"Fragments - The Broken Bonds" - Chapter 4 - The Festival

Paris reeled from the first blow. Blood trickled down his chin as he fell back a few steps, gauging his opponent. The festivities have already begun and the crowd cheered at their favorite players in the fisticuffs competition. On the platform, he was no longer a young, flame-haired soldier of the lion army but a contender for this year's trophy. Unfortunately, so was his draconian opponent. Among all the warriors that join the jousts, the dracona were most feared. Their thick scaly hide makes up for twice the normal armor's strength, and coupled with their magical attributes and natural fighting skills, they are truly the mightiest fighters in all the land.

The central square filled with people as merchants set up their stalls. Children ran here and there, to the torment of their guardians. Thieves were also on the prowl for gullible newcomers to the city so the lion knights were on the lookout.

Paris, a young soldier of the lion army, soon to be knighted under the first division was presently fighting against a masked challenger. The latter's features clearly identified him as a dracona, so Paris was doubly cautious. Normally, this would be an easy win, but given the advantages of the opponent's race, he appeared to have chewed a bit more than he could swallow as a normal human. He only wished his beloved Arianne wasn't watching¦otherwise it would be a terrible shame to show his face to her again after a crushing defeat. Then again, if he won¦

With a great shout, Paris let loose a flurry if kicks and punches towards his opponent, knocking the dracona to the ground. The crowd cheered and his spirit rose a bit. To his dismay, however, his opponent took to his feet again, seemingly unharmed by his blows. Its heavy breathing changed, however. It was as though¦it was laughing. He was being made fun of be the reptilian challenger. Paris fumed at the fact that he could not do anything about it at the moment. If he only had a sword, the circumstances would have been different.

"Zhal! A commanding voice echoed from below. "Stop playing and finish the fight. We have more important matters to attend to and we have to get back by sunrise! It was a man in full plate armour, bearing with him the crest of the golden lion. Commander William Scryer, chief of the lion army's first division. Paris almost made a reflex salute when he remembered he was in the middle of a contest.

"So I am fighting a fellow lion knight? Paris allowed himself a smile. "A draconian at that¦ He suddenly hesitated. His chances of winning dropped from slim to none. He wasn't even a knight yet.

His train of thought was interrupted by a quick affirmative growl from his opponent, followed by a blow to the chest that defied the quickness of his reflexes. He did not feel the pain at that moment¦his mind was too busy trying to figure out why he was suddenly flying in mid air. Finally hitting one of the posts that marked the corners of the makeshift arena, the hurting finally began. He lay flat while the judges announced the winner, and did not have any will to stand until the draconian himself took his hand and helped him to his feet. "A good fight, fellow soldier. It made a hissing smile as it removed the mask in salutation. "The outcome would have been different, had you been one among the dracona yourself.

Paris could only groan and nod. His head was still spinning wild and he doubts one whole barrel of healing salves from the high priest can make it go away. He watched the one the commander called Zhal walk off towards the direction of Fort Asphenaz, the lion army headquarters, probably to gather up some gear. The commander was obviously in a hurry.

The whole day passed with much excitement for the whole crowd. Paris, on the other hand spent the whole day walking through the village looking for something to get his mind off the terrible loss, and also to make himself an excuse for not showing up at Arianne's place like he promised before the competition. There wasn't much to show but a bruised body anyway, he thought.

"Disrespectful woman! He heard the stern voice followed by a slapping sound which he assumed to be a leather gauntlet against a poor peasant's cheek. "You would show proper respects to the highlord of Asphenaz!

Paris quickly ran towards the sound, finding one of the highlords beating up a peasant girl. Three knights bearing the skull crest were with him. "What in the world¦Lord Troy Eisenhart? He gasped. The highlords were the highest legislative positions in Asphenaz, each of them leading a division of the lion army just as commanders do. The knights were obviously of the second division based on their crest, and he had no great love for the said group.

"Stop this at once! Paris shouted. It was too late before he realized what he was doing. Incurring the wrath of a highlord is very bad for one's health, no matter the rank. The knights looked up, swords drawn. "Leave the girl alone. She has not committed a crime, has she?

"Neglecting to bow before the highlord as he passes through the village qualifies as a crime, young soldier. The highlord Troy's voice said in a calm but threatening tone. "And so is interfering with his business.

No turning back now, Paris thought, drawing his sword. "A very twisted sense of justice you have, milord, I would see you a few pegs down your pedestal. With that he rushed the advancing knights, drawing first blood. They were in full armour and he had the edge in speed and maneuverability. The plates did not bother him too much; he only had to aim for the chinks and the blade passed like a sharp knife through butter.

A few seconds later and Troy stood alone. Two wounded knights fled while another lay lifeless at his feet. "Perhaps I made my point, sire? Paris asked, dropping his blade and leaping like a hungry wolf who had just found its prey. "This one's for Asphenaz! Troy's breastplate split in two when his first blow connected. Paris could not help but imagine what would have happened if the former did not have it on. Several more blows followed, pummeling Troy's face before Paris finally came back to his senses.

