Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [21]
Mubin pulled up, and turned around to face his three foes once more.
“We yield,” they said to the judge.
The judge raised his hand and looked to Aarsil the Blessed. She nodded. “The first encounter goes for the defendant,” said the judge. “Plaintiff’s champions and defendant’s champion, please step forward for the final encounter of the match.”
NAYA
Ajani returned to the bonfire to hear Jazal finishing the hadu.
“Antali was the capital of all nacatl in the world,” Jazal was saying. “And the Claws of Marisi destroyed it. Now our race has no capital, no center of oppression. We are once again wildcats of the jungle, free, as in times of old. We have no stone columns supporting roofs to come between us and the stars. We have no metal spikes to anchor down artificial floors, to come between us and the earth. Marisi swept that all away, leaving a glorious ruin in his wake, for the sake of all of us. And for him, in turn, we remember the hadu.” Then, as the pride waited for the final phrase, Jazal’s voice became a low, grinding snarl. “To Marisi.”
“To Marisi!” chanted the crowd, and they cheered and ate.
Ajani joined Jazal as he stepped down from the dais, and clapped him on the back in a forced gesture of camaraderie. Ajani tried to look him in the eyes, to see if he could find a trace of the secrets Jazal had kept from him.
“To Marisi, eh, brother?”
Instead Jazal nodded, his mind elsewhere. “Right, yes,” he said. “To the glory of the hero Marisi.”
Ajani pressed him. “What’s on your mind, brother? Something you want to tell me?”
“No, it’s nothing, Ajani. You’re a good brother. But it’s late, and I’m just tired from the speech. I’m going to turn in. Have a good time at the rest of the festival.”
Jazal left him and went back to his lair. Ajani had all the pride around him, except for the only ones he considered his family. He decided he deserved some of that roast behemoth after all. He tore a piece off and took it back to his lair, where his sleep was tortured by evil dreams.
BANT
Rafiq felt the weight of the ceremonial breastplate like the rough embrace of a tarnished soldier, one that wore ruts in his shoulders that grew deeper every year. It yanked down on him with every step as he advanced into the arena, and caused his dozens of small, burnished sigil medallions to jounce and glitter in the morning light. It was what it meant to be a paladin, he thought: honorable combat on the field of battle; the chance to become the instrument of the angels in the cause of justice; the chance to put one’s mettle and faith on the line in a struggle that would end in defeat or glory.
As the crowd cheered, Rafiq looked around at the frescoes that lined the arena, and imagined himself fighting the mythical creatures depicted there, as those brave, two-dimensional knights did. Instead he was fighting three Mortar-caste youths who were fighting for little more than a meal and could barely walk in their armor. Well, he thought, not every battle was for supreme glory. Perhaps that was part of the life of a paladin as well.
The three Jhessian champions stepped forward and bowed, then assumed battle stances. Rafiq followed suit, and the audience went silent. The three youths stood shoulder-to-shoulder in formation, each one covering the defensive gaps of the others, creating a kind of pointy armored object with their three polished swords sticking