Saga of the Jewels

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in an attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE FORTY-FOUR: THE TOURNAMENT: GRAND FINAL

Clouds were gathering.

Win this tournament, Ryn thought, as fast as possible. Get the Earth Emerald. Get out of here. Find the other Jewels. Save the world. Stay with Nuthea. Live a meaningful life.

Don’t lose.

The hulking figure of Huld regarded him from the other side of the arena, bald and brawny in his green robes. The monk stood legs apart with one foot slightly further forward than the other, hands held up with splayed fingers in a fighting stance, something he had not even done for Sagar.

Sagar had forfeited his match in the end to chase after some woman he had fought earlier while Ryn and Nuthea had been speaking to the Governor. That meant that Ryn had to fight Huld instead of the skypirate.

He was actually more nervous at the prospect of fighting the monk, but at least he wasn’t having to fight a friend. Cid had healed Ryn after his last match against Vish, so that he was fighting fit again and ready. But Huld hadn’t even needed any healing after his match with Sagar, despite it being offered according to their agreement with the Governor.

The Farrian audience made no sound at all. Ryn could hear his own breathing. He reviewed his plan. He had already decided how he would open in this match. He didn’t want the monk to have an opportunity to get close to him. The boy knew he couldn’t win against Huld in a straight fight, but if he was able to keep the monk at bay with his elemental projection, he might just have a chance. Vish had said as much, anyway, and Vish knew a lot more about fighting than he did.

“READY……FIGHT!” shouted the announcer for the last time that day.

Ryn flung his hands forwards immediately, launching a hot, orange fireball at Huld.

The monk made a raising hand gesture at once and a section of the stone arena floor rose up to form a wall in front of him, which the fireball broke apart on, scorching it black.

Cid’s words of advice echoed in Ryn’s mind: Elemental projections still obey the normal laws of nature. Fire may consume earth or wood or vegetation, but it cannot burn stone. It is young man’s Huld’s body that will be especially susceptible to fire attacks.

But that meant Ryn would need to land a hit on Huld’s body.

The wall of stone that the monk had raised suddenly broke off from the floor and shot towards Ryn, a man-sized slab rushing along the ground.

He dived to one side out of the way, lost his footing and stumbled over, but then came up again as fast he could, not wanting to spare Huld a single moment to exploit, throwing another fireball at him as he rose.

This one the monk dodged, casually side-stepping out of its path.

Ryn threw another. Another. Another, trying to anticipate where the monk was going to dodge to next. This tactic had just about worked on Vish, but somehow Huld sidestepped and weaved so unpredictably that Ryn couldn’t hit him. The fireballs only hit with the floor or shot over the heads of the audience. Huld didn’t jump into the air like Vish had, and he didn’t even bother using earth manipulation to block Ryn’s projectiles any more.

It looked like landing a hit was going to be even more difficult than he had thought.

His first tactic exhausted, hot panic flooded Ryn’s head. He lit himself on fire with a shout and ran at Huld. If he couldn’t land a hit with a ranged attack, he would just have to try hitting him up close.

The flames billowed around Ryn’s body as he ran. The monk held his ground, standing stone still with bunched fists.

Ryn arrived putting all of his weight behind a mad punch, another angry shout involuntarily issuing from his lips.

He almost connected, but at the last moment Huld side-stepped out of the way again and Ryn went past him.

Fearing a counter, Ryn turned immediately with a flaming kick. The monk took a step back out of the way of it.

Ryn tried another kick with his other leg, then another and another, then even threw in one of Vish’s roundhouse kicks, surprised that he had remembered how to do it from the week’s training.

The monk moved out of the way of them all. His movements were deliberate, controlled, efficient, expending the minimal amount of energy required to dodge out of the way of the Ryn’s desperate attacks.

The boy switched back to punches, chasing after Huld and flinging his fists out at the monk, who only danced away from them.

Ryn came to a halt, breathing hard, the fire around his body still burning, having failed to land a single hit.

Huld merely continued to regard him from where he had ended up a few paces away, now holding his hands behind his back.

Damn it, but the monk wasn’t just strong, he was also so fast. A man that size shouldn’t be able to move so quickly!

“Are you toying with me?” Ryn asked, keeping his voice quiet so that the crowd, and Nuthea, wouldn’t hear.

“No,” the monk said straightforwardly with his omnipresent smile. “I am just observing your style some more.” Then the smile disappeared into a flat line, possibly the first time that Ryn had seen it drop. “What there is of it, at least. This would be toying with you, foreigner.”

A wedge of stone rose up out of the floor in front of Ryn, smashing into his chest, hitting him so hard he was chucked up into the air.

His fire went out.

He hung for a moment at the apex of his flight, aware that he was about to fall back to earth.

But then something else smacked into his back, bright pain erupting across it, one, two, three times, he lost count in the pain.

Now he flew upwards, delirious with shock, the dark clouds in the sky getting nearer for a few moments, then hung weightless once more.

He began to fall again, and as he did so he turned over in the air helplessly and fell head-first.

Huld, moving towards him, standing atop a pillar of stone that he was causing to rise up from the ground.

The monk reached him and punched him in the stomach.

Now Ryn was thrown along the horizontal, he knew from the thrilled faces of the crowd that passed below.

He was going to land among them, out of bounds.

No I’m not, damn it!

He found his bearings and thrust his hands in the direction he was moving in, projecting fire from them. Jets of flame appeared, the push-back from them arresting his flight, then reversing it, so that he began to move back the way he had come, flipping over and beginning to fly back into the arena, now holding his hands out behind him.

He shut his jaw tight against the pain setting in all over his body, then looked for where he was going to land.

Huld had come down from his pillar and stood waiting, no sign of surprise on his smiling face at all.

Ryn found the wherewithal to light himself on fire again, and at the same time he projected fire from the soles of his feet, further accelerating his flight, and directed himself at the monk

But Huld still had time to raise another stone barrier before Ryn made impact.

Ryn screamed with rage and pulled his limbs in to his chest, curling himself up and holding his fists in front of his face.

He cannonballed into the wall, the impact smashing against his forearms and rattling his teeth, then heard the shuddering sound of stone breaking apart.

He collided with Huld beyond it in a shower of stone and dust, smacking full into the monk’s body and bouncing off him and to the side, where he hit the floor hard, bounced a few more times and came to a stop on his back.

Spinning dark clouds above him, and the noise of the audience’s angry shouts in his ears.

He groaned as the pain caught up to him fully. Terrible, aching bruises on his arms, the backs of his hands, his chest, his back, his stomach, his head. His whole body throbbed with them. His flame-aura had extinguished again, but at least he was still conscious, and he was dimly hopeful that the flames had still been around him when he had collided with Huld.

The monk wasn’t following up with any attacks, Ryn realised.

In spite of the pain, he forced his body to turn over and push itself shakily to its feet.

Sure enough, the monk was only just getting up from where he had landed some length away himself, near one edge of the arena.

A blackened semi-circle marred the front of his robes where they hung down over his chest from one shoulder. Little flames still burned here and there on them.

Huld grunted as he grabbed the robes with one hand and tore off the top of them, ripping them from his body and throwing them out of the arena where they landed in the sand in a smouldering heap, leaving only his legs covered.

His chest, a chiselled arrangement of discrete rectangular muscles, was now marked by its own big, purple bruise where Ryn had cannonballed into him when on fire. The monk grimaced–he was standing, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack again in a hurry.

The crowd roared their one-sided approval of Huld standing up, but Ryn still detected a note of anger that the Farrian had suffered a hit.

Cid was right! Ryn thought amidst the delirium of his ringing head. He could hurt Huld if he connected with him while on fire.

But it had taken an awful lot just to connect with him. Ryn couldn’t do that again–there was no way that he could throw himself through a barrier of stone again just to land a single hit on his opponent. His body was bruised and bleeding from smashing through the wall and he could barely think straight. And his fireball attacks were useless too–Huld was so fast he just dodged out of the way of them.

He needed a way of guaranteeing that his fire attack would connect with Huld, without breaking his body in the process.

Ryn had an idea.

A last-ditch, bet-it-all, everything-or-nothing kind of idea.

It was crazy, but it was the best chance he had right now.

He took a deep breath, trying not to wince at the stabs of protest from his ribs. He would definitely need Cid to heal him after this match, whatever its outcome. He gathered his energy and concentrated on where he was going to project it.

Huld frowned at him, wavy lines carving his forehead, and Ryn enjoyed that the monk wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Fiiiiireaaaaaagggggggaaaahhhh!” Ryn shouted, lifting his hands straight up palms-out towards the sky, his focus-word cracking and turning into an agonised cry of effort and then pain as he broke his limit.

Flames rose all over the arena.