"You shall pay dearly for this, soldier. Troy growled with a broken jaw while he turned and ran. Paris' heart sank. He made a terrible mistake that could cost him his life. He was on the side of right however, and the justices would charge him innocent of any crime if tried fairly¦but he doubted if it would come to that. From what he heard, Troy was the vulture of the lion army. Corrupt and mad with power, he made his way quickly to the rank of highlord through sheer shrewdness and trickery, betraying most of those who trusted him, pulling all the strings available until he gained what he wanted. It had also been rumored that he had sold his soul to demons long ago in exchange for a magical sword, but no one truly believed that story, since it was never proven.

Paris shrugged off the peasant's words of gratitude and made his way to the nearest tavern. The travel was quick and unchallenged. He arrived at the Black Alley and entered the door. Noise greeted him, bawling and cheering, the clink of wine glasses and coins. It was almost pleasant.

He was hurt, but more within than physically. Taking an empty chair and positioning himself at one of the corners of the room, he began to drain his first bottle of elderflower wine. It made him feel better, knowing that the high priest even recommended it to soldiers as an effective relief from aches. He could see the whole tavern from where he sat; a lot of pretty ladies were around, playing their charms among the knights and adventurers who enjoyed their company. Another table consisted of merchants and gamblers playing a game of bones. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the festival of Fyrh.

He did not even notice the time fly as he emptied his last bottle. He lost count halfway through the bartender's stock as to the amount he was drinking. Standing up, he glanced at the window only to see darkening skies. It was dusk, and rain clouds were gathering over the horizon.

"Ironheart! Boomed the voice as five knights entered the tavern, all bearing the skull crest. "Lord Troy wishes your presence at Fort Asphenaz. Please come with us.

Ironheart. Every soldier of the lion army is given a nickname by one's commanding officer. Troy Eisenhart must have really been interested in him since he went into the effort of finding out his title. "In a pig's eye, lapdogs. Paris replied, dropping the bottle. "You can tell lord Troy that he will have to wait until commander Scryer arrives tomorrow. Then I will grant him both mine and the commander's presence for as long as he wants.

"You leave us no choice then. The leader said, snapping his visor shut and drawing his sword. "Take him.

The knights advanced on Paris while the latter stood still, unafraid, having a bit too much to drink that night and wasn't quite thinking straight. Drawing his own sword, Paris charged his attackers, causing great chaos in the tavern. Wine bottles began to fly and patrons hurried for the exits followed by shrieks and screams from almost everywhere. The first blow cut deep into his opponent's shoulder, piercing right through the armour. There was little satisfaction to be had. A heavy iron knuckle hit the back of his head while the others struggled to pin him down through sheer numbers. Paris let his blade loose again; two more mortal wounds sent two more knights running out the back door before the others finally secured his hands and arms with ropes.

"Feisty little bastard. The leader growled, his mail badly dented and his body very sore from the encounter. "You would have done well to have minded your own business¦now look where it's gotten you.

Paris could not answer even if he wanted, now gagged with cloth and his body bound head to foot. All he could remember was being dragged into Fort Asphenaz' dungeons before everything went dark.

The cold stone of the prison cell bothered him little. His mind was elsewhere when he awoke in the darkness. The only thing that reminded him of his situation was the trickle of water from the fortress canals and the constant sound of dragging chains from outside. Arianne. His heart leapt, remembering he should be by her side right now, enjoying a warm dinner with some potatoes, parsley, and maybe even a roast fowl. Why should he always be so stubborn as to let a small game affect his pride? He asked himself. It was too late. He might as well forget her warm caress for now, the soft loving kisses from the one he adores so much. If only he had become a knight sooner, he would have married her already. As it is, all hopes abandoned his mind. Soon, everything went black, and his mind wandered the paths of night.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of metal boots approach the cell. A knight yanked the rusty door open and the high priest of Ansha entered, to grant Paris absolution from his sins. "Elder Clarion? Paris gasped. Clarion was the highest of all the temple guardians, training the soldiers and paladins themselves with the holy arts. His flowing snow white beard hung loosely like the road to Ansha's realms while wisdom that seemed to overflow emanated from his countenance. "Why are you here?

"Hush my child. The priest's soft and calm voice soothed his mind. "I was summoned to sanctify your soul before your execution. A standard practice to all convicts sentenced to death by beheading. Of course you would not know¦you've never been beheaded before. The old man chuckled.

Paris did not like it one bit. He trusted Clarion even as a child, and as a soldier he taught them well and true. He knew him to be a kind and honest man, not to mention a priest of the goddess of justice. "Execution? Where is my trial? Why are they doing this to me? He blurted in frustration.

"There will be no such trials. Clarion said, trying to calm Paris. "At least none fair. The old priest seemed odd, keeping his voice very low. "Of course you would have guessed that lord Troy would have you executed for attacking him and shaming his troops by any means he can¦and he has many such means.

"But¦ Paris tried to argue some more, but Clarion's hand extended forth, sealing him in a spell of silence.

"Now, all I can do for you is heal your sores¦and bless your soul for its expected travel into the eternal realms. The high priest said in an almost joking tone. "Take heart my son. Hope in our lady Ansha. All is not lost.

With that, the priest poured a powerful healing salve on Paris and made him drink a few potions before standing and motioning the guard to open the door. The steel bars swung open and shut, leaving Paris in the darkness once more.