poetic term.” He inserted with a smirk before urging Isaiah to continue speaking with a wave of his ringed fingers.
“But I've got two fists and a dream. I'm Isaiah Wylde, speaker of Summer's Advance. I get lit like a sunwolf and brawl like a coalossus. So burn the sheist and tell me what I have to do to get on the next slate of fights.” Isaiah's passion burned in every word, and the heavy medallions on the chains around his neck clanged against his chest plate with each animated gesture. He didn't unclench his fists this time. Unfortunately, our next slate is in 4 days. Unless you're princess Khrudra herself, there's no way I can get you on that card. Can't be done.” His expression remained sharp and hard as flint as he stared down the hulking youth. “Go home. Come back in a week for the next card. Preferably with the blessing of a patron willing to finance your competition”
Isaiah finally heard an opening. It sounded like coins falling onto a scale.
“Shiest. Of course this is about money...” He muttered to himself, kneeling down to dig his coin purse out of the large bag he'd dropped on the floor. “Shady-ass coin counters...” With the latter again secured to his torso, he stood, dangling the heavy burlap sack just above the counter.
“So what's it going to take to get me in that arena?”
The shrewd man with the piercing eyes and regal robes ignored his question. “Well then. Since you're a serious competitor, you've bought a little of my time. Rozette; show him to one of the upstairs rooms. I'll meet you there shortly.”
——————————————————
The room Rozette showed him was the first he'd seen that matched the vision of Yol-Jhuuba that his friends at the Wylde School had described. The details were subtle and he was no stonemason, but even to his untrained eye the fixtures upstairs seemed more carefully considered. Gems embedded in corners or capstones, shining metals inlaid onto solid stone. An array of massive cushions, each sewn with a differently colored and patterned fabric, covered the floor while plush recliners stood flush against the wall. Isaiah prepared to step over one to find a place to sit when the woman behind him cleared her throat. A pile of sandals and boots near the door made their expectations clear.
Isaiah rolled his eyes and unstrapped his boots—removing one's shoes wasn't a foreign custom to him. But the way everyone's demeanor had changed once he'd produced a bag of coins nauseated him. He truly wasn't in Akkreja anymore. Several travelers from outside the sunlands had commented on the peculiar Akkreja distrust of merchants, particularly wealthy ones. He'd brushed it off then. Now he felt it more acutely.
While Yol-Jhuuba contained the Heavy Gate from whence the godjinn Jhuuba had emerged less than a century ago, Akkreja was the land of Akkra. The godjinn of the sun served as namesake to Isaiah's nation and sat at the center of the Bright Gate that fueled their magick when it opened several centuries ago.
In the history the Akkreja passed down amongst themselves, when Ajanni and Kya and the rest of the Sunwolves fought a war to open the Bright Gate, the continent's largest, most prosperous merchants had opposed them at every turn. Again and again these traders and bankers and merchants sided with their opponents. Again and again the Sunwolves overcame better armed, better fed, better supplied troops. They proved the sneering, swindling merchants wrong in the end. The cruelest and most untrustworthy of these traders among them paid for that miscalculation with their lives, their massive storehouses emptied and distributed among Akkra's faithful. Merchants were selfish and greedy; nothing he'd seen today challenged that notion
Only when he took a seat did he realize that there wasn't a straight-backed seat anywhere in the room.
“As crooked as their dealings” He smiled to himself.
“How do you find the accommodations?” A voice asked before its owner came into view. The back wall of the room shimmered like a curtain and the man from before stepped through. His expression had softened, if only slightly, and he still wore the same blue and golden tunic from last time, though he'd shed some of his rings and his long hair looked more stiffly coiled than it had downstairs. Isaiah looked around and discovered that Rozette stood near the entry he himself had used, now holding a bundle of papers and a more alert expression than the one she'd worn downstairs.
Isaiah began to stand and greet the still nameless man in earnest before his guest waved him off. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I insist.” He explained before reclining on the nearest cushion.
Now it was Isaiah Wylde's turn to narrow his eyes and stare intently. His host offered tea, then coffee, both likely harvested from the fields of Akkreja, though the plains to the southeast of Moghad were also said to be fertile. The brawny youth declined both, unable to mask his unease.
“Ah. A man of business. My favorite.” His smile bared no teeth and conveyed something that only passed for warmth. “Where were we downstairs?”
“You were going to tell me how much of my coin purse you would take before you opened the arena gates. And after that I hoped you'd tell me your name.”
“You're from Amaru, aren't you?” The implication wasn't lost on the young, dark-skinned man with curly gray hair cut like a high carpet of smoke atop his otherwise closely shaved head. Akkreja was a nation of bishops and warriors, of might and magic. Or so the stereotypes told. But among its great cities, Amaru stood alone as the center of the nation's martial efforts. The Amaru, more an attitude and a region than a distinct people group, valued might over magicks or manners or music. It was no wonder the Wylde School had been planted there and flourished.