He willed them upwards from the floor, searing and intense, so that they engulfed the entire arena, engulfed him, engulfed Huld, and all was consumed in an exploding inferno of red and orange and yellow fire that leapt up higher than their heads.

Somewhere distant he heard the audience calling out in surprise, but he barely paid them any attention.

He was at home in the roar of the fire. He didn’t feel it as burning heat, but as a delighting, exultant expulsion of energy.

After a few moments his arms began to quiver with new pain. He was aware that he had almost exhausted all of his energy, or ‘mana’, or whatever Cid called it, and he suddenly let the flames cease, keeping back just a bit of it in reserve in case this attack didn’t work.

The inferno disappeared, leaving only steam hissing up from the now hot stone tiles of the arena.

And there lay Huld, on his side, his body and his remaining robes blackened and burned.

Oh no.

“Cid!” Ryn shouted as he sprinted as fast as he could manage over to where the monk lay. “Help! I think I might have killed him!”

He reached the monk and knelt on both knees next to him. The monk’s eyes were shut; his mouth open.

But his chest was still moving up and down.

The monk’s hand shot out and grabbed Ryn’s wrist, tight as a vice.

The boy went rigid with shock.

Huld opened his eyes, brown irises shining. “No, you haven’t killed me, foreigner,” he rasped, “though you may have come close. And I hope now that you have used up enough of your energy that you won’t be able to do that again.”

Huld’s fist hit Ryn in the nose and he went over, skidding along on his back and coming to rest. He clutched his face against the pain and tasted the metallic tang of blood as it ran down into his mouth.

He stumbled up again.

Huld had got to his feet and was staring at him defiantly, jaw set in grim, stony determination.

Ryn couldn’t believe this man. What strength did he possess, what unfathomable reserves of endurance, that he was able to stand up again and continue to fight when his body and face were red and brown and covered in burns?

But at the same time, it looked as though the fire attack had weakened him considerably. And his latest punch hadn’t hit quite as hard as before. And the monk was trembling slightly, clearly struggling to stay standing.

Maybe now this would be more of a fair fight.

Ryn’s heart missed a beat. Huld was running towards him.

The monk arrived with a punch that Ryn side-stepped, to his own amazement. His attack had slowed the monk down, too.

He countered with a punch of his own, which the monk blocked, palming it away harmlessly into the air to the side of him, but no counter came and Ryn had time to try another, which found Huld’s gut.

“Ungh,” the monk grunted, and took a step backwards. He had hardly been bowled over by the punch, but he had taken the full brunt of it, and it had clearly hurt him.

He had been weakened. This would be a fairer fight now.

Ryn ran in again and the pair traded more blows. He found that he was able to land some punches and kicks on Huld, and they even seemed to hurt him and knocked him back. He was able to dodge some of Huld’s strikes as well, though some still connected with him and hurt like all the hells, but they didn’t send him flying across the arena as they had done before.

The two of them continued like that for some time, grunting and groaning and flinging their limbs against each other’s increasingly worn-out bodies in what Ryn knew had to be the endgame of this match–neither of them could last at this much longer.

Then Huld used his earth projection again.

The monk willed a pillar of stone up out of the arena floor, aiming it at Ryn–but it didn’t move with the rapidity that it had done before. It came up slowly, like Huld was straining to pull it out, and Ryn was able to stagger out of the way of it, then strafe round and run back in to punch Huld, who blocked and lost his concentration, losing his mental grip on the pillar and letting it sink back into the floor.

The monk tried several more earth attacks, interspersing them more or less effectively among his forced and stuttered movements, but Ryn had time to get out of the way of them, and they all fell short.

Ryn stumbled back a few steps to regather himself, and watched Huld, who for the moment kept his distance too.

He’s got some mana left, Ryn thought, but he’s been severely weakened by my fire. His projections are slower. I can win this.

Still, the longer they kept going this way, the more tired Ryn was getting, and the more likely he was going to be caught out by an earth projection or one of Huld’s blows. After all, even though he was burned and blackened and bruised, at the end of the day the monk was still far bigger, stronger and faster than Ryn was just in terms of the raw size, strength and speed of their bodies.

It was time to finish this.

Ryn drew on the last of his energy and lit himself on fire one more time. His whole body ached in complaint as he drew on the last of his physical reserves to project.

Huld’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped. No doubt he was shocked that Ryn had any energy left himself. But Ryn wasn’t using his mana—which was gone. He was projecting from his physical energy.

Ryn ran at Huld, pulling his fist back for what he was sure would be the final blow of this final match. The monk wouldn’t have time to hit him with an earth attack. This was it.

Time slowed.

As Ryn’s fist got closer, through the flames surrounding his body he saw Huld raising both his hands.

Unable to arrest the momentum of his run, Ryn watched in horror as the stone of the arena floor rose up around Huld and encased the monk, moulding around his body to turn him into a brown-stone-encrusted golem.

Ryn didn’t have time to pull back, and followed through with his punch. His fist crunched into the centre of the stone golem’s chest and stopped, his knuckles cracking against it.

“Ow,” said Ryn.

And then pain sang out from his knuckles so loud he yelped and howled and shook his hand up and down.

Huld’s eyes looked at him from within the little slit in the stone encasing that the monk had left for them. The muscles around them tightened. He appeared to be smiling once again within his earthen armour.

The Huld-golem pulled back a stone fist, and then delivered a massive, jumping uppercut to Ryn’s chin that he had no time to block.

Ryn lost a moment of consciousness, but regained it while he was still hurtling through the air.

He hit the sand outside the arena on his back at the same time he realised that he couldn’t scream properly anymore because his jaw had been broken.

“Out of bounds!” bellowed the tournament announcer, whom Ryn had landed somewhere near to. “Victory to Huld of Farr! Huld of Farr is the winner!”

The crowd exploded with joy.

Amidst the muddle of his pain, Ryn saw them climbing and leaping over the wooden barriers that fenced off the arena floor and running onto it. Farrians, men, women and children alike, invading the arena and roaring with triumph and glee. The ones passing Ryn ignored him completely, stepping over him or even knocking into him on the way so that his body protested with fresh pain.

Eventually Cid appeared at his side; a friendly, weathered face in the sea of screaming Farrians.

“Oh dear,” the old man said. “that looks nasty. Sorry it took me a moment to get to you. I went to Huld first because you burned him so badly, but actually it looks like I should have come to you first…”

He lay a hand on the top of his Ryn’s throbbing head, spoke the word “Cure-ah,” and relieving warmth spread from the old man’s hand into Ryn’s head, through his jaw, and down to the rest of his body. His jaw bones clicked back into place and his ribs stopped aching.

“Ahhh…” Ryn gasped. “That’s better... Thank you, Cid...” He took the old man’s hand, who helped him to his feet.

“My pleasure,” said Cid, clasping his hand and giving him an affectionate wallop on the back, which would have hurt like hell had Ryn not just been healed. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked particularly pronounced just now. He must be tired from all the healing he had been doing today. “Good effort out there. I’m sorry it didn’t work out in the end.”

And then it hit Ryn, harder than a stone-fisted uppercut.

He had lost.

He had lost the Grand Final.

He had lost the Grand Final and failed to win the Earth Emerald.

He looked over at what was happening to Huld. The invading members of the audience had swarmed around the monk, who was no longer encased in his stone armour, and hoisted him up so that his huge form bobbed up and down atop a sea of hands. He was smiling again.

“HULD! HULD! HULD!” the crowd were chanting over and over in celebration.

The entire arena was filled with Farrians. More were scrambling to get in to try to touch their new champion, but there was barely any room left inside the fighting square to accommodate them.

“What do we do now?” Ryn asked Cid over the noise of the cheering. “How are we going to get the Earth Emerald now?”

“I am not entirely sure,” said Cid. “I must admit I did not expect things to turn out this way…” A stab of shame pricked Ryn’s guts. “But don’t worry, lad. It doesn’t matter. There will be a way. The One will show us a way.”

As he watched the crowd of Farrians jostling around in the arena and starting to repeatedly launch Huld into the air, Ryn wasn’t so sure. Sorrow tugged at his heart. He had let Nuthea down. He had let himself down. He had let everyone down.

“ENOUGH!” boomed a voice so loud it shook the sand Ryn stood on.

It got the crowd quiet too. As one, they turned to look at who had shouted.

The Governor. He was standing on his viewing platform, hands held up for silence again.

“While I understand your justified jubilation,” the Governor said loudly, though he didn’t need to shout it anymore, “this disorganised display does not become us. All of you, back to the viewing area! Then I shall present Brother Huld with his prize for winning the Grand Final of this tournament.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the audience members returned Huld to the ground and began to walk back out of the arena circle, clambering back over the dividing barriers. Apparently they respected the Governor enough to obey him, even in spite of their jubilation at seeing Huld win the Final.

