Chapter 32: Festival of Blades

The energy around the Academy had changed from subdued from the murder, to excited overnight. The Festival of Blades holiday occurred less than once a year, and many of the academy’s students had been concerned that it wouldn’t occur during their time there, forcing them to lose out on a chance for glory or even earning a deed and title. It probably helped a bit that the full story of what had happened had slowly been spreading around. Not just that Michael had killed the instructor, but that instructor had killed Krant, a non-lifetaker, before he'd attacked Michael. It hadn't softened the Archery teacher's disposition toward him, but there were certainly fewer glares and threats. “They really seem to like beating the shit of each other,” said Ollie at breakfast as he shoveled some eggs into his mouth. “We have Christmas, where we give one another gifts, and they have this where they beat the shit out of each other.” “We beat the shit out of each other plenty, we just don’t save it for holidays,” replied Davi. He was eating both his own and Ollie’s eggs, his appetite still massive despite the injections from Crim being over. “It will be nice to have some rest at least,” said Pyotr. There were only two competitions that irregulars could compete in, the melee and the joust, because they were open to everyone. All the other competitions were team based and required selection for a team by one of those near graduating with officer roles. They could technically select an irregular, but it hadn't happened before from what Kline had told them. “Is surprising that we are able to relax during the festivities.” “I think it has less to do with what they want us to do and more to do with the fact that none of the instructors want to miss anything themselves,” noted Marcus as he made a silver coin dance between his fingers. “I’m doing the melee,” said Davi through a mouthful of food. “They’ll tear you apart,” said Marcus. “Any irregular will be public enemy number one if they enter.” Davi shrugged. “They can try.” Pyotr sighed. “I will join you. I can watch your back.” Davi shook his head. “You can enjoy your rest. I don’t think you’re big enough to watch my back anyway,” replied Davi, whose back was about twice Pyotr’s width. “Half your back then.” “If you insist.” “Were you this much of a cocky bastard back when you were on Earth?” asked Ollie. “Yes, but I didn’t have the bulk to back it up so I had to be the quickest to violence to have an edge.” Michael was eating his own food quietly, considering if he would join the melee with them. They’d certainly have a good shot with all three of them working together. Davi and Pyotr were regularly winning in most weapons categories with Michael not far behind, and with his endurance and ability to heal them and himself they could probably give the regular recruits a serious challenge even if they were explicitly targeted. He definitely wouldn’t be participating in any of the jousts. He could ride a horse, but was by no means skilled at it. Irregulars seemed to be being taught to ride as more of an afterthought than anything, it seemed only knights like the other students ever acted as cavalry. He also had a feeling that those who were very skilled at riding were likely students who had learned a lot and appreciated Desdin, who may be inclined to seek revenge by ‘accidentally’ jamming a lance into his neck. He was about to offer to join Davi and Pyotr in the melee when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A guard leaned toward him. “Come with me.” Knowing it was pointless to ask why, he shoveled a final scoop of rice into his mouth and fell in behind the soldier. He was short, but older than most of the other academy guards, and Michael didn’t recognize him. They exited the small cafeteria the irregulars used, and moved toward one of the classroom buildings. He was directed to the first one, and found Kline and Lance inside waiting for him. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. He thought about making a joke about how if anyone else had died it wasn’t his fault to break the silence as he approached them, but decided against it. He placed his fist against his chest with two fingers to salute, and the gesture was returned by both of them. He stayed silent, waiting for one of them to say something. Kline let out a light sigh. “Lance has requested that you be allowed to join his team for the Festival of Blades.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at Lance. Lance nodded. “I think you’ll be a good addition to the team. Hard to beat a diviner with healing abilities that can take on ten other recruits alone and win.” Kline’s frown deepened. “I’d like to recommend once again that you don’t recruit him. It’ll put a target on his back, and your teams. It also just hasn’t been done before.” “But is it against the rules?” asked Lance. Michael held back a sigh, it seemed him participating was the equivalent of a dog that played basketball. “No,” said Kline, “but he himself may still choose to refuse. The Festival of Blades is voluntary, even for irregulars. This isn’t Tusinia where they throw them into a pit fight with lesser wyrms for their amusement.” Lance looked at Michael. “What are the rewards for victory?” “Those who perform well, or win often win Deeds from the Divinity, though it is not guaranteed. Here at the academy it has also been tradition to give a single gold to all members of the teams that reach the final round, and an additional five gold to the individual that wins the final bout.” MIchael was sold at the chance at deeds, but the gold he could send back to his body’s parents was of great value as well. He’d learned from Dugan that a gold piece was roughly the equivalent of six silver pieces, though the value of any coin was based more on who one was dealing with than what it should be valued at. “I’ll do it.” Kline nodded. “You’ll have two guards on you at all times. As much for your protection as to ensure your own compliance.” He looked at Lance. “You will request meetings with Michael through me so that his movements can remain tracked at all times.” “Is there that much time to strategize anyway?” asked Michael. “The Melee and Jousting competitions are first. The team games occur afterward so that everyone can witness all the events.” “Can I request a meeting with Michael and the rest of my team now?” asked Lance. Kline pointed at two guards that were standing at the entrance to the classroom, watching Michael, but overall seeming bored. “You, follow this Penitent and once Lance is done with him, escort him to physical conditioning.” The Soldiers saluted sharply. Lance walked out of the classroom, and Michael followed him. “What’re your strengths in combat?” he asked. “I’m decent with everything, but fight best with sword and shield.” He nodded. “Good, that’ll be easy to work into the rest of the team. What’re the limits to your healing?” “Doing it exhausts me the worse the injury is. If I have to heal and fight at the same time, it wears me down quickly.” “I saw on the board in there that you had the highest rank in conditioning of any of the irregulars.” He nodded. “I tend to recover more quickly than the others do.” He stopped, frowning and scratching a small patch on his face where it looked like he’d missed shaving a few hairs. “Were you a warrior in your old life?” “No. I was a... I suppose a bureaucrat or secretary would be the closest equivalent you’d have here.” “How... how old are you?” “Older than your father.” His expression was neutral, but the corners of his mouth dipped briefly at the mention of his dad. He corrected it quickly though and they continued walking. “You're a diviner as well, right? That comes with blessings like healing. So you can read other’s Titles and Deeds?” “Yes, but to gain anything aside from a simple list of them I need to know the person, be able to understand them.” He turned and flashed him a smile. “I can help with that. I know everyone here.” They reached a large building that Michael had never entered before, and walked through the front doors. Inside were rows and rows of bookshelves filled with tomes. All of them were bound in brown leather, and had their spines marked with the same bold lettering in black ink. It almost looked from looking at it that each book had been written by the same person in the same hand. Remembering the ink-transfer spell he’d heard about from Meera, he realized that may have actually been the case. Lance led him through a few rows of books where three recruits sat talking around a wooden table. One that stood out immediately was a tall girl with brown hair tied in a bun carefully examining a staff. Aside from her were two men Lance’s age, both of whom were nearly as large as Davi. One of them had rusty red hair and was laughing at what appeared to be his own joke, while the other, whose head was shaved cleanly bald, pointedly ignored him as he rifled through a tome. The girl with the staff looked at Michael and stood up. “Absolutely fucking not.”