“I am.” Isaiah cracked his knuckles and rose to the stereotype. If the man wanted to cast him as an artless thug, let him. He pondered how many soldiers might pour through the back wall should he lunge at his host. He wondered if any would arrive in time to save the man. “And you're....”
“Hezekiah.” The man finally explained with a flourish of his hand. “Hezekiah Thaumah. Master of the Moghad Arena.”
“Isaiah Wylde. Speaker of the Flame that Survived the Night”
“Yes, I meant to ask about that. I'm not terribly up to date on the happenings across the sandsea but I'd heard that the Wylde School had closed after some tragedy. But here you are...” The edge in his voice expected an answer
“How can the school be closed if I'm here, wearing its colors and insignia?” Isaiah shrugged, digging into the thigh pocket of his shortened trousers, then abandoning the search a few moments later. “When Ruth ran this place, Initiates from the school came here to complete their training, sharpen their skills, and prepare to come back to the school and earn their full discipleship. Now it's my turn.”
“Ah yes. So you said downstairs. Let's discuss the realities of that ritual, shall we. 'Melt the ore' if you will.”
Isaiah didn't, couldn't fully follow the way Hezekiah talked, not once he began discussing the terms and conditions of entry into the arena. Instead the tall youth picked out enough words and phrases to follow along and tried his best not to look bewildered. But each time he asked the bright-eyed merchant to slow down or repeat himself, Hezekiah explained himself again in even more complex terms. It was as clear as mud and smelled twice as bad.
What was clear was that he'd fight 3 matches, with the first in only a few days. As he understood it, the majority of fighters found local patrons to finance their use of the arena's accommodations, including rest and recuperation after fights and promotion of them and their fights around the city and beyond. His 3 fights would instead be his live audition to prove he was a marketable fighter and attract a wealthy patron who would finance his future fights. The idea was overly complicated, but he was certain he understood enough. Once he got his hands on some poor, overmatched Yolj warrior on the payroll of some hard eyed merchant with more coins than humanity, the rest of the arrangement would fall into place.
“So what kinds of sundances do you hold here?”
“What do you mean?”
“What city's style do you follow? Royal Guard? Iron Fist? Street Clash? Tour-” Isaiah counted them off on his fingers. A sundance in Akkreja might take any of a dozen different forms; each set of rules governed how many fighters competed for any side and how they were permitted to engage each other. The variety often kept any single group or warband from claiming total dominance over a city.
Hezekiah shrugged. “Nothing so formal. We entertain the crowd and put on fights with warriors who keep their coins flowing like wine. Expect the unexpected.”
“Yeah. Unexpected.” Isaiah's voice dripped skepticism, signing on the presented contract. “So you take the coins, and I show up four days from now and bust ass. That shines. I'm with it.”
“Close enough, but there is one lingering question.” The arena leader asked. “This is just enough to pay the fees for a single bout. I assume you have the rest stored with a local banker?”
Isaiah sat up right, now fully aware. “The rest of what? You said that would cover my entry!”
“Yes. The first bout of your audition. Did you miss the part where discussed the amenities, the shared costs, the licenses, the pre-promotion, the-”
“Shiest!” Isaiah roared, gathering his composure. The image of the campfire loomed large in his mind as he tried his very best not to burn the room down with the three of them still inside it. He'd somehow gotten a raw deal trying to use his one verifiable skill in this ugly, ashen town. His blood boiled. His red eyes caught a beam of sunlight and nearly glowed in the dusk.
And then he caught himself.
He rose off the couch and decided what would follow. In all likelihood he could murder this man, but what would that get him? Notoriety? A manhunt? He still had his two siblings to look out for. Yael and Yve expected him home with money, not a bounty, and he couldn't very well relight the Wylde School while fleeing pursuers across the shiesting Nam-Yensa.
No, his choice was clear and unpleasant when he faced the smug merchant. “You've got 4 days before I step on someone's chest and hear the crowds cheer my name. 'Isaiah Wylde.' Make sure your announcer says it correctly.”
Their business temporarily concluded; the two men left the room. Rozette escorted Isaiah back to the larger first floor chamber, this time flanked by stern looking guards. Isaiah had the distinct feeling that this wasn't the first time they'd escorted a disgruntled fighter. But his money was gone, the contract was signed, and his chest burned. He'd miscalculated, misheard, misstepped. But he wasn't beaten yet. He could still make good on his plan to get rich and his promise to the two young orphans of the Wylde School that'd become his siblings during their years of training. None of them had any family past the school. With it now a smoking ruin, they were the only family any of them had left.