Ryn and Cid went and stood at the side of the arena to watch what would happen next. Ryn tried to keep his head down out of view so that people wouldn’t see that he had been healed.

The Governor descended his platform and a gate in the barrier was opened for him by a monk so that he could walk into the arena, where he went and stood next to Huld.

The thick-set man walked around the champion to address the once more patiently watching Farrians from all angles.

“Fellow Farrians!” he proclaimed. “What you have witnessed here today is yet another demonstration that—though barbarians and rogues may visit us from over the seas and skies to gaze upon our wonders and challenge our strength—in glory, in might, in power, FARR WILL ALWAYS REIGN SUPREME!”

The crowd bellowed its approval, so loud it felt like the earth trembled under Ryn’s feet.

The Governor turned to the monk at his side. “Brother Huld, Monk of Eto, loyal servant of the Republic of Farr, for your prowess and victory at this Grand Tournament here today, for your defeat of these foreign challengers with their strangest of sorceries, for your impeccable demonstration of the finest fighting arts that Mother Farr has to offer, as prize I now present you with the highest honour I can bestow: The long-lost Earth Emerald of Eto, fabled Jewel of Mid!”

The Governor pulled a hand from his robe and thrust it into the air, holding the gleaming green stone aloft. As he did so the arena flared briefly with distant light, which the stone caught with a flash, and a heartbeat later a loud peal of thunder rolled across the sky, like celestial furniture being moved somewhere above the ceiling of cloud cover.

Ryn craned his neck upwards. The gathered clouds were thicker and blacker than ever, pregnant with rainstorm.

“Congratulations, Brother Huld!” proclaimed the Governor.

He handed Huld the stone, and at last the storm broke, and rain burst from the clouds, drenching them in an instantaneous downpour of uncountable water droplets.

And with the storm, through the dark clouds, flew a fleet of black, blimp-suspended, sharp-prowed Imperial airships.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE FORTY-THREE: SEMI-FINAL TWO

An empty, grey void sat at the centre of Sagar’s stomach.

His loins, which had recently been so awake and alive, now ached dully. The wind had gone out of his sails, the air from his blimp, the swagger from his strut.

What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this?

He had landed a kiss on a woman. A real kiss. And on a real woman! And it had been returned. A real connection. He could still practically taste her soft lips on his own, slightly salty from sweat, could still remember how they had parted and stirred in response to his.

But he had thrown that all away, as quickly as he had chanced upon it. He had broken their kiss and literally thrown the woman out of the arena, all in an effort to win a shiny green rock he wasn’t interested in anyway.

Of course, he did have his reputation to think of, and it wasn’t like the great Captain Sagar, Scourge of the Imfisi skies, could have let himself lose a fighting match to a woman...

But still…

A real kiss.

He had run after her straight afterwards to try to apologise and talk to her some more, and caught up with her in the dugout, managing to catch her by the hand.

She spun to face him, all well-defined lines and short dark hair, and he was hit by her beauty again. Her cheeks were glistening, though recently dabbed–she had been crying.

“Look, Hiuna,” he said, painfully conscious of the other quarter-finalists in the enclosed earthen chamber–the baldy, another shorter Farrian, and some Frikian woman, “I’m really…sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you and finished the match like that. Please accept my apology.” He could barely believe his own ears, but he meant every word of it. He looked into her eyes, green like new life. “I feel like we had a connection, and I can see that I’ve upset you.”

Hiuna yanked her hand out of his grasp. “I’m not upset because you took advantage of me, you chump!” she snapped. “I’m upset because I lost the match! My whole life I’ve been trying to prove myself in the face of men like you, and the moment I get my chance to do so, you go and do that and hit me out of bounds! Argh! Don’t come after me!”

She turned to leave, but Sagar grabbed her and again.

“Hiuna, please–”

“Get off me!” the Farrian woman shouted, and palm-punched him in the chest with her spare hand, pulling the other one free in the process.

Sagar landed on his arse with a thump. He watched Hiuna running off out of the dugout’s far exit.

Huld was staring at him.

“What are you looking at, baldy?” he said.

*

A moving pillar of stone smacked upwards into Sagar.

He was knocked backwards and into the air with a painful jolt.

As he sailed through the air, he realised that had been so distracted and lost in his memory that he had completely missed the announcer calling the start of the match and that the baldy had whacked him with an earth attack and was going to have hit him out of bounds in one strike.

He summoned the wind, and powerful currents caught him, then held him in place in the air as he held out his arms, levitating weightlessly.

The crowd cooed with surprised wonder. He lapped it up.

Might as well give them a good show, he thought. Though the truth was, he didn’t care about this stupid tournament anymore. What he cared about was getting Hiuna to accept his apology, and he was pissed off that she hadn’t, mainly at himself.

Baldy was looking up at him from the arena floor, chunky brow wrinkled, barefoot and green-robed, still with his hands held out in a ridiculous pose from having launched his earth attack.

Might as well channel my anger somewhere, Sagar thought.

Keeping part of his concentration on the air currents cushioning him in the air, Sagar thrust his palms forwards and shouted “Windaaaaaaaaarrrraahh!”

A gale-blast of air wooshed forwards from his hands, hard as a hurricane.

The baldy set one foot in front of the other and raised his arms above his face, crossing them and making fists to shield himself from the wind in a defensive stance. He even made some of the stone of the arena floor rise up and secure itself in two moulds around his feet to hold himself in place.

Behind him, the audience members in the path of the gale screamed. The ones at the front clutched the wooden barrier to avoid being blown away. But they didn’t have anything to worry about–they were only getting the blow-back; Sagar was focusing the brunt of the attack on Huld.

On Huld, who remained completely still and unmoved by the wind. It was as though he might not have even bothered taking his defensive stance at all.

Well, the old timer wasn’t lying then, Sagar thought. Looks like my wind powers are completely ineffective against the element of earth.

But he had known that much from that stupid temple. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t expected the attack to do anything anyway.

Sagar leaned forward, dipping himself into the massive gale that he was directing at Huld. At the same time, he ceased the pressure from the gusts that had been keeping him up in the air, and instead changed their course to push him forwards, launching him even faster into his own wind attack.

The gale caught him and he rode it, his hair and the loose parts of his shirt flapping around him. The exhilarating sensation of weightlessness took him, for a moment replacing even the dull ache for Hiuna, as he flew straight at Huld.

He came in fast, stretching out both his arms in front of him for a double-fisted-punch.

He smashed into Huld’s stomach, below the monk’s upraised arms…

…and glanced off him, hitting the arena floor on his side and rolling over a few times.

He came up.

The gale having ceased, Huld dropped his defensive posture and broke his stone-shackles, then began to walk towards Sagar.

Kufe it. The baldy was tough. Of course Sagar had known that too, but he hadn’t realised just how tough. He hadn’t had occasion to hit him before now.

He called the wind, setting up another vicious gale to whip at Huld.

The monk put one open hand up to shield his eyes, but he kept on walking. At least the wind served to distract him somewhat.

This time Sagar ran at him, using the gale to lend him speed, but instead of rushing in head-on, when he was a few paces away he kicked off from the floor and sprang to the right, then jumped back towards the monk with a flanking side-kick.

Huld’s hand snapped out and caught Sagar’s leg in mid-air, fingers constricting around it tightly.

Uh-oh.

The monk twisted, and twirled Sagar in a circle around him once, twice, thrice, several times, getting faster and faster. The audience members became increasingly blurry.

Then Huld let go and threw Sagar out of the arena.

Weightlessness took him again. He soared through the air, over the audience, who craned their heads up to track him. He was going to land among them, well out of bounds.

Well, at least he would have if he hadn’t been able to fly.

He summoned the wind again and used it to catch him, then divert his course, sending him flying back head-first towards Huld.

A calm smile on the monk’s face. No surprise, no shock or awe or frustration or even a defensive stance this time. Just a calm smile.

Arrogant kufer.

Before he made impact with the monk, Sagar dived early, instead making impact with the arena floor with his two outstretched hands.

His arms bent, and he flipped over and pushed himself off the floor at an angle, launching himself at Huld feet-first in a double-handstand-kick.

The monk stepped out of the way and punched Sagar in the stomach.

He smacked against the floor on his front.

Ouch. His head rang.

He rolled over onto his back, then froze as the monk’s massive bare foot appeared above him, about to stamp down.

He rolled again, with the wind, to dodge out of the way as Huld’s foot crashed down to the ground, sending a shockwave through the stone floor that jolted Sagar as he rolled. He leapt up to his feet and staggered backwards the edge of the arena.

The monk just watched him carefully.

“Damn you!” Sagar yelled at him, furious at his immovability.

The skypirate started to run again, calling the wind to lend him speed, not straight at the baldy this time, but round him, in a wide circle around the perimeter of the arena. He ran faster and faster, keeping his wind projection up against his back, and sent random gusts of air at Huld, flinging them out with his hand at erratic intervals.

