Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

Xela, a savant from Exedoza, seat of the Saraja High Council in the Sanctum region of Veratar, looked over Tournament Plains from his team’s private competitor’s tent. Smoke hung low in the air, the ground was crisscrossed with pockmarks and gouges, and carnivorous carapids cleaned up any chunks of flesh left after the last of the bodies were collected by the designated mourners.  These mourners, supplied by the tournament hosts, were there to honor the bodies and the memories of the combatants before incinerating them discretely with fire radia. In the month of Selwyn, most of Veratar, at least the Protectorate and independent cities and villages, celebrated the Center of Death. These celebrations continued a long-held tradition where ancestors are remembered and the recently deceased hold a particular weight in the minds of those observing the multiple-day respite.

The tournament was held every year to correspond with the Center of Death celebrations and were hosted by unknown benefactors and sponsors. The fight-to-the-death format often meant significant and well-known names were sure to be added to the ranks of the recently deceased. Teams of three competitors sparred for honor, for survival, but mostly for the prize offered to the winners: anything your heart desired.  If your team won, and you were still alive, for all intents and purposes, you would be granted a wish.

A woman walked up from the field wearing gold armor breaking Xela’s meditations on the results of the tournament’s first day. “The blood of nearly every race on Veratar was spilled out there today,” she said with awe.

“Aye,” said Xela, sighing deeply. “Such is the allure of the heart’s desire that the brain will allow the heart’s blood be spilled to achieve it. Tell me, Ceylina, does greed originate in the brain or the heart?”

“I could not tell you, Xela. As a glaive knight in the rolls of the Knights of Sanctum, I am honor-bound to never succumb to the temptations or machinations of greed,” the knight said, dropping her helmet to the ground.

Xela folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes and turned to look at Ceylina. Her armor was dented in places, scratched, and her long black hair was plastered against her face with dried sweat. She was still bleeding from her left ear, the result of a dreadnaught’s fury. “Good answer, I swear you have some savant in you, yet,” praised Xela.

“You flatter me, brother.” Ceylina dismissed. Savants held a special place in Sarajan culture. While their mental and social capacities may be different than others in Sanctum, the other unique cognitive talents of savants could be developed well beyond those of normal Sarajans. This treatment of savants was part of the reason the Saraja split from the Sarion generations ago. The Sarion ignored, abused or persecuted savants, whereas the Saraja utilized their value for everyone’s benefit.

Ceylina changed the subject, “Instead of silly flattery, let us honor the great warriors who died today. The ones whose names will be written next to the greatest fighters of Veratar: Gryphon Hammerstrike of the Black Door Fortress; Karsha Darlandis, a Vaneen of the Nightwatchers of Veratar; and our Sarajan cousin, Erlton the Freeborn, from the Order of the Green Hood.”

“Freeborn? How did he die, prick his own finger with gossamyr toxin?” Xela asked.

“You should not make slight of the recently deceased," scolded Ceylina. "Erlton lost his battle with a Dartugan sea rogue, a cutthroat Legion enemy who some say defeated Freeborn with less-than-honorable actions.”

“Honor has its place, my altruistic sister, but the name of the game here is victory or death. I must consider all possibilities when forging a path to victory for us, honorable or not,” Xela said matter-of-factly.

“I will not do anything less-than-honorable. I told you this when I agreed to be part of this team,” Ceylina insisted.

“You won’t have to, but I would not preclude me from taking whatever actions may be necessary. We have survived to the final round, fair warning, anything goes.” The gleam in Xela’s dark eyes grew a little more intense as he said this.

“Stay here and keep scheming then, little brother. I am going to honor the ones we defeated before their incineration ceremonies take place. Willem, the brew master from Hiroja, fought honorably, I felt. He did not show fear when our mercenary brought his axe down upon his head.”

“Ha! Willem sipped a bit too much of his own kilwing lager and was too soused to have any fear.” Xela chuckled for a little while at this thought, then continued. “You are always so concerned with honor, but I am concerned with victory. I have been contemplating the dead, not because of the great deeds they did in the past, but what lessons they can teach us to help us in our future. The failures of these great warriors will give us strategy for tomorrow’s final round,”

Ceylina just stared at her brother standing there in his shimmering carapid silk robes of orange and yellow, only the finest for those who served on the Saraja High Council. Xela was one of the more talented strategists in all of Sanctum, but he was also immature. Ceylina thought he would grow out of his childish impulses, but she resigned herself to the fact that his raw emotions were a result of his syndrome. Most of the time his talents overcame his shortcomings, but this was life or death, not anything humorous. Still, she would not have the confidence to participate in such a high-stakes tournament if not for his supreme skill.

“I will leave you alone and attend to my duties to the dead,” Ceylina said turning to leave.

Xela called after her, “Speaking of our mercenary, please find the big brute and bring him here to debrief. We don’t want Balto getting into the brew master’s leftover black malt, lest he poison himself and becomes a liability tomorrow.”

“Yes sir!” Ceylina called from the other side of the tent as she walked away.