But sentimentality and oaths didn't account for much, especially not here in a land of cold coins and colder hearts. As he left the arena, Isaiah Wylde jammed his hands into his pockets and prepared to make a house call. He hadn't known long but he knew him well. Isaiah had to bet that a passionate night and an earnest plea would be enough to scrounge up enough coins from his new paramour to place a bet on himself. That was the only way he'd earn enough to finance his next two bouts.
It wasn't a great plan, admittedly. Too many things could go wrong. But as long as he could make it to the arena, he had a fighting chance.
——————————————————————————————
He'd been here before, but he'd never been here before. His hometown's arena was smaller, more intimate. This was a colosseum worthy of the name: The sand crunched beneath his boots. The crowd of thousands stared from above and around him. The sights and sounds awed him and frayed his nerves. The thud of the wrought iron gate slamming behind him did nothing to ameliorate that anxiety. The city of Moghad was a major port town on the edge of the Nam-Yensa sandsea, a city large enough to rival all but the biggest of Akkreja's sprawling fortress town cities.
The pitched battles of the Moghad Colosseum were little like those that he'd grown up with in the neighboring country of Akkreja. There, duels called sundances were as common as they were formalized. One might fight for pride or to settle a grudge or for fame, but there was largely a camaraderie between fighters, and between fighters and audience.
Here? This fight felt cold and informal. He barely knew his partner's name and only learned his opponent's names when the announcer bellowed them, using magick to ensure his voice echoed throughout the open-air arena. Reyjan was the big one with the hammer, billed as hailing from the frozen tundra of Ozljan, in the south. Lana was the tall one with the spear and introduced as coming from Almastre, on the continent's southeast edge. This wasn't friendly competition or sport or pride. This was about money, the way that everything in the country of Yol-Jhuuba was.
The bustling city of Moghad sat just across the sandsea from his homeland of Akkreja and had been a part of the latter a hundred years ago. The connection was obvious, but it seemed to Isaiah that each custom or tradition that he recognized from the sunlands had been twisted to serve the local obsession with commerce and greed.
The announcer introduced him first, with as little enthusiasm as Isaiah had ever heard from someone hired to say the names of fighters and shout their exploits. The crowd gave a modest woop at the mention of the Wylde school; it warmed Isaiah to know that rumors of the school's demise hadn't fully soured its reputation or reception.
But he was here to brawl, not bask in adoration. They'd all know more about the Wylde school soon enough. “We didn't get much time to strategize back there.” Isaiah admitted, turning to his partner after the announcer introduced their opponents.
“Don't overthink it. You're new: just try not to get in my way.” The woman replied, barely sparing a glance for the tall youth the arena's promoters had paired him with. Isaiah Wylde tried once more to suggest a strategy: at the very least they should each focus on one opponent each, but the stout, plump woman ignored him. Her dismissiveness was a shame too; the way her heavy armor hung on her sturdy frame suggested sensuous curves that would have been popular in Akkreja. Perhaps she’d be more open to his advances once she saw him in action.
Instead, he looked around the sand-strewn arena, searching for obstacles or useful features: stone columns jutted out from the sand in irregular intervals and angles and on one side the sand gave way to dirt and grass. He couldn't tell from here if the dirt was solid or muddy or how sturdy the stone was. Jhuuba was the godjinn of fields and lands: Isaiah figured that the earth beneath his boots was as much a part of the battle as his opponents were.
With so much about this fight different and new, the burly fighter had barely seen his 19th summer. Now he needed to see a path to victory. His familiar tunic hung on his tall, broad frame; red and beige fabric contrasting against his dark brown skin. The fabric was thick and sturdy, and he’d further reinforced it by means of a broad, metal chestplate. With his size and strength, the weight was easy for him to carry.
He'd tied a brightly colored sash around his bicep. The same sash that marked him as a disciple of the Wylde school. He'd cut his trousers just below the knee, bearing his shins between the fabric and his boots. Some of the adjustments were in line with the fashions of his homeland. Some were merely vain, like the way he’d removed the sleeves from his tunic to reveal his muscular shoulders and the top of his ribs.
His opponents were similarly dressed in clothing both informed by their separate homelands and their shared purpose. Each came from a different edge of the continent: a broad, hulking man clad in the armor of the frozen south: bone and leather and metal and fur. The woman beside him wore light armor and clothing cut into an odd, unfamiliar style. Had the announcer not announced her from the eastern coast of the continent he would have never guessed. The young Wylde disciple looked forward to violent introductions to their culture.
The pairs approached each other, sizing each other up. Men and women fought alongside each other and against each other almost everywhere across the continent; the arena was no exception. Gender was no predictor of ability. His partner held a large sword and an even larger shield and Isaiah realized for the first time that he couldn't remember the woman’s name. Ruth? Eola? Sia? He shook his head and tried to shed his goofy grin. It was certainly too late to ask.