The monk didn’t even bother rotating to watch him. He just stood there in the centre of the arena, and on each pass Sagar glimpsed that same infuriating, calm smile.

Sagar kicked off the floor, darting inwards at Huld from behind, rushing along the ground with the wind.

He landed a right-handed punch in the small of the baldy’s back.

This time monk didn’t even move.

Sagar howled with rage and threw a barrage of follow-up punches, calling the wind to lend each of them force.

Huld took the full force of each blow on his back. Sagar must have hit him ten, twenty, thirty times, feeling the force of his punches reverberating through his fists, but the monk remained unmoved.

He ran out of steam, and came to a rest with one fist still against the monk’s back, panting and drenched in sweat and with aching arms.

Now Huld turned, slowly, to face Sagar as he dropped his throbbing arm, still with that stupid smile on his face.

“How are you so strong?!” Sagar asked in desperation, only loud enough for just the monk to hear.

“No matter how much the wind howls,” Huld said, “the mountain will not be moved by it.”

Sagar’s lip curled. “Don’t quote your stupid religion’s proverbs at me, baldy!” he yelled.

“Very well,” said Huld. “I won’t.”

The monk kneed Sagar in the face.

The skypirate wasn’t aware of what had happened until he was flying backwards, nose and mouth bright with pain. He flipped over in the air involuntarily, and landed on his back at the edge of the arena, head just poking over one of the border tiles, looking up at the dark cloud-filled sky.

He put a hand to his agonised mouth and it came away wet with blood. His tongue found that his front two teeth had come loose. He would need the old timer to heal that after this was over.

The cheers of the crowd filled his ears, loud and resonant with bloodthirst, almost drowning out the announcer’s count. They must be very glad to see one of their own dominating his foreigner opponent in a semi-final.

Huld’s knee had kicked up so quickly that Sagar hadn’t even had a chance to react. The baldy was strong and fast.

Sagar didn’t see a way that he could win this. Much as he hated to admit it, he was outmatched by the monk. Not only were his wind attacks completely ineffective against the Earth-Emerald-touched baldy, but the man was just a stronger, faster and better hand-to-hand fighter than him.

Kufe it, but this match is pointless. It was just like all his attempts to get with women: doomed to failure from the outset. He ground his teeth, and almost let out a growl.

But damn him all the same if he was going to just give up this easily. Captain Sagar Edbini, Scourge of the Imfisi Skies, did not give up this easily. He would see this through to the end; he wasn’t going to go down without a full, proper, finished fight. He had a reputation to protect.

At least the monk hadn’t followed up straight away with another attack. Apparently he was waiting to see whether Sagar was going to get up or not.

Sagar turned over onto his front with a groan and began to push himself up.

He stopped when he saw a face nearby, staring intently at him. A tomboyish but female face with short black hair.

“Hiuna?” he said.

She was standing in the small cordoned-off area of the crowd reserved for other combatants to watch from, currently its only occupant, right up against the wooden barrier. Only about six paces away from Sagar.

“Did you really mean it?” the woman said, her deep frown indicating deadly seriousness.

“Mean what?” asked Sagar, still on his hands and knees.

“What you said. Did you really kiss me because you wanted to?”

Sagar blinked. He remembered what she was talking about, and found he didn’t need to lie: “Yes.”

“Did you really regret throwing me out of the arena like that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really think that we had a connection?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Sagar got up fully now. The people in the audience around them were staring at them quizzically, starting to mutter and whisper and grumble, but he didn’t care.

“What do you mean ‘prove it’?” he asked Hiuna. “How?”

“Forfeit this match. You might never have been in it anyway if you hadn’t thrown me out of bounds when you did. If you really regret it, you won’t mind forfeiting now. If you forfeit, then…we’ll talk some more. That’s all I’m promising.”

She folded her arms and looked up at him, defiant challenge sizzling in her face. But not just that. In those bright green eyes, that tight line of mouth, there seemed also to be some desperate hope that he would show himself true by forfeiting this match.

Two different forces smashed together inside Sagar’s heart. On the one hand, there was his reputation, and his pride, and his ego, to maintain, and his tempestuous fury at not being able to beat Huld. On the other hand, here was Hiuna, whom he had recently kissed, and who had kissed him back. She was only promising that they would talk, but Sagar found that that would be enough for him. He just wanted to be near her again.

“Sagar of Imfis!” the announcer yelled out of all a sudden, yanking him out of his thoughts. “Are you going to carry on with this match?”

The skycaptain turned. Huld was still waiting calmly for him in the centre of the arena wearing his infuriating serene smile; a green, immovable mountain.

Sagar made his decision.

“No,” he said loud and clear to the announcer. “I yield.”

The crowd issued a collective gasp, then immediately erupted into a complaining chorus of boos and jeers.

Sagar ignored them, walking out of the arena, and went to go and speak with Hiuna.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin, RISS the spirit-summoning girl, and QUEL the water-projecting bard. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE FORTY-TWO: THE TOURNAMENT: SEMI-FINAL ONE

“Alright, team huddle time,” Nuthea said when she had got everyone assembled in the dugout.

The tournament officials didn’t seem to mind that they were congregating in the stuffy underground chamber even though they weren’t technically all combatants.

The party formed up, linking arms and making a face-to-face circle. Though the newcomers hesitated at first they got the idea easily enough, even if Cid and Elrann had to stoop slightly to fit Riss in.

“Right,” said Nuthea. She needed to be quick, as after Cid had healed Huld the Governor had said they had five minutes before the next match. “Let’s review how things stand: Ryn, Captain Sagar, and Shadowfinger Vish all won your Quarter-Final matches–well done!”

Ryn nodded. “Thanks.”

Sagar grunted the barest acknowledgement. He appeared to be sulking about something.

Vish didn’t say anything.

Nuthea suppressed a sigh. “Grandfather Cid will heal all of you too so that you’re ready to fight again, since the Tournament is going to be carrying on straight away.”

“Why did the Governor change his mind on that?” asked Ryn, wasting time.

“I’m not sure. Probably something to do with the change in weather. That has gone in our favour.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” said Elrann. “Clear skies all day, and now all of a sudden it looks like it’s going to pour.” She looked over at Quel. “You have water powers, right, music-man? Are you something to do with this?”

Quel shook his head, the blue hair of his fringe quivering. “No, Mistress Elrann; it has nothing to do with me. The Sapphire-touched can manipulate water in gaseous and solid as well as liquid form, true, but it would take quite a lot of us to influence the course of an entire weather system, and I am just one man.”

“Never mind that now,” said Nuthea, eager to move the discussion on. “What’s important is that the Governor has decided that the tournament can conclude today. Now, the two semi-finals will be Ryn against Shadowfinger Vish and Captain Sagar against Brother Huld. Sagar against Huld is straightforward enough, as we know who we want to win–”

“Do you think you can take him, Sagar?” Ryn asked, cutting Nuthea off.

“Hm?” said Sagar, attention coming back from wherever it had been. “Oh, yeah, you had better damn well bet I can take him. I’m not afraid of Baldy.”

“You are aware, aren’t you,” Grandfather Cid said before Nuthea could get another word in, “that the element of wind is completely ineffectual against the element of earth, in combat terms?”

Sagar blew the air out through his nostrils. “Yeah, I know, old timer. But that don’t mean I can’t use my powers to my advantage. Just you watch. I’ll beat him without blowing him over.”

“If you’re sure…” said Cid.

“Anyway,” said Nuthea, “what is more pressing for us to talk about is Ryn and Shadowfinger Vish’s match, since both of you are in our party.”

“What’s there to talk about?” said Sagar. “The scumsucker is the better fighter. You should just let him win,” he said to Ryn, “and be done with it.”

“Hey!” said Ryn, and the air in the huddle got a little warmer. “Shut up, Sagar! Vish may have been fighting longer, but I have fire magic!”

“Well it’s not like it matters anyway,” Sagar said, “as I’m just going to thrash whichever one of you goes through in the Final in any case.”

“Shadowfinger Vish,” Nuthea said, before Ryn could rise any further to Sagar’s posturing, “what do you think is the best course of action?”

Vish regarded her coolly above his face covering. “It makes no difference to me, girl. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it. I will win this battle, I will lose this battle, I will stay out of the Final, I will go into the Final–whichever. All I care about is that you give me some more poppy when this is done. As long as you do that, I will do whatever you want.”

Nuthea saw Cid hold himself back from saying something.

“Okay…” she said. She knew that Vish was by far the better fighter as Sagar had said. But she didn’t want to hurt Ryn’s feelings. “What would you rather do, Ryn?”

