Chapter 45: Trial by Combat

Chapter 45: Trial by Combat

Alexios, bare-chested, lunged. He crossed the gap in two great strides, his blunted training sword swinging in a high arc, trying to hook over his brother's shield.

Lykurgos caught the blow, his defense perfect. The un-edged steel rang and sparked. Lykurgos saw his opening and countered, thrusting his own shortsword from under his shield, aiming for his brother's gut.

Alexios sidestepped the lunge and kicked, striking the side of Lykurgos's knee. The joint buckled, and Lykurgos dropped to one knee. Alexios didn't hesitate, bringing his sword down in a heavy, overhand blow that smashed into his brother's head.

The force of the blow split Lykurgos's scalp, and bright red blood spattered the deck of the fighting cage. Lykurgos wasn't unconscious, but he was stunned, his combat-effectiveness gone. A servitor unbarred the cage door to drag him out. His superhuman Astartes physiology was already sealing the wound.

A circle of spectators—veterans in full power armor and other bare-chested neophytes—watched the duel in silence.

Aboard The Ironclad, the flotilla was deep in Warp-transit. To combat the lethal, mind-numbing boredom of the journey, Petros had organized this tournament. The two neophytes who emerged as champions would earn the right to wear the two suits of power armor reclaimed from their fallen brothers, Kolin and Fledri.

Many aspirants had been injured in the trials, some with broken bones, but this was deemed acceptable. They were being forged into Astartes. Pain was just another lesson.

Alexios had defeated Lykurgos, claiming his place in the final. Now, the other bracket would fight to find their champion.

Petros and Antonius observed from the side.

"That one, Alexios," Petros's voice was a low rumble in his helm. "He's the most promising of the batch. He has leadership potential."

Antonius grunted in agreement. "He is. But for the champion of this tournament, my wager is on Randolph. He's the largest, a pure brute, and he favors the axe. Brother Kolin's chainaxe would suit him."

"He's not just a brute," Petros countered. "He looks crude, but he's cunning. In his last match, he used his axe-head to hook his opponent's shield, then broke the man's nose with a headbutt."

As if summoned, the hulking, bearded Randolph shouldered his massive, two-handed training axe and stepped into the cage. His opponent, Gorgias, vaulted over the cage wall in a single, fluid motion.

Gorgias was tall—two meters—but lean for an Astartes, and he carried only a standard-issue training blade. Randolph was a giant.

The duel began. Randolph roared and charged, his heavy axe swinging.

Gorgias gave ground, easily evading the first blow. He knew he couldn't match the brute's strength; he had to rely on speed. He moved, circling, probing, while Randolph's axe hammered the air, trying to corner him.

Gorgias's style was a fluid dance. He'd dart in for a quick thrust, then be gone. Randolph's strength and the broad head of his axe parried every attempt, but the bigger man was beginning to labor. His swings, while still powerful, were getting slower.

Gorgias saw his opening. He used his blade's superior reach, forcing Randolph onto the defensive. A feint, a parry, and then Gorgias's blade darted under the axe's haft, scoring a deep, bloody line across Randolph's chest. The match was over.

It was an upset, but only a mild one. As Antonius, who was himself short and stocky for an Astartes, knew well: size was not the final measure of a warrior.

Antonius turned to his captain, his voice a low rasp. "My Lord, why did you grant them leave to go home? They are Astartes now. They should be cut off from their mortal past."

Petros turned to look at his old friend, his gaze meeting both Antonius's good eye and the ruined one. "I didn't do it for the neophytes, Antonius. I did it for the mortals. Honor... is a strange and powerful thing. I let the mortals see that their sons had become Angels. That they had earned that honor."

Petros turned back to the ring, where Alexios and Gorgias were preparing for the final match. "I am from Olympia. I remember... empty homes. A scarcity of men. I remember how the people hated the Legion's tithe, because it meant more sons would be taken."

"Boys who were never seen again. Boys who should have grown up, married, and worked the forges. We cannot be that same endless drain on this world. We must let the mortals see that their sons' sacrifice has meaning. That they are not just... lost."

By the time he finished speaking, the final duel was over. In a stunning display of speed and technical skill, Gorgias had won. The skinny fisherman, it turned out, was a natural duelist.

And so it was decided. Alexios and Gorgias, the two finalists of the tournament, had earned their prize. They would be the ones to inherit the two suits of power armor, and the legacies of the brothers who had worn them.