YoTS January ~ 45!

CHAPTER 45

While Grant waited for the final round to commence, he tore into a plate of food that the chef who had taught him how to prepare vegetables had prepared for him. The man had handed over the small platter with a wink, and a whisper of, “We’re all rooting for you in the kitchen!”

Grant nodded in thanks. He didn’t have the heart to explain that he wasn’t actually a chef, and had more experience picking vegetables than cooking them. In any case, having the kitchen staff on his side gave Grant a much needed boost. He needed all the help he could get in the upcoming bout.

He rubbed at the tender spots where the rods had connected with his body. Pressing lightly on a rib, he flinched in pain. If it was broken, there was little he could do to fix it. Binding it after the fight, and plenty of rest would be the best tonic; no one had wandered over and given him a healing poultice.

The spectators eventually filtered back to their seats with their moods lifted as they witnessed the mountain of food prepared in their honor. Extravagant cuisine was available for all: even the lowest of the peasants would dine like kings.

“Chef Gordon has pulled out all the stops!” Every eye turned as Lord January made the unusual step of standing to address the audience. For a man of his stature, standing must have required a great deal of effort. Grant was almost taken, but realized that this was yet another fraud. A series of pulleys and winches made it look as if Lord January had got up… when in fact, behind the scenes, various staff were hauling on ropes to uplift their Lord. “I hope you are all enjoying the finest culinary delights that District January has to offer. My personal chef is preparing the banquet. Give a round of applause… for Head Chef Gordon!”

The spectators dutifully clapped, genuinely delighted by both the quality and quantity of the fare on offer. All eyes were on Lord January as he continued speaking to the crowd, “There can’t be a feast without some entertainment, can there?”

“No, your Grace!” A filthy peasant woman, missing more than a few teeth, calling out from the back row. Lord January laughed, having not expected an answer to the statement, then motioned to the guards.

Grant sat on the sidelines wondering what kind of entertainment was planned. He could use a little fun about now. He almost choked on his celery when he saw a familiar mop of red hair appear.

Red shuffled forward, followed by Fergus and Derek. All dragged heavy chains with each step they took. Their eyes darted around in panic. Grant made a motion to jump up but stalled when Fergus gave a small shake of his head. He settled back in his chair, anxious about what was going to happen next.

“It has come to my attention,” Lord January boomed, “that these three, along with Sir Friday, conspired to rig the tournament!”

“What evidence do you have, my Lord?” One of the judges called, clearly well-prepared in advance to ask the perfect question at the right time.

“Our newest noble in January, Sir Skinny, shared details of their plot!” Lord January called imperiously, waving his hand to showcase the massive man that sat beside him.

“It’s true,” Skinny blurted out around mouthfuls of food. “Grant Friday competed and won, but he is… in fact…”

Grant winced and waited for the truth about his Leap heritage to be made public knowledge.

“Grant Monday!”

“They’ve known that since I walked into the arena!” Grant shouted in return, getting boo’ed as soon as he started speaking.

“I call for Grant Monday to be disqualified!” Lord January spat out blobs of food. His many chins jiggled in rage. The panel of judges nodded, going along with their Lord’s proclamation.

“No!” Grant shot to his feet, ignoring the negative attention, much to the apparent surprise of the people gathered. “I deserve to participate. I have a token, and I earned the right to be here! The tokens were given in secret to the winners. No one ever said that I needed to use my real name to participate. I demand that you consult the rulebook!”

The judges sighed.

“The Rulebook will decide!” The old crone hobbled forward gleefully. Twice in one day, she’d been given the limelight. She’d take it! The book was still open from earlier, so she painstakingly began flicking through the pages. “Ah-ha! Here it is, rule twenty-nine. The bearer of a valid token has the right to participate in a tournament, regardless of magic used to hide identity, such as an illusionary spell or potion.”

“But… this is an outrage.” Lord January’s chins quivered as his first contingency plan began to fall into ruins.

“The Rulebook has spoken! The matter is settled.” She cackled, completely unintimidated by the rage of the most powerful person in January. Grant felt a wave of relief wash over him, but it didn’t last long.

“Take him to the arena.” Lord January pointed to Sir Friday. Lord January couldn’t stop Grant, but he still held the fate of his friends in his meaty hands. Guards escorted Sir Friday to the arena, with lances nudging him along. Lord January looked directly at the four prisoners in the arena. “I am a generous man, and I understand that you were misled by theis traitorous Noble. Kill Sir Friday, and you can all go free!”

All the prisoners, apart from Sir Friday, looked around in panic. Sir Friday had clearly expected this. “It’s okay. I knew the risk. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake. Just… make it quick.”

“No. I can’t hurt you!” Red stumbled backwards after the chains were removed. His shiny hand axes were shoved into his hands. “I couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone you!”

The crowd laughed, not expecting the giant with red hair to be such a big softy. Fergus and Derek’s chains were removed and weapons placed in their sweaty palms. Derek was given a blacksmith’s hammer, and Fergus two wickedly-sharp knives.

Sir Friday the Twenty-ninth’s chains were removed and he was given his Wielded Weapon, the truncheon imbued with numbing power.