“Well, I think that–”

“People of Farr!” came the shout of the tournament announcer from outside all of a sudden. “For your first semi-final, I give you Ryn of Efstan versus Vish of Aibar!”

“Was that really five minutes?!” said Ryn. “We haven’t—”

“There’s no time!” Nuthea said, breaking the huddle. “Quick, get out there into the arena, both of you! I’m sure you’ll figure it out! Er, good luck!”

She ushered Ryn and Vish off in the direction of the entry tunnel.,

As Ryn looked briefly over his shoulder at her before walking out Nuthea ignored the twinge of guilt in her chest.

Neither of them moved.

Vish just stood there in his black uniform and head covering, eyes bleary and bloodshot. He didn’t even bother adopting a fighting posture.

A memory flared unbidden in Ryn’s mind of the first time he had fought Vish. How the Shadowfinger had suddenly fallen upon him and the others in the woods outside Ast, how he had been vicious, methodical and deadly, in the end only stopped by an unexpected pistol-shot from Elrann.

Did Ryn really have any kind of chance in a contest of hand-to-hand combat against such a skilled and highly trained fighter as Vish?

Probably not, no; not even if I have trained hard and gotten a lot better at fighting since then.

But Ryn did have something which Vish didn’t.

Damn him if he was going to use it straight away though.

“Begin!” shouted the announcer.

Ryn ran at Vish, crossing the arena floor in a matter of moments, and punched him in the face.

To his surprise the punch connected, the impact flashing across Ryn’s knuckles, and Vish’s head snapped back. The Shadowfinger took a couple of steps backwards, then steadied himself.

Huh?

Nobody in the audience cheered or made any kind of noise. They were as confused as Ryn.

Investigating, he stepped forwards and kicked the Shadowfinger in the chest with his right foot, using a kick that Vish himself had taught him. Vish grunted, taking the force of the blow, and stepped back a few more paces. Ryn followed through with a series of punches that finished with an elbow strike, using another sequence that Vish had taught him.

Every blow hit home. The Shadowfinger took the full force of each one, shuffling backwards and coming to a halt a couple of paces away.

“What are you doing?” Ryn whispered to the Shadowfinger, hoping that nobody else would be able to hear.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’?’” Vish replied, having the courtesy to keep his voice low too.

“Why aren’t you fighting me properly?”

The Shadowfinger shrugged. “You didn’t say what you wanted me to do yet.”

“I want you to fight me!” Ryn hissed.

The Shadowfinger raised a dark eyebrow. “You do? Are you sure?”

“Yes! Don’t go easy on me just because we know each other! That won’t impress anybody, and it might get us disqualified for cheating!”

The other eyebrow raised. “You are really sure?”

“Yes!”

“Alright then.”

Ryn took two steps forward and swung a right hook at Vish.

The Shadowfinger sidestepped as easily as if he was performing the learned steps of a dance.

And then his leg lashed out.

Ryn lifted up into the air, came down, hit the ground on his back and rolled over a few times.

Then he felt the pain. He curled up, clutching his stomach, which ached horribly where Vish had kicked him.

Now the crowd cheered. The noise of it filled his ears, hurting him even more than the kick had. Why were they cheering for Vish, and not him? Ryn supposed that Vish’s attack had had a bit more of an effect than his own…

“One!” called the announcer, beginning the count.

Ryn pressed his hands to the arena floor and shakily pushed himself up onto his feet, stomach still smarting.

Vish was standing a long way away. He had kicked Ryn so hard that he had flown across half the arena.

And yet, he sensed that the Shadowfinger had still held something back. Vish could have finished this match in one blow had he wanted to, like he had done in his last match.

Fire rose in Ryn’s chest, but he willed it down and breathed out, letting the energy dissipate through his nostrils. He wouldn’t resort to it yet. He had more pride than that.

He ran at Vish again, this time arriving with a jumping kick–another move the Shadowfinger had taught him.

Vish stepped lazily out of the way and countered with a punch to Ryn’s chest, quick and precise as a pistol-shot.

This time Ryn hit the arena floor so hard that he bounced and flipped over, landing face down and seeing stone. Searing pain in his chest joined the pain in his stomach. Had Vish broken one of his ribs?

“Three!” he heard the announcer call over the noise of the crowd. He hadn’t heard the first two counts. Had he blacked out for a moment?

“Four!”

Ryn managed to force himself up by the count of “Five!”

He gave a few agonising coughs and some blood came out of his mouth and ran down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of a hand.

Vish stood a few paces away.

“Are you sure you want me to fight you?” the Shadowfinger whispered, inclining his head. “It does not seem to be going very well for you.”

Fire rose again. “Yes!” Ryn growled through gritted teeth.

“Would you like me to hit you out of bounds to get it done quickly?”

“Just shut up and fight me properly, Vish!” Ryn shouted, no longer caring if the audience heard. “Fight me as if I was a regular opponent! Treat me like a man, not a little boy!”

Some people in the audience laughed.

“Raaargh!” Ryn thrust out two hands and launched a fireball at Vish from only paces away.

The Shadowfinger’s eyes went wide and he cartwheeled to the side, turning over in the air as the fireball rushed through the air where he had just been standing and out over the heads of the crowd, who gasped and ducked.

Ryn chucked another fireball at Vish as he landed, then another and another. He aimed them at Vish’s feet so that when the Shadowfinger dodged out of the way of them they hit the arena floor, scorching it black.

In moments Ryn had the Shadowfinger running and leaping around the arena to get out of the way of his fireballs, which he hurled again and again at him, listening with pleasure as the crowd now murmured and marvelled at his own attacks.

Vish was incredibly fast and agile, but he couldn’t keep this up forever. Could he?

The Shadowfinger executed a leaping somersault to get out of the way of a fireball that came dangerously close to hitting him, sending him particularly high.

Ryn saw where he was going to land.

He flung his hand out, launching another fireball at the spot.

Vish came down exactly where Ryn had predicted, and the fireball hit him in the legs, engulfing them in an orange burst for a moment.

Vish cried out, and fell to the ground, rolling over a few times from the momentum of his leap, which also served to put out the flames around his legs.

Ryn grimaced. His satisfaction at the hit had been immediately tempered by the worry that he might have hurt Vish.

Some fighter I am.

But the Shadowfinger quickly patted out the remaining flames on his trousers that hadn’t been extinguished by his roll, then sprang back to his feet and ran back across the arena, straight at Ryn.

Straight at Ryn, who was too shocked by the speed of Vish’s reaction to get out of the way in time.

Ryn lit himself on fire.

Vish pulled up, stopping just in front of Ryn with his fist held back ready, but not following through with his punch.

The crowd made admiring noises at Ryn, and he smiled. He couldn’t help himself.

“Ingenious…” Vish said, staying still as the flames flickered all around Ryn’s body, enveloping him in a fiery aura. “If you are covered in fire, it will burn me to touch you. Although I might still be able to hit you hard enough once to knock you out of bounds or incapacitate you without burning myself too much. Is that a chance you are willing to take, boy? And what of your so-called ‘mana’, that the old man is always talking about? How long before that runs out?”

That was a fair point, but Ryn wasn’t about to concede it openly. Now that he was using his fire magic he might actually have a chance against Vish, and at preserving his pride.

“I think the real question,” he replied, “is how long you will last against me while I am using my fire. I’ve been working hard at training and getting stronger with it. And Nuthea told me that every time I’ve fought and pushed myself to my limit and used all my mana up, my capacity has increased afterwards.”

Vish nodded. “Then this may be something of an even fight now.”

Ryn bristled. What an arrogant thing to say. But he knew Vish was just stating a fact. It didn’t seem in the Shadowfinger’s nature to gloat.

“Looks like it w–” Ryn started, but then Vish stepped forwards and followed through with his original punch, taking Ryn completely by surprise.

He was knocked backwards, stumbling over his own feet, his fire-aura extinguished. His feet came to the edge of something and he teetered on it, waving his arms in circles to try to regain his balance..

The edge of the arena! He was about to fall out of bounds!

As he began to fall, Ryn put out his arms behind him, flattened his palms, and blasted fire from them.

The audience gasped as the force of the flames thrust Ryn back into the arena.

He kept on going, turning his propelled movement into a run, and lit himself on fire again.

Vish had been shaking the hand he had hit Ryn with up and down, and now his eyes went wide with surprise.

But Ryn was moving so fast he didn’t have time to prepare a proper strike. Instead he just lowered his head and crashed into the Shadowfinger like a flaming human battering ram.

“Ungh!” grunted Vish, from the impact or the heat of the flames, Ryn did not know.

The Shadowfinger fell on his back and Ryn came to a stop standing over him, still on fire. Acting on instinct, he held out his hand where he stood, palm in front of Vish’s face.

The crowd cheered for him now.

Please let Nuthea be watching, he thought.

“One!” the announcer began his count since Vish was down and on his back.

