A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1431 - 1431: The Tournament - Part 9

Barely, though, each time, the peasant managed to dodge them, just swaying barely enough out of the way, though his fear was more than evident in the erraticness of his movements. He was backed up step by step, breaking up another duel elsewhere on the field with his hasty retreat. His sword still hadn't moved from down by his side. He could only stand to dodge – he had no counterattack against the length of the spear.

Already, Patrick men were charging onto the field and separating fights, with first blood being drawn. A soldier cast his helmet down into the mud in frustration. "It's barely a surface wound!" He roared, pointing to the shallow cut above his eyebrow, where another soldier's weapon had just barely nicked him."

Queen Asabel did not fail to pick up on that. "I suppose, in that instance, we can say that your rule set managed to declare a victory with far less bruises than would usually be required."

"Indeed. In that instance," Oliver said stiffly. He was still quite certain he was going to see the young peasant man get run through by the spear. He was already pushed right against the ropes on the perimeter of the melee field. He couldn't take any more steps back, and the soldier circled him like a hungry dog, smelling blood in the air, and taking his time with the finishing blow.

The peasant glanced behind him, as if wondering whether he might simply hop over the rope fence. Indeed, he could, but it would have rendered him disqualified.

The soldier charged, spear low, looking for that vicious strike to the gut, enough force behind it to drill straight through the peasant's underbelly.

The peasant shifted slightly, erratically, his footwork a mess, sliding in the mud, and just barely, by the grace of whatever God that young man had prayed to, his sword slid down the length of the soldier's cheek, drawing blood.

The soldier moved in for another strike, but before he could get anywhere, Firyr was kicking him flat in the back. "YOUR DONE, FOOL!" Firyr was shouting, a little too overzealous in his enforcement of the rules. Jorah had to rush over to pull him off, before he could embarrass them any further.

Queen Asabel gave a giggle. "I see your men are as interesting as always, Ser Patrick."

"Indeed…" Oliver said. Their quirks were not just limited to the tournament field. Lady Blackthorn right next to him was doing everything she could to use him as a meat shield between herself and her father. Lord Blackthorn stood, glowering with the most overwhelming of violent intents, shooting a hundred murderous glances through Oliver. Oliver had to pretend not to notice, for apparently, Queen Asabel was largely unaware of it.

A loud groan from the crowd drew their attention back to the field. A soldier had managed to land a vicious slash with his sword across a fleeing peasant's back. It was a deep, and nasty wound. Any further, and it would have cut the bone of his spine.

"DISQUALIFIED!" Jorah announced loudly, so that all could hear.

"WHAT?" The soldier bellowed his fury, pointing his sword at Jorah next, about to take it out on him. Before he could go any further, though, Firyr struck him across the face with an unarmoured hand, and dropped him in an instant. The groans from the crowd were replaced with muffled laughter, as the overzealous soldier was dragged unconscious from the field.

Queen Asabel's eyes twinkled with concern. Even from a distance, they could see that the peasant's injury was nasty.

"I shall go and attend to him," Queen Asabel said, gathering up her skirts.

Oliver held out a hand to stop her. "We have medics on hand for that purpose, my Queen," he warned her. "You need not sully your hands yourself."

She looked at him fiercely. They both new what sort of healing she intended to administer to the man. She wanted to take the edge off his pain, with the power that had been given to her. That was the very reason that Oliver refused to budge. He refused to see Asabel invite suspicion on herself.

Of course, Lancelot was naturally of the same opinion, though for different reasons. "Ser Patrick is right in this, my Queen. You ought not involve yourself personally with such things. The wound that the peasant was dealt is far from mortal, as grave as it looks. They will have no problem in stitching him together."

"They're Blackwell medics," Blackthorn noted. "They aren't the best, but they aren't the worst either. He'll be fine, Queen Asabel."

It was probably the closest Lord Blackthorn could ever come to complimenting his long-time rival in Lord Blackwell, but it seemed to be the final blow in the coffin for the Queen for her soldiers sagged in a sad sigh, and she held her position, watching the rest of the first melee with a morose look on her face.

A tournament, no matter the type, did not seem like a place for a woman as kind-hearted as she. She wanted to help every man with an injury. But at the same time, Oliver knew, she held a respect for the martial. She had to, being the Pendragon that she was. Occasionally, her eyes would flash with acknowledgement, seeing a particularly impressive bit of skill, but then they would quickly sadden and wince, when she saw a more cruel wound inflicted. It was a rollercoaster of emotions just being near her.

Soon enough, they were down to the final twenty, and the melee was called concluded. Interestingly – as far as Oliver was concerned – the peasant that he'd seen getting chased around from the start had managed to last all the way to the end. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, thinking it to be an impressive feat.

The worst injury that they'd seen to happen was the loss of a man's hand. It was a rather brutal sight, and there had been other rather deep wounds along with it, but the men that had inflicted such injuries saw no benefit from it, for they were immediately disqualified.