She'd have to be “Shield” for tonight. Akkreja fighters of almost all stripes and styles shunned shields: the best defense was a better offense. Watching his partner heft the unwieldy hunk of metal was fascinating in its own right.
“Ready to lose, sunny?” The woman with the spear sneered, brandishing her polearm with a spinning flourish before settling into her stance. Small trinkets on the handle of her weapon matched those on her clothes, jingling softly with each movement.
“They're gonna carry you out of here on a stretcher, ashy!” The big man with the bigger hammer added.
“Y’all aren’t ready for this. I'm gonna melt y'all.” Isaiah met their taunts with wild excitement, grinning from ear to ear. The fighters stared at their opponents and partner, waiting for the bell to begin the fight until Isaiah slipped into a speech as familiar as a straight punch.
“Each Wylde tells a story with their body and soul,” began the creed each Wylde school member recited before sundances. He slammed his wrapped fists together for emphasis. “I speak mine each time I burst into sacred flame.” The broad youth struck his fists past each other, and both ignited like torches. His partner and opponents alike stared at the roaring flames ensconcing his fists as he brought them near his face and assumed a fighter's stance. He was the only one unbothered by the heat pouring off his hands. “I am Isaiah Wylde, speaker of Summer's Advance.”
Each Wylde creed started the same way and ended with the name of the fighter's style, but the rest of each creed was as unique as the school's adherents and their fighting styles.
The man with the hammer snorted dismissively. “Some dazzled parlor trick, no doubt. We're gonna put those flames out reeeeeal quick.”
The bell rang and the fight was on, for real. His opponents and partner had been introduced as each sponsored by one of the local merchant lords. They’d live to fight another day regardless of the outcome. By contrast, all of his money, and with them, his future, rested on the outcome of this fight.
Money meant power in the merchant kingdoms of Yol-Jhuuba, and Isaiah had bet every penny of his on himself tonight. Failure meant financial ruin and indentured servitude in a foreign land. He had to win. His younger siblings needed him.
Isaiah Wyle tucked his fists close to his face and circled, leaping back out of the arc of the hammer that slammed down with enough force to dent the sand. He prepared to step forward and reengage when Lana and her spear surged toward him. He couldn't back away fast enough to keep her polearm from digging into her chest, near his arm. A shallow wound but enough to draw blood and cheers. “Wait your turn, welp. We'll deal with you in due time.”
The woman's skin was the color of beach sand, and her eyes and wavy hair both featured distinctive green tints. She was lithe, well-muscled but thin by sunlands standards. Sundance partner often became bed partners in Akkreja, but this spearfighter hadn’t caught his fancy.
Yet.
Lana kept her spear pointed at Isaiah as he circled, both warriors measuring each other. Isaiah broke their stalemate, feinting to one side before coming straight at her. She responds by tracing a small arc in the air with her spear. The small shape hung in the air, glowing faintly until he approached. It exploded in a flash of light and the muscular brawler slid backwards, forearms nearly touching his raised guard. Lana cackled as she lept back, spear in constant motion as she traced enough scrawls and scribbles between them to make a minefield. “Don't hurt yourself too badly figuring that one out; I need you lively enough for us to finish you later.”
She turned away from and leapt towards Isaiah's partner, content to leave the newcomer to his own devices. Isaiah considered his situation; his partner held a large shield and would have to fend for herself for at least a little while. What else was the point of that big hunk of metal? Lana's strange magicks hung in the air, rising and falling like buoys on the open ocean, humming softly like crystals plucked from the earth. He strafed and circled, judging the thicket of spellcraft. The magicks nearest him slowly drifted in his direction. That was useful, somehow.
He just couldn't figure out how.
Isaiah considered taking a running start and clearing the magicks in one mighty leap, but he'd be an easy target while hurtling through the air. He dipped into an uppercut sending a gout of flame upwards into the nearest one. It exploded with a soft pop, the magick wisps fizzling out of existence with none of the sharp pain that he'd experienced running headlong into the first one.
Past the low hanging magick threats, his partner was already faring poorly. The crowd cheered as the warrior from Yol-Jhuuba began to wither beneath the tanned woman's prodding and the thudding blows from the large man's oversized hammer. The crowd cheered each impact, and Isaiah felt a rising sense of urgency tugging at him. It wasn't that he didn't trust himself to defeat both warriors.
He didn't want to have to.
He didn't want a stigma as a bad partner. He didn't want to have to defend himself or his tactics later. He didn't want to leave here with regrets: as long as left here with a dub he wouldn't have to. An idea coalesced as he paced. Something risky and ill-advised and very, very appealing. His stance loosened, and the young man took a deep breath, swaying in place. A small flame was thoughtless. This plan would need more.