“Move, and I’ll blast you with fire,” Ryn said through the flames that radiated from his body.

Sweat trickled down Vish’s forehead and into his eyes. “We both know you will not do that, boy,” the Shadowfinger said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows so that the announcer stopped his count.

Ryn hesitated. It was true. But he was doing so well, and he still had the advantage.

“You don’t know that for sure…” Ryn said carefully. “Even if I hit you point-blank with a fire attack, Cid can always heal you afterwards...”

“But do you know that for sure, boy?” Vish said. “What if you accidentally kill me? You’ve killed Imperial soldiers with fire attacks at greater distance. The old man won’t be able to bring me back from death.”

Ryn opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a response to that.

“Go on,” said Vish, more quietly this time so that only Ryn would be able to hear, fixing him with his grey eyes. “Do it. Trust me, boy, you’ll be doing me a favour. I am probably never going to change anyway.”

Ryn faltered. Was Vish seriously asking him to end his life? There was no way in Mid he would ever do that. He had made that decision once already, and that had been before Vish had fought alongside him and saved his life multiple times.

Ryn sighed, though he still kept his hand held out in front of him. “Why don’t you just yield, Vish? What other option do you have?”

Vish snorted through his face covering. “I have more options than you think, boy. It is clever, setting yourself on fire, I will grant you that. But I discovered two things in our little exchange just now: One, you need to concentrate in order to keep yourself on fire. And two, if I hit you fast enough I can avoid burning myself too much.”

Ryn gulped.

Vish pushed himself up with his elbows and twisted, sweeping Ryn’s legs with his foot.

Ryn fell on his side, hitting the stone of the arena floor painfully. He had been caught so off guard he hadn’t reacted in time.

He scrambled back up as quickly as he could, but the Shadowfinger wasn’t in front of him anymore.

A black-clothed arm wrapped itself tightly around his neck from behind, trapping him in its crook.

It was then that Ryn realised his fire had gone out again from the shock of having his legs swept.

Poodoo.

Vish strengthened the chokehold and Ryn gasped for air. He found some, but only a little.

“See?” Vish said menacingly in his ear. “One quick little kick, a heartbeat to sneak behind you, and I have you.”

Vish gave a little squeeze, showing Ryn that he could cut off his air supply completely if he willed.

Ryn choked.

The Shadowfinger loosened his grip again a fraction, just enough for Ryn to find some air.

“There you go,” said Vish quietly. “I have done what you asked: I have fought you properly. I expect to be rewarded with poppy later. Now, I suggest that you yield, so that we can finish this in the smoothest possible manner.”

Ryn gripped Vish’s arm tight, trying to wrench it off, but the Shadowfinger was too strong. He kept willing for fire to explode out of his body, like it had apparently done when Rogar the Unsurpassable had squeezed him unconscious, but nothing happened. Maybe I’m out of mana. Maybe his concentration was too consumed by trying to breathe. Maybe he had to actually pass out in order to activate his secret reserves…

“Vish…” Ryn croaked between frantic gasps for air. “Before…I yield…can I…just ask you…one thing?”

“What?” said the Shadowfinger, vaguely curious. His grip loosened ever so slightly again–not enough for Ryn to break the hold, but enough for him to speak more clearly.

“If Huld beats Sagar and ends up in the Final against you, do you think you can beat him?

A pause. “I am not sure,” said Vish. “I have observed the monk, and he is an extremely skilled and well-trained fighter. And he possesses elemental magic. You have the magic but without the fighting skill. To face an opponent with both…I am not sure that I could win, no.”

Ryn could barely believe his ears. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?!”

“You did not ask,” Vish said simply.

“Do you think I have a chance against him?”

“With your fire magic?” Another brief pause as Vish considered. “Against his ‘earth alignment’ which the old man tells us is vulnerable to it? On that basis only, yes, even though he is by far the superior fighter: Yes, I do.”

“So actually what you’re saying is that I would have a better chance against Huld in the final than you?”

“Yes.”

Ryn couldn’t believe that the Shadowfinger hadn’t thought to tell him this before. He must be so preoccupied with his poppy obsession that he hadn’t paid proper attention to the discussion. This was no longer about Ryn’s pride–if he wanted to maximise their chances of winning the Earth Emerald, he needed to be in the Final.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind.” He kept his voice quiet, hoping that the crowd, who had started to murmur and mutter to one another at this bizarrely long choke-hold exchange, would not be able to hear him. “I don’t want you to fight me properly anymore. I want you to let me win.”

“As you wish.”

The Shadowfinger’s grip began to loosen completely.

“Wait!” whispered Ryn. “We need it to look good! We need to make it look like you didn’t let me win!”

“Alright…” said Vish. “That will be difficult, but we can probably manage. Do exactly as I say…”

The Shadowfinger whispered some instructions to Ryn.

“Okay, got it,” Ryn said.

Then he passed out.

Or at least this time he pretended to pass out.

He shut his eyes and went limp, letting his arms fall to his sides.

Vish lowered him gently to the ground and lay him there, for which Ryn was grateful as he wasn’t sure that he would have been able to maintain his act had the Shadowfinger just casually dropped him.

The crowd cheered, but a bit weakly, like their hearts weren’t really in it, presumably because the match had apparently ended in such a boring way.

Eyes still closed; Ryn heard the announcer begin his count: “One!”

Then he heard Vish say, “Would you like me to stay in the arena until you complete your counting this time?”

“Oh…” said the announcer. “Well, it is customary, if you don’t mind. There is a chance he will get up again before the count finishes, isn’t there?”

“No. But I will stay anyway.”

Ryn continued to lie still on the warm arena floor, watching the colours dancing on the inside of his eyelids and listening to the announcer’s count and the mutterings of the crowd.

“Well that was a bit of a disappointing ending…”

“How come he didn’t do his exploding fire trick like last time?”

“The Aibarian was just too strong. He choked him out before he could do it.”

When the announcer got to “Nine!” Ryn opened his eyes and sprang to his feet.

The crowd inhaled collectively.

Vish was standing at one edge of the arena, facing away from Ryn with his arms folded. He began to turn to see what had happened.

Ryn was already running towards him.

When he saw him, Vish held up his hands in what Ryn knew was mock surprise.

Come on Vish, he just had time to think, at least try to look a bit more surprised.

Ryn lit himself on fire and executed a leaping side-on kick.

He hit Vish square in the chest between his upraised hands, and bounced backwards off him, landing on his back on the arena floor.

Vish flew backwards from the kick in the opposite direction, landing in the sand that encircled the arena, out of bounds.

The crowd exploded with noise, whether from approval, or outrage, or confusion, Ryn couldn’t tell, though he hoped it was the former.

And that was how he won his Semi-Final match against Vish.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD. However, the Farrian fighting-monk, HULD, has also entered, and has progressed to the quarter finals too…

EPISODE FORTY-ONE: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER FINAL FOUR: HULD OF FARR VS. QENDRA OF FRIKIA

The brown-stone arena tiles warmed Huld’s bare feet.

The tiles had been baking in the sun all day, which was still bright and hot this afternoon, though strangely a clump of dark clouds had formed in one corner of the sky.

It’s not time for the rainy-season to arrive yet, is it? No, of course not.

He dismissed the thought.

Underneath the mostly-clear sky, thousands of his fellow Farrians stood watching around Tenkachi’s arena, so many that he couldn’t see beyond them.

Boys with toothy, eager smiles plastered on their faces. Men with stony-serious frowns and folded arms, unmoving as boulders. Girls staring keenly, biting their nails or with both hands clasped together in front of their mouths like they were praying. Women murmuring silently or anxiously hopping from foot to foot. Wriggling babes in arms. Statuesque elderly. And all the ages in between.

I must not let them down.

All of the native Farrians who had competed in the Tournament’s Quarter Finals thus far had lost. Although, to be fair, one had been a woman, which was Not Correct, and one had been a dishonourable exhibitionist fool–not a soldier-monk trained in one of the religious fighting-schools of Eto like Huld had been, but a sacrilegious free agent who made money out of his fighting.

And, also to be fair, none of those losses mattered that much, anyway. This was Huld’s tournament to win. That he won his matches, and won the whole thing, and won the prize for Farr, was all that really mattered.

Huld needed to win this tournament, not only to claim the Earth Emerald, but also for the honour of his country–to show that the Farrians were the strongest, the greatest, the supreme people of Mid.

That was what the Governor had told him, and what he knew to be true.

“Are you ready?”

Huld came back to the present with a jolt. The tournament announcer had asked him a question from where he stood at the side of the arena. The monk was vaguely aware that the announcer had asked him this question once already, but he had been lost for a moment in a rare drifting of focus.

He looked over at his opponent standing opposite him.

