RFC-Mini Arc 2: Elven Garde-04 (Patreon)

“Alright, gather around.” Callan was forced to look away as Lucius called out to their group. There were over a dozen of them, a collection of stable hands, apprentices, and laborers who came to Elven Garde with decent fitness and little to no fighting experience.

After fighting together and learning together during the intense training that followed the fighting, hosted by Kierra’s helpers, they had reached the level of expertise comparable to 2nd year foundation acolytes. They could match a common city guard or apply to be a footman in the Royal Army. Something they could feel proud of…if they were anywhere besides the Grand Hall.

“You all know the deal.” He looked them each in the eye. “We win by working together.” He waited until he saw a confirmation from all of them. “The champion appears to have the advantage, only fighting after their opponent has fought three others but Brahim has to fight the entire night. He’s strong but we can wear him down. That’s our strategy.

“We need to use our numbers effectively to ensure the strongest competitors make it to Brahim to sap his strength. His team will be thinking the same thing and will intercede to take out as many fighters as they can.”

“Isn’t that a problem?” Micah asked. “His friends are just as much as a problem as he is. Especially Zac.”

Callan winced at the name. Zac wasn’t the strongest of the foundation acolytes but he was a Lucius. Seeing past the arrogance of taking on Elven Garde single-handedly and the greed of claiming the reward for himself, he built a team, The Arms. He was the one who brought Brahim to Elven Garde and was the reason the bull-headed man was posed to claim the reward they all coveted.

“If we were by ourselves, yes, it would be a problem. But The Arms have too many enemies tonight. I’ve talked with Lowe. He’s willing to cooperate with us tonight.”

Micah scoffed. “The casters are willing to work with a bunch of magicless plebes? Will wonders never cease?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll use our numbers to draw out The Arms and Magicdeath will take them out. We’ll let the ring draw blood, clearing the way for our ace to take down Brahim.”

Lucius turned to him with a grin. His allies clapped his back and said a few words of encouragement, which Callan accepted stoically. He didn’t need them massaging his ego. No one wanted to drag Brahim down more than him.

“Everybody clear on the plan? Good. Now, go out and get hammered, because most of you are going to be taking a beating tonight.”

His team cheered and scattered, dispersing into the crowd and joining in the revelry.

“You do what you need to get your head in the right place.” Lucius clapped his shoulder. “Leave the setup to us.”

“Ah.” He wouldn’t say thank you. Say whatever he will, Lucius was not his friend and only a temporary ally. They were all competing for the place of champion. Brahim was only where he was because The Arms were led by Zac, a man willing to set his personal desires aside for the greater goal, an exemplary knight.

They weren’t knights. They were greedy, proud men who turned to violence and blood to pave the way to a better future. Lucius wanted the prize promised by their hostess just as much as Callan, if for different reasons, and one day, their alliance would fracture because of it.

Callan put the thought of the eventual conflict out of his mind. He had more immediate problems and needed to narrow his focus on the upcoming fight. There was one way he knew to stoke his motivation to its peak. Taking a deep breath, he skirted along the crowd, making his way toward Kierra.

She lingered at the front of the crowd, wearing a small smile as she watched two acolytes in the ring circling each other. Occasionally, a few others tried to talk with her, motioning excitedly or offering her drinks. She shrugged them off with a few words, rejecting the drinks and moving when her hangers-on became too insistent.

Callan pulled a fawning boy back by the shoulder, taking his place at her side. Rare nerves made him shuffle his feet but he quickly gained hold of himself, clearing his throat. “Hello again.”

She looked his way, the light striking her eyes in such a way that the gold in them was more pronounced. “I had a feeling I would see you tonight, little woodworker. Did you bring me another present?”

Feeling a faint heat color his cheeks, Callan reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a small wooden figure. He had never thought much about his woodworking. It was something he grew up with, as constant as the air he breathed.

The first time he’d appreciated his upbringing was when Kierra took an interest, citing carving figures as a hobby. In a bid to impress her, he’d tried his hand, carving a simple cat. He’d thought it was plain and a little ugly, but had presented it anyway, like a child seeking praise for his efforts.

It was the first time she smiled at him. Not her usual, reserved smirk but a full smile solely for him. He felt it was the first time she had seen him rather than another body trying to climb the ranks of Elven Garde.

He became obsessed with making the figures and improved rapidly. Every time he came to the fighting club, he presented a new work.

This time, it was a tree. On oak with a wide trunk and dozens of branches. He gone the extra mile to carved in the tops of a few exposed roots and detailed each individual leaf. An endeavor that kept him awake long into the night for several days.

He felt it was all worth it when she took the figure in her hand and ran her finger over one of the branches. “You have a talent, Atty. Far too much to be wasting your time here.”

“I need to be here. This is the only kind of talent that really matters.”

“Power is important but it is not everything. Something you must know as well. Why else would you still protect those hands?”

He reflexively looked down to his gloved hands. He’d worn them from the time he started apprenticing under his father. As a carpenter and an artist, his hands were his most precious treasures.

When Lucius first recruited him, he nearly refused as throwing punches were a good way to ruin them. He’d been willing to risk it but Kierra alleviated his concerns, mending any wound with an ease that mocked casters who practiced their physical affinities for decades.

Callan removed his gloves, stuffing them in his pocket. Despite the care he gave them, they were not pleasant, his palms rough and calloused, his fingers marked with many tiny scars that catalogued his years training with the tools of his trade. “Habit, I suppose.”

“Habits can be more binding than chains, yes. Though, it’s not a bad one. They look good on you. Sophisticated.”

His lips twitched up into a smile but it didn’t last long. “The reward...what is it?”