The Wylde school, when it still existed, emphasized diversity of thought and form to address common need and purpose. Rather than rigid forms, the Wylde School offered goals and purposes that each student satisfied with a specific movement of their own choosing. Once decided, the initiated student refined each movement to better serve that goal. One might deploy a swift kick or an elbow or a straight punch to fulfill the need of a “fast strike to the upper body.”
“Nah... I got this. I'm not going out like that.” He muttered to himself. “Just gotta...” He'd practiced this technique ten thousand times, he thought, taking a half step back to ensure proper spacing with the slowly drifting scrawls. His body coiled like a spring, and he ducked to one side before rising with a ferocious uppercut that summoned a flame nearly as tall as he was. His version of the Wylde upper, its spacing modified. Typically it ended with his fist crashing into someone's jaw. Tonight his fist never made contact with Lana's strange magick, but the flames that followed his punch flung the menacing curl of magick backwards a moment before it detonated. That was enough to set off the ones behind it, and though the domino effect stopped short of consuming every scrap of magic the Eastern woman had laid between them, it was more than enough for Isaiah to cover the distance with a single leap.
“And the Wylde boy takes flight!” The announcer bellowed, his voice enhanced by spellcraft, and Isaiah had just enough time to feel annoyed that the man had ruined his violence. surprise. His fist still alight, the Wylde youth swung down at the nearest target: the big man with the large beard and the bigger hammer. Up close it looked like it was made of bone, more a club than a proper hammer. The sunland's schools taught that the people of the frozen south fashioned all manner of weapon and charm and tool from the giant beasts and ur-trees that populated the region. He'd never gotten to see one of their weapons or suits of armor up close.
His punch missed when the burly man draped in furs leapt towards his own target. Isaiah skidded across the rough dirt of the arena in time to see his two opponents attack the hapless woman with the shield in tandem. The local fighter held up her shield and sword, wavering between the predators harassing her like a scared doe.
In the end she managed to block neither of them, and Isaiah cursed aloud when the hammer slammed into her thighs and the spear stabbed into her back so fast he feared it might come out the other side. The two blows came from opposite angles and sent the heavyset woman spinning in the air. She landed with an ugly thud; her armaments fell out the air and landed out of arm's reach a moment later. Isaiah wasn't the only one who winced.
But the real surprise came afterwards, when the woman laid there, staring up at the dusk sky, moaning.
“Akkra's ashes...” Isaiah swore. “Get up!” The blow had been brutal to be sure, but he expected a grown woman—a trained fighter no less—to endure at least a few of those. The Yolj fighter couldn't have exhausted her soul that quickly, could she?
The only other option was that she'd surrendered, choosing not to rise, but that was unthinkable. Fighters fought, for money or pride or love, but they fought. This was a capitulation. Shameful.
Though this arena might operate with different rules than the Akkreja sundances that inspired it, a fighter laying on the ground was a universal sign of incapacitation or surrender. The man's chest rose and fell at regular intervals; fights were seldom to the death, but she might as well be dead for as much help as she'd be to Isaiah. The crowd counted along with the announcer as his partner was counted out, formally turning their 2-against-2 into a handicapped match.
His opponents turned to him in unison, haughty smiles plastered on their faces.
“Awwww, too bad, sunlander. You're such a shitty, irresponsible teammate that you got your very first partner knocked out without either of you laying a hand on your opponents.”
“So much for Wylde teamwork.” The bearded man laughed. “Izmael will be feeling that one for a week, healer or not.”
His fists tightened at the insult. He moved to answer before the tall woman interrupted him
“So much for Wyldes in general.” Lana added. “Now, Reyjan, what do you say we put this pup to bed?”
Isaiah's eyes went wide at the threat. “Me? I couldn't lose to y'all if I closed my eyes and sat down.” His waning flames flickered back to life with his renewed determination. Y'all are kindling for the flames. Bait for wolves.”
“Big words from a boy who's done literally nothing. You're light work, ashmonger.”
“Bet!” Isaiah yelled, already running headlong at them. “Light? Nah. I'm flames, and this is lit!”
He'd long grown used to being at a reach disadvantage; such was the reality of bringing only wrapped hands to contend with all sorts of spellcraft and weaponry. The trick was gauging that reach, learning the opponent's range and timing. He'd long since learned how to compress his soul, blunting the force of an incoming blow to deliver one of his own. Once he'd closed the gap he'd trust his own timing and prediction to bludgeon his opponents into submission. Even if it took a few iterations, Isaiah Wylde was big enough, strong enough, quick enough to succeed. There were only a handful people who'd consistently beaten him in those point-blank encounters, and roughly half of them had returned to the grace of Akkra when the Wylde School burned down. He'd bet his life that neither of tonight's opponents would join that exclusive club.