A tall, dark-skinned Frikian woman with a curiously shaved head, except for an asymmetric fringe of jet-black hair that on one side curved around to her left ear and on the other came down over her right eye. She wore a garment made of the skin of some spotted animal, which clung to her slim body, tied at the waist with a rope belt, leaving her smooth arms and legs bare. She winked at him.

Another woman. Most strange. What were these tournaments coming to, that two women had made it into the Quarter Finals? And this one was not even a fellow Farrian, but a filthy foreigner as well! It was practically an insult for him to even have to fight her.

Huld nodded. “I am ready,” he said levelly.

“Alright…” said the announcer. “Then……BEGIN!”

Huld dropped his weight into chocobo stance, bending his knees and resting his fists at his hips, taking a defensive poise to see how the Frikian would open.

The Frikian did nothing at all. She just stood there watching him, a wry little smile creeping out from behind the overhanging half of her fringe.

Then, slowly, deliberately, exaggerating the movements painstakingly, she lowered herself into chocobo stance too, still smiling.

A muscle in Huld’s jaw twitched. Does she mean to mock me? She can’t know the Farrian arts. No master would allow a Frikian to train with him, let alone a woman… She must be copying me…

Carefully, gaze still trained on the woman, Huld extended his fingers and pinched them together against his thumbs, putting a foot forward and bringing his hands up in front of him, one close to his chest, the other stretched further out. Crane stance. An investigative stance.

In front of him, the woman did exactly the same, mirroring his movements exactly.

Huld kept the irritation out of his expression. So she was copying him. Well, that was having some success in baiting him, he reluctantly acknowledged, but it would only get her so far. She couldn’t mirror his every move. Not in the heat of battle.

But then why is she still smiling?

He took a step forwards, towards her, and the woman stepped forwards too.

He took a few more steps, and the woman matched him exactly, the gap between them closing by degrees, about eight paces now.

He took another step, but this time he walked diagonally right, no longer approaching her head-on but moving to one side, to flank her.

This time the woman moved to her own diagonal right, Huld’s left, keeping her mirror image of his movements so that the size of the gap between them stayed the same.

Huld continued to strafe to his right, and Qendra of Frikia did the same, so that they circled one another across the stone tiles of the arena.

As they did, Huld watched her lithe, toned limbs closely, looking for some opening or sign of weakness.

The thing was, Huld noticed with a start that nearly made him misstep, the woman’s stance was perfect. She wasn’t just poorly copying his thousands-of-times-practiced poses and positions on the spot, apparently. Her arms were held out at precisely the right lengths, her legs moving in precisely the right sequence, her torso tensed in precisely the right way, for crane stance.

Maybe she has been trained by a Farrian?

But if she had, why mess around with this mirroring game? Why not open with a distinctive attack of her own, or put up a more conventional defence and let him come to her instead? It was like she was playing a game of Check where she had decided just to mimic his every move.

Enough contemplation, Huld thought. It’s time to put an end to this stage-play.

He kicked off from the arena floor, launching himself at the Frikian with a crane-fisted strike from left to right aimed to hit the side of her head with the back of his hand.

In the same instant, the Frikian sprang towards him with her own identical strike…

…then at the last moment dropped her body, ducking under Huld’s blow. As he moved past her, she lashed out and up with her knee, catching him in the stomach. Huld doubled up, the wind knocked out of him, gasping at the sudden pain.

The Frikian drew her leg back, then flicked it around her off-side in a vicious roundhouse aimed at Huld’s face.

He ducked the kick, thrust his legs back to press himself flat against the arena floor, then rolled away rapidly, spinning over several times before coming up into dragon stance, one fist held back, one up in front of him with two bent fingers.

Opposite him, the Frikian already stood in exactly the same stance a few paces away.

“What game are you playing?!” Huld yelled at her, ignoring the calls of the crowd, angry at what the Frikian woman was doing, angry that she had landed the first blow, angry that she had broken his composure–already. “How are you mirroring my movements so perfectly?”

That irritating smile still mocked him. Her lips were cherry-red.

“Well,” said the Frikian in a disturbingly confident and sensual voice, “that would be telling, wouldn’t it now?”

Huld moved forwards in dragon stance. The woman did the same. Dragon stance, at least, Huld knew had been exported from Farr by some travelling masters who had prostituted themselves by selling ancient fighting techniques to filthy foreigners. He had seen the fireboy use it earlier in his short-lived match against that Morekemian. But it wasn’t just that the Frikian used dragon stance—she was still mirroring his every movement with complete precision.

This time when he got close to her, he feinted with the beginning of a simple front-kick, then quickly brought his foot back down and flung out his left hand in a thrusting punch instead.

The Frikian copied him exactly, right down to the feint, and flung out the start of the same punch, but then turned it into a feint of her own, suddenly slipping beneath his strike, spinning as she did so in order to throw out a fast-moving low sweep kick.

This time Huld was ready for it. He jumped the sweep, then came down with a palm-thrust. The woman backed away, quick as a snake, then dodged his follow-up punch, and the one after that as well.

She flipped backwards heels-over-head, and Huld thought he had her on the run, but as she turned over in the air her foot flashed out and caught him in the face.

He staggered backwards, blinking away his surprise, then blocked every strike of her subsequent assault with his hands. She had underestimated his reaction speed.

He made to grab her arm, missed, but when she pulled away in alarm he stepped up and followed through with an almighty punch from his other hand, hitting her square in the stomach.

The Frikian grunted as she stumbled back across the arena. She landed on her back but managed to turn her momentum into another flip which got her on her feet again at once, where she adopted a stance Huld had not seen before–a low crouch with two arms outstretched to either side of her, pointed fingers and thumbs at the end of flat palms.

“So you do have more than mirroring to you!” Huld called over the noise of the crowd. He was sure they were cheering for him.

“Much more,” said the Frikian. Infuriatingly she was still smiling. “But ‘mirroring’ seems to be serving me well enough.”

No wonder this woman made it to the Quarter Final, he thought as he watched her crouched there, himself crouching and lowering his arms into monkey stance. On top of her mirroring trick, she is astoundingly fast, and deceptively strong. In terms of fighting skill, the two of them might even be evenly matched! He did not know how that was possible, but somehow it was. He had not thought a Frikian could be this skilled at fighting, let alone a woman.

He would have to use a trick of his own in order to win.

No, not a trick, a skill, he corrected himself.

A skill he had earned.

Huld broke his stance and ran straight at the woman. Predictably, she did the same, coming right at him.

He thrust forwards with a straight punch, and the woman mirrored him, but then at the last moment caught his hand and jumped, pushing herself off of it in order to flip into the air again. Her feet came around in a circle behind her and back down towards Huld’s head as she turned over, but he got his hands up and blocked the kicks, which glanced off them.

The woman hit the ground in front of him with a wobble, almost losing her footing, and Huld saw his chance.

He stepped forwards with another punch, moving just a fraction slower than normal.

At the same time, he willed a section of stone tile just behind the woman to rise quickly to form of a small pillar, up and slightly at an angle.

To Huld’s great satisfaction, the woman stepped backwards out of the way of his just-a-bit-too-slow punch…and straight into the path of his earth attack.

The rising pillar of stone smashed up into her, now making her lose her feet completely, connecting with her back with a dull thwack. It carried her along through the air for a moment, then, as Huld stepped out of the way and willed the stone to stop rising, the woman was thrown from it with an enraged grunt of shock.

She tumbled in an arc through the air, flailing her arms and legs around desperately, then managed to turn her descent into a graceful dive, tucking her limbs into her body and trying to steer her descent.

But it was no use. Huld’s earth attack had taken her completely by surprise, and hit her too hard, and she came down several rows back in the audience, who yelped and hollered when she landed among them, throwing up their hands and scrambling to get out of the way.

“Out of bounds!” cried the tournament announcer immediately from the side of the arena. “Huld of Farr is the victor!”

The cheer went up, the loudest Huld had heard so far that day–a wall of noise that fenced him in.

He exhaled relief, and looked over at his Lord Governor, sitting in his viewing box above the arena.

The Governor was applauding like the rest of the audience, but he was not cheering. Instead, he sat close-mouthed, his stare intense.

Huld nodded to him, tilting his head just a fraction. The Governor nodded back, just barely perceptibly.

The monk became aware that the crowd were doing more than just cheering for him–they were chattering frantically about something.

“How did he do that?” he heard someone say nearby.

“More sorcery!” said someone else.

“Is he allowed to do that too?”

Huld realised that he had left the angled stone pillar he had made from the arena floor with his earth manipulation still standing.

Ah. That was right. They had all seen him perform the earth attack with their own eyes, right in front of them. The chocobo was truly out of the stable now.

Meanwhile, the Frikian woman had made her way back through the audience and was climbing over the wooden perimeter. She walked back into the arena, still smiling, and extended her hand to him.