“I refuse to fight Sir Friday,” declared Derek, tossing his hammer to the ground, where it kicked up a wave of sand. “I had nothing to do with this.”

Fergus nodded, dropping his knives and glancing wearily at the audience.

“To make things more interesting, and entertaining,” Lord January laughed at the scene, “I’ll raise the stakes! If the audience is suitably entertained, I will spare… the Leap! If not, he will be giving us a flying lesson!”

“Leap? What Leap?” Mumbled Sir Friday in confusion. Red and Fergus glanced over at Grant, thinking that Lord January was referring to him. A heavy velvet curtain was drawn back at the edge of the arena. Standing there, wind gusting around him, was Markus.

There was a sudden commotion from the audience. “No, Markus!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The announcer called to a chef scrambling towards the Leap positioned towards the edge of the platform. Gusts of air from the looming chasm whipped at Markus’s hair.

“Freda!” Grant looked on in horror, unable to stop the events from unfolding. The chef was grabbed by guards before she could reach Markus Leap. Her hat and mask were ripped off, revealing a petrified Freda Leap. The audience gasped at the surprising twist.

“Freda, my love… why? You should have stayed hidden. Who’s going to look after…” He didn’t finish the sentence, terrified that his son would be exposed with even that much.

“Well, ladies and gentleman,” the announcer’s voice carried across the arena, “it looks like we have two Leaps to entertain us this evening. Will they make the leap into the void together, or will the prisoners defeat Sir Friday?”

“Leap, leap, leap!” The chant was taken up by the spectators. Grant didn’t know if they were showing support for the Leaps… or wanted them to make the leap. From the look of disgust on the spectators' faces, he suspected the latter. With no other choice, and the fate of the Leaps in their hands; Red, Derek and Fergus raised their weapons and slowly approached Sir Friday.

Red stayed back, unwilling to draw Sir Friday’s blood. Seeing his friend so distraught, Derek strode forward and slammed his retrieved hammer into Sir Friday’s side. Sir Friday made no attempt to defend himself, only grunting in pain at the heavy blow.

Fergus, understanding that the crowd demanded entertainment, twirled the knives and screamed as he moved forward, slicing the knives against Sir Friday’s armor. The spectators clapped, until they realised that the knives had only slashed the leather armor. There was no blood. The audience demanded blood.

Sir Friday nodded at Fergus, letting him know that it was okay: he was already a dead man walking. Red tentatively walked forward and swung his axes at Sir Friday. Seeing his distress, Sir Friday dodged the halfhearted blows and bopped the glowing truncheon down on Red’s noggin. Red went down like a sack of potatoes, his head completely numbed by the blow.

Derek swung the hammer at Sir Friday’s leg. There was a loud crack as the bone snapped from the impact. Derek dropped the hammer, turned around and threw up. “I’m so sorry, Sir Friday!”

Pain was etched on both Derek and Sir Friday’s faces, each for different reasons.

Fergus approached the collapsed form of Sir Friday, whose leg was now twisted unnaturally under him. He looked up at the Leaps, then down at Sir Friday. Fergus’s blades were shaking.

“Do it.” Pleaded Sir Friday.

Fergus raised his shaking hands. The crowd bayed at the sight of blood, simultaneously cheering and shovelling food in their excited mouths. Fergus dropped the knives and held his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. This isn’t right!”

Boos erupted from the audience as they were deprived of their entertainment. Missiles of food and tableware showered the prisoners.

“Enough! The audience has spoken!” Lord January paused to toss back a milkshake. “The Leaps will make the leap… together!

Grant had to make a difficult choice. The ancient Leap, deep within the tunnels, said the fate of the Leaps rested in his hands. The wrong decision would lead to the eradication of all Leaps within January. As he stood up, he hoped he was doing the right thing. He took a leap of faith, the name of the quest.

“Take me in their place!” Grant shouted over the din. All eyes turned towards him. “I was born a Leap!”

Several Nobles choked on their food, and dozens of delicate ladies fainted from the revelation. Lord January looked down upon Grant from amongst piles of decadent food. “So I was told, Grant. Did you think my Prime Vassal, Randall, wouldn’t share such important information?”

“I accept! To the edge with you, let’s see if being barely more than a skeleton is the secret to learning to fly!” Lord January’s declaration was met by cheers. The audience clearly wanted to be entertained.  Grant turned to see Randall enter the fighting pit. He was wearing the suit of Mid Spring armor, the prize meant for the victor of the exhibition tournament. His broadsword’s edge glinted in the light.

“Wait a moment, my lord!” Apart from donning the armor, Randall had spent time honing his weapon’s edge and preparing for the fight… while Grant nibbled on a pie and followed developments in the arena. Classic misdirection. “Lord January, I demand satisfaction! I beg that you allow me the chance to quickly defeat this calendar freak, so we can all enjoy both the entertainment and feasting.”

“Oh, Randall.” Lord January paused to build suspense, “Agreed! I can’t say no to my favorite Vassal now, can I? After you’ve had your fun, the Leaps will be a-leaping!”