Isaiah raised his guard as he approached, a precaution before he diverted and slipped to one side. He needed to gather data and gauge their reactions before he could commit to their demolition. The woman favored one side, constantly circling that way, seeking to trap him between her and the southman. But it was too obvious. He'd just need to match her. The man with the massive club was as slow as he looked, trudging after his partner and remaining foe. Isaiah took a good look at him; his armor was a mix of furs, bone, and what looked like metal or stone. He couldn't tell. But unlike Isaiah, this man's armor covered him from his toes to his nose and exposed only the top of his head.
His heart pounded in his ears; he might have fought a hundred sundances already, but the sensation of real, live combat lit a fire in his chest. He wanted this. He craved it. He found something he liked in Lana's stance, guessing correctly that she'd put her full bodyweight into her strike now that she had her partner to cover her. Her polearm dug into the air where his shoulder had been a moment before; now he leaned against her spear, knocking her off balance.
Lana leapt backwards to reset her stance but couldn't outrun the Wylde disciple streaking toward her like a shooting star. His fist cracked her jaw, turning her head with the fiery blow. She grunted, then gasped when his fist dug into her stomach. Two more blows followed, meant to stun more than wound before he dipped again. This Wylde upper crunched against her jaw and a still smoldering Lana traced a short arc through the air before she landed in a path of sand.
The lithe warrior lay there for a moment, and the small patches of flames on her chest subsided, extinguished by her still vibrant soul. She was a fighter alright. He'd need to batter her, clobber her to put her down for the count. But he didn't have that kind of time. Not with that great club-
He discovered where the weapon and its wielder were when the former slammed into his back. He sputtered and staggered forward, briefly falling to his knees before he shot up to feet, whirling around in the same motion. “Don't dally with the small fry ashborne.” He menaced, slapping his chest armor with one meaty hand. “I'm the big fish in this pond.”
“Then you're the one I'll fry first, fatass.” Isaiah refused to let any insult go unanswered. Not in his first match. Quiet confidence was the domain of tired old men. His soul still burned with youth and passion.
The colosseum trio repeated this dance over the next few minutes: Isaiah trying to separate them long enough to trade blows with one before the other sundancer intervened. It was slow going and more frustrating than he'd imagined, especially once the woman caught on and changed tactics. Rather than try a pincer movement, she orbited the bigger man like a protective moon.
His chest burned, but his fists barely did. Their flames sputtered and flickered like starving campfires. He was losing and he knew it. Panic nipped at the edge of his mind, thoughts of losing here, of letting his two siblings down, of trapping the three of them here in a foreign country. Akkreja prided itself on communal living; a destitute neighbor shamed the whole community.
But Yol-Jhuuba was nothing like that. Here, currency was power; everyone seemed eager to separate him from all of his. The arena’s proprietor had seemingly come up with new exorbitant fees on the spot before allowing Isaiah to even sign up for a bout. It was clear that the wealthy patrons and sponsors held real power here, not the fighters themselves. The idea scared him more than his opponents. They’d been almost transparent about their preference for penniless fighters they could exploit for years at a time. If he wanted to avoid that fate, he had one choice:
Win.
But the truth was that he was desperate. He’d had to borrow from his latest paramour, a cute, soft-spoken man who worked as a cook, to scrounge up the coins to bet on himself after exhausting his own funds paying the entrance fees. That same desperation haunted him when Isaiah overextended himself during one of these skirmishes, and he was frustrated with himself even before the club found his chest and sent him sprawling.
He clutched his chest, feeling the dent in the metal plate on his tunic. His breaths were ragged and slow, and he fought to gather his focus and his resolve.
Bravery was strength. Courage was necessary. Desperation was both a close relative and a lethal weakness.
He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away pain and daze beneath a cheering crowd. His opponents' voices sounded distant, and he struggled to see them clearly or sit up straight. But one phrase pierced his fog.
“No no, I'll finish him. Give the crowd a show. 'Sides, I wanna show this welp that he ain't the only one can make flames, yeah?”
They were talking about him. How to embarrass him. He was a target. A prized trophy. The very idea burned in his chest, blood hot beneath his skin. He was insulted. Irate. Heated.
And that was enough.
Isaiah Wylde pushed himself up to one knee, chest heaving with the effort. Lana met his desperate gaze and cackled, but where was the big man? Her eyes flicked up, and Isaiah caught sight of the man falling toward him like a rockslide. A thin sheet of shimmering heat partially obscured Reyjan's form and gave him the distinct appearance of a meteor falling from the sky.
And that was when Isaiah knew he'd well and truly won.
The eldest of the Wylde children surged to his feet, legs braced and palms outstretched above his head.
“Falling Sky!” The heavyset man announced, wicked glee twisting his visage.
“And there’s Reyjan Greathammer’s Falling Sky!” The faceless announcer bellowed to the delight of the audience. “Incoming!”
But no decisive thud followed. Instead Reyjan landed awkwardly, and his body sagged, arms and legs limp.
“H-howwww?” He demanded, weakened by his own collision with the youthful brawler.
Isaiah Wylde stood to his full height now, gripping the southern warrior by his chest and leg. Reyjan's strength returned a moment later, and he flailed and kicked, desperate to plant his broad feet upon the safety of the ground once again. But his opponent had other ideas. Isaiah tossed the man, groaning with the mighty effort. The warrior didn't go far into the air: maybe a leg's length above Isaiah's head. But that was time enough for Isaiah to whirl around and catch the man flush in the face with a single punch strong enough to change the falling behemoth's trajectory.
Of all the techniques initiates to the Wylde School had to learn before earning the title of “disciple,” the Wylde Draw was the most critical. The ability to pull soul from nearby sources, to steal the magicks from any source that matched your own elemental affinity, was a closely guarded secret. IT was also the source of much of the success its students had enjoyed. Today, Isaiah had drawn the flames from the man's own flourish to empower himself. The sheet of shimmer heat as the heavyset gladiator fell onto him was just enough to fuel the young brawler's second wind.
Now Isaiah was going to demonstrate the cost of the older man's carelessness.
The uppercut almost spun the man fully onto his back. Instead, his heels caught the loosely packed dirt just enough to trip the man into a pratfall; this was an opportunity the brawny youth wouldn't pass up.
The dark skinned sunland native caught hold of Reyjan's, wrapped hand firmly clutching the fur collar of his armor. The brawny met the newcomer's gaze, beholding the untempered joy illuminating his face.
“Wylde.” Was all he heard before Isaiah's other fist, wrapped and flaming like a soldier's torch, crashed into his face, again and again. The pain was intense: his eyes watered with the second blow, and he flailed, struggling to lift his club or stand or shake the wild youth free. He wavered, the world beginning to flash and spin around him. But a new thought pierced the fog clouding the veteran fighter’s mind.
Where the hell was Lana?
The third member of their clash finally shook herself free of the malaise that had claimed her. Watching Reyjan's finisher turned so completely against him beggared belief; from her angle the upstart newcomer had stolen Reyjan's heat from him in the blink of an eye, thrown the massive man to the ground, and begun pummeling him in the span of a few breaths. None of it made sense. But she could understand it later, once they'd well and truly won a match that had been well in hand a few moments before.
The other veteran fighter tightened her grip on her spear and sprinted toward the pair. From this angle she and the brawny Akkreja pugilist could see each other clearly. She aimed for his head, spear at the ready. But she didn't arrive in time. The young brawler noticed her approach and changed his, no longer pummeling her senseless and ailing partner.
Instead the muscular youth gripped Reyjan's armor with both hands and whirled toward her. Isaiah roared as he spun all the way around. Reyjan's weary legs traced a sloppy circle in the dirt before her partner flew toward her. Lana’s gray widened; Reyjan's stomach thudded against the edge of her spear before she had time to fully divert the weapon and the pair of colosseum favorites collapsed in a heap near the arena's ringed walls. Reyjan gurgled something, likely suffering a concussion, but worse yet was his position. Piled together and sprawled out on the muddy arena floor, they'd both be counted out unless one one of them stood.
She cursed the man for being so big, so heavy, as she crawled out from beneath him. The effort winded her as much as their sudden impact and subsequent collapse had injured her. But she beat the count, if only barely. The crowd gasped as she stood with scarcely more than a second to spare, cheering the new development. Across from her, a jubilant young man stopped pumping his fists and bellowing long enough to mock her.
“Akkra's rays, I told you two you were bait for a sunwolf. Kindling for flames.” His dark red eyes caught the lights of the arena and seemed to glow. “I am Isaiah godsdammed Wylde and I'm the one. I'm him. Speaker of Summer's Advance. Burning like a wildfire. Shining like the morning sun and-”
“Shut it, you ashborn welp.”
His tunic had ripped in several places and his tattered wraps had both begun to come loose, but he still found enough strength to beckon her toward him. Bruises and cuts decorated his face and arms, and there was more than a little dirt trapped in his tightly coiled hair that sat on top of his head like sheep’s wool set ablaze.
Lana spat blood and saliva and hefted her spear. She might be tired and ailing, but she had more than enough soul left to teach this hotblooded pup his place in the pecking order of the Moghad Colosseum.