“Good match,” she said, for his ears alone.

Normally Huld would not have condescended to clasp her arm, an unhygienic foreigners’ custom, especially when bowing would have sufficed just as well, but to his own surprise he found that today he was happy to reciprocate the gesture. She had, after all, indeed given him a good match. An unexpectedly good match.

“How did you do that trick with the floor?” the woman whispered to him as he clasped her arm.

“How did you do that trick with mirroring my movements?” Huld countered, breaking the arm-clasp.

The woman shrugged a shoulder. “Fair enough,” she intoned, her eyes gleaming a disconcerting milky white in the sunshine. “You keep your secrets, and I will keep mine.”

Huld frowned. He couldn’t admit it out loud, but he was deeply unsettled by this woman. She had nearly given him the fight of his life. A filthy foreigner had nearly given him the fight of his life! If he hadn’t resorted to using that earth manipulation technique, the match could have gone either way. Now, how to explain that to everyone else?

A collective gasp issued from the crowd, and Huld looked round.

The Governor had left his viewing box and was walking onto arena.

Now Huld did bow, low and long, before looking up again.

The Governor strode over to Huld and the Frikian and held up his hands for silence from the crowd.

Hush fell immediately.

“People of Farr!” boomed the Governor. “People of the greatest nation of Mid! Your eyes are not deceiving you! What you have witnessed here today is a display of earthmoving!”

The audience gasped again.

“It has been made possible,” the Governor continued, “because one of our fighting monks recently retrieved the fabled Earth Emerald from its resting place in the Shrine to Eto! This is the same Emerald whose power was once used to build our mighty capital city of Shun Pei!”

Chatter broke out over the audience like the after-tremors of an earthquake.

“Did he really just say that?”

“The mythical jewel–could it really be?”

“I thought it had been lost!”

Undeterred by the chatter, the Governor carried on loud and clear, and the crowd fell to listening again: “In view of this being revealed by our champion earthmover, Brother Huld, I am pleased to disclose that the prize for the winner of this Tournament will not only be one million gold pieces from Shun Pei’s Treasury, but the gift of the Earth Emerald itself! The Tournament Winner can claim it for whatever nation they represent!”

Yet more astonished gasps broke out across the crowd, chased by chatter.

Huld’s palms began to sweat as he watched the onlookers heatedly discussing this news. The pressure was really on now. It had already been on, given he was now the only Farrian left in the tournament, and the only one who had been personally entered into it by the Governor himself, but now the whole country would know that he was fighting for the Emerald. He was fighting for his people’s honour. He must not let them, or his Lord Governor, down. He must not fail them.

The Governor held up his hands again, and got the quiet he wanted instantly. “Furthermore,” he bellowed, “I have a second important announcement! It would appear, my fellow Farrians, that an unusually early rainy season is upon us!” He gestured up towards the sky, at the growing contingent of dark grey clouds that were gathering, blowing in from somewhere east. “Therefore, to avoid the Tournament being called off, I am exercising my Governing authority to decree that this Tournament will conclude today, so as to beat the rain! On with the Semi-Finals!”

Huld’s eyes went wide. The crowd erupted, shouting its approval. They were thirsty for more fighting.

“Lord Governor,” Huld said quietly as he walked with the Governor and Qendra back towards the arena dugout, “are you sure you want to do that? There might be some wisdom in postponing the tourn–”

“Do not presume to question me, Huld,” the Governor chastised him equally quietly, “especially in public. You forget your place.”

Huld blanched. He had forgotten his place, momentarily–but the announcement had been so unexpected, and he was tired from his fight with the Frikian…

“You can see those clouds,” the Governor continued, flicking his head upwards. “It is going to pour soon. The rainy-season seems to have come upon us unusually early this year. Our people will not want to stand and watch the fighting in the rain–they will leave, and travel home. But the Tournament is good for the economy, and for national morale. Best to get it over with today and to show those foreigners our supremacy as quickly as possible. That will send a message to the rest of Mid that Farr is not to be challenged. Can you do that for me, Huld?”

“Yes, Lord Governor,” said Huld.

“Good. Of course you can.” They had reached the tunnel to the dugout, and the Governor came down into it with them. “Now, listen to me. The Jewel-touched foreigners have a healer among them. I have made an arrangement with him. He will heal you now so that you are ready to fight straight away at full capacity in your next bout. You are to win it, and the Grand Final, using your earth powers, putting on a fine display just as we practiced, to show that Farr is supreme over all the other nations. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lord Governor,” Huld said aloud.

But in his heart, as he watched the Frikian woman go ahead of him to gather up her things, he thought, But are we really supreme over all the other nations?

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE 40: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER-FINAL THREE: VISH OF AIBAR VS. LI OF FARR

Cid watched the plump man in green robes, the tournament announcer, stride to the centre of the arena, hold up his hands, and shout to the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Quarter Final Three! Vish of Aibar versus Li of Farr!”

The crowd cheered its deafening approval as the announcer walked back to the edge of the arena to referee the match.

I don’t see why they really have to announce what country each fighter is from, Cid thought, not for the first time that day. It just encourages prejudice. The Farrians all already know who their own people are and who to cheer for…

Just then a man appeared from out of the dugout tunnel, literally backflipping his way up the short path that led to the arena, where he executed a particularly massive spring from his hands, twisted around several times in the air in a way that Cid couldn’t follow, and landed with both his hands held out in a fighting stance, yelling “HYAAAAAAA!” at the top of his lungs.

The noise from the crowd grew even more deafening.

This must be Li of Farr, thought Cid. A medium-height, tanned Farrian in black trousers but with bare feet and chest, muscles honed to hard lines, and a bowl of short-cropped black hair. The audience clearly know him already. They had been angry at the defeat of the Farrian woman by Sagar in the previous match, but also somewhat confused that she had been a woman, and this was more familiar territory: a male Farrian martial-arts champion who knew how to perform for them.

Little do they know, though, Cid thought, that young man Vish will be more than a match for him.

Vish…

Where was Vish, anyway?

Li of Farr had finished his entry routine now and was standing over on one side of the arena awaiting his opponent.

Moments passed.

The crowd waited quietly, with baited breath.

After a while, Li of Farr looked from the dugout to the announcer, cocked his head, and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

The announcer shrugged, then shouted in the direction of the dugout, “I repeat, Vish of Aibar!”

A pause.

Cid could have sworn he heard the sound of crickets chirping somewhere.

“Ha!” laughed Li of Farr all of a sudden, spinning around to address the section of the crowd nearest to him. “Stupid foreigner! He must be too afraid to even come out to fight me! Hahaha!”

The crowd broke out into laughter too, mimicking the fighter. A forced, chortling, superior sort of laughter.

Uh-oh, thought Cid.

Young lady Elrann turned to him where she stood alongside. “Er, pops, where’s bountyhunterman got to?”

“Um…” said Cid, “I thought he was in the dugout with the other tournament finalists…”

“But did ya actually see him go down there with farmboy and pirateman?”

“Um…” Cid searched his memory, from which Vish was conspicuously absent. “Actually, I don’t remember seeing him, not as such, no…” His heart sank.

He looked past Elrann to the two newcomers, the hooded bard Quel and green-haired girl Riss. “Did either of you see our Shadowfinger companion come to the arena this morning?”

Riss shook her head, tight-lipped and wide-eyed as usual.

Quel said from within his hood, “Can’t say I did, Master Cid. Apologies.”

“Ah,” said Cid. “Poodoo.”

“Where’s princess-girl gone?” said Elrann. “Can we ask her?”

“She went with young man Ryn to talk to the Governor about something. I don’t know how we could all have missed Vish this morning... He must still be sleeping off his poppy hit from last night.” Or finding himself some more, Cid added in his head.

Meanwhile Li of Farr had begun to prance around the arena floor performing a sequence of flashy fighting moves for the entertainment of the crowd while making more of those ridiculous high-pitched noises.

He executed a series of three rapid kicks at nothing with the same foot in quick succession, leapt, turned over horizontally three times in the air, and came down into a series of punches, ending with an almighty quivering backhand strike as he yelled “HWAAAAHH!”

The audience lapped it up, cheering and clapping.

“It appears that young man Vish may have to end up forfeiting this round…” Cid said quietly. Damn. He was our best chance.

“But isn’t bountyhunterman, like, our best chance of winning this tournament thing and getting the Earth Emerald?” said Elrann, echoing his thoughts.

“Yes. If he doesn’t show up, we shall just have to hope that young men Ryn and Sagar continue to hold their own in the fighting…”

Cid picked at his beard. Sagar and Ryn had gotten lucky so far, but he wasn’t sure whether they would continue to do so as the Finals progressed. Yes, they had elemental projection, but they weren’t the methodical, calculating, highly trained fighter that