XV; Round One

  I’ve never been in a melee before. Ah… a real melee, I suppose, but never a tourney one. Hans explained the rules to me as he walked me to the lists. Every fighter enters alone, and they’re assigned to one of four teams. Blue, red, green and yellow. I was placed in the blue team, which doesn’t mesh too well with my sigil, but alas. If you’re bled, you’re out, if you’re knocked to the ground, you’re out, if you yield, you’re out, if you purposely attack anybody that’s any of the three, you’re out. Rather simple.

  The two teams remaining in the first round go to the second, partitioned into four again. In the third round, the teams are split into individuals, and the last six standing move on, in the fourth, again, until two remain, and finally, two men fight in the fifth round for the glory of the day.

  “Hail to the fighters of the Blue Team!” bellowed the Judge as we entered the lists. We were the last to be introduced, as one of our fighters took a while to don his armour. “Sir Roberto vyn Jacks, Sir Haquelin Marks, Sir Jon Jonson, Sir Markus of the Black Tree, Sir Gregory Qon, and the Knight of the Pink Apple!”

  That’s me. I get why Hans had to be a mystery knight, but why the fuck did I have to? Flurrying my warpick in my right hand, I look around the lists. The red team is full of swords, maces and shields, the green is much the same, only one has a great claymore, and the yellow team have maces, flails, hammers and a single sword-wielder.

  Six on six on six on six. Thank fuck for the coloured surcoats.

  At the sides, Hans, hidden in his great helm, clapped his steeled hands together, and screamed for the Pink Apple.

  The horn blew and the teams charged. “Stick together,” yelled Sir Haquelin, brandishing his shield as he charged. “Circle around and attack the red team from behind!”

  Following his command, we circled to the fight around the large clash of steel in the centre of the lists. Several detachments of fighters were breaking off, and a green fell to the earth after a great thud from a mace. Up the rear of the reds, Sir Roberto struck first, levying a claymore into the pauldron of a red. He cried out in pain as a knee buckled and he fell back into the thick of the fighting.

  Lifting the warpick high, I aimed straight for the barbute of a red, but an arming sword caught my pick and deflected it to the left. A thrust pierced towards my visor, but a shield smacked the attacker’s arm, sliding the thrust off the side of my helm. Two-handing the pick, I thrust to his gorget, hitting him dead on with the blunt end. Stepping forward and shifting it up, I hooked it around his head and shuffled back.

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  He grunted in fear, dropping his blade and holding his hands up. I unhooked the pick and turned to my right. Sir Jon was engaged in a grapple with a green that he pushed through the line. Around them both, two yellows poked and smacked with their maces and flails. One of them, a towering knight with golden armour, was spinning his flail in the air, preparing to strike the fatal blow to Sir Jon. Rushing forward, I slipped the pick’s shaft down and took hold of its end, shifted my weight, and swung a round strike into the knight’s back, right under his cuirass. Where the plate was thin and the chain loose.

  He yelped, moving a hand to his back as he crashed into the two grappling knights. Adjusting himself, the Golden Yellow two-handed his flail and spun it left to right, bouncing towards me. The other yellow, a knight in thick, shiny white plate with a great skirt and frog-helm, held his shield high, circled to my left, and tried to bash me down.

  I shuffled to the left and launched a kick into his spine, sending him into the Golden Yellow. The great giant cast his teammate aside like he was paper, and approached me. Wrapping the flail around his arm with a flurry, he stuck me with the pommel, straight in the visor, and wrapped his spare arm around my waist. Hit after hit pummeled the top of my helm as he bellowed a war cry.

  Shuffling my pick downwards, I flipped it, shifted my grip, and lifted it up with all my might. Light liquid sprayed onto my sabatons, and I could feel it soaking in the hosen’s feet.

  He screamed like a chicken, backing away and clutching his manhood. Dropping his flail, he held a hand up and screamed: “MAGI!”

  As he scurried out of the lists as quickly as he could—for he was dead in moments without immediate help—two greens and a yellow charged me, pushing me back and back and back as they fought each other too.

  Sir Jon and Sir Roberto followed their behind, slamming hits into their backs, trying to break up the grand grapple. Back in the centre, Sir Markus was down, and Sir Gregory and Sir Haquelin were fighting on the remainder of the red and yellow team. Two on three on one.

  Dropping my pick, I snuck a hand under the groyne of a green, and another over his shoulder, flipping him sideways. He crashed on the ground like a meteor. Hurling a fist into the yellow, and another into the remaining green, I cupped them together—I used this move on Gett—and buried it into the green’s helmet. A thunk rang out as he backed off a moment, but it was enough, for a kick from Sir Jon sent him flying off to the side.

  Sir Roberto’s Claymore cackled against the yellow’s helm alongside a great horn. “HALT!”

  All the fighters stopped and looked to the dais above the melee lists. There, the Judge held a hand up. “The Blue Team and the Yellow Team have won the first round!”

  In the centre of the lists, Sir Gregory and Haquelin had triumphed. The reds were completely undone, and surprisingly enough, the sole yellow still stood. A red knight, emblazoned with black flames, who nodded to me as the crowds cheered.