The two wounded warriors met in the center of the arena for a third and final duel. No assistance. No teammate. No quarter. Only strength against strength. Soul against soul.
Lana got the better of their initial exchanges. The boy might be big and strong, but his creeping exhaustion made him easier to keep at bay, easier to lead into sharp stabs and the scraps of floating spellcraft that were all she could muster. His punches summoned flames that leapt off his fists, but they, like him, lacked their earlier speed or ferocity. She jabbed at him and he retreated, then forced him to back away a second time.
She'd learned his rhythm and habits; beneath his bluster and explosive power he was just another impetuous youth. Impatient and braying like an ass. He was no true threat. She realized then that he'd only thrown punches throughout their entire contest, never even attempting a kick, knee, or elbow. He was already fighting barehanded, a style she'd come to associate with a specific kind of Akkreja madness and bravado. But to not even use all of the meager tools he did have?
But when whirled her polearm into a sweeping strike to punish another of the brawler's advances. This clash of soul against soul felt different. He'd hardened his soul as he approached, weathering her blow while he prepared his own. The blow knocked her arm into her face and sent a sheet of dirty sweat flying off her tired face. She blinked away the pain but could fully slide out of the way of his next punch. His fist bounced off her face twice in quick succession, snapping her head back with each rapid blow.
She needed to reestablish the distance that was her shield and armor, but he matched her step for step, harassing her with punches too fast to fully duck, even if they were too light to fully topple her. But when she lifted her weapon to menace him he ducked and dug a punch below her ribs that reminded her of the flavors of the breakfast she'd enjoyed that morning. She gasped, confused, insulted, and took a shaky step backwards.
Isaiah could have finished this with his eyes closed. As far as he was concerned, the woman had never truly caught onto his feints or steps or timing. Theirs was a sundance and he'd always had another dance move or rhythm to demonstrate. When she staggered back, he finally gave her the space she'd so clearly wanted. Just in time to gather all his remaining flames into his cocked back hand.
The audience took a collective gasp the moment before the punch collided with its intended target. This was no uppercut; instead he'd punched straight and true, catching her cheek and turning her head with the force of the blow. Her body followed reluctantly and the woman from Rabanastre collapsed without a word, her stubborn frame taking a few drunken steps before she sank and finally capsized, laying there on the barren dirt at the center of the arena. The count was as academic as it was mandatory: the screaming audience counted along with the announcer as small flames danced along her skin.
Isaiah threw his fists into the air and roared like he'd won the finale at a sundance festival. It didn’t matter that this was a fight in the middle of a small event. He'd triumphed. Against two opponents, and while saddled with a woman who resembled nothing so much as a sandbag. He'd done it.
He folded forward as soon as the count finished, hands tugging on the hem of his short trousers. His breaths came hot and ragged as if irate at having to leave his heaving chest. His mother at the Wylde School would have berated him for his poor stamina, even as she celebrated his victory with him. But she was gone, her ashes and spirit returned to the Sun spirit. She'd never speak her story again. And so he had a duty to carry on the Wylde School, even if he was the only disciple still walking the continent. It could not end with him. Not until he'd exposed Solomon of Ilkai and his newfound power that was as mysterious as it was deadly. He'd keep his siblings safe and find justice in his homeland. He was going to reestablish the school he'd lost and honor the memory of his mother, his myriad teachers, and...
He hadn't even noticed that he'd collapsed until a hand grabbed his shoulder. His own blood and sweat and spit pooled beneath him, and he looked up to find several arena staff carrying his still-unconscious opponents away. Good. He'd made a successful first appreciation. The face above him wavered on the edge of his vision, but he recognized it all the same.
“Nyla?”
“Hmm? I don't know who that is. I'm Janae Oneta, and you're in need of a lighthouse.”
He blinked away. She was not the pretty, fierce eyed woman who'd come to the Wylde School on the orders of her family. The one who'd been a lover and a peer to him. But this woman was Akkreja too, as clear as her pretty, coiled, ash gray hair and deep red eyes. Features they shared. But it was her diction that'd given her away to the woozy Wylde disciple. ‘Lighthouse’ was a sunlander term, owing to the massive, glowing balls of incandescent spellcraft that provided the healing magicks each lighthouse offered. The term had fallen out of favor among the people of Yol-Jhuuba and never caught on elsewhere.”
She was one of his people.
But so were the members of the Dawn Tradition, the endeavor trying to kill him and every Wylde who'd seen the dark, forbidden magick that ended their school.
Isaiah briefly wondered if he'd ever wake up again before exhaustion claimed him. He drifted to sleep in Janae's arms, head nestled against her squishy, bountiful chest.
#WyldeBlueWander #WBW #Sieres #Fiction #MartialArts #Fight #Action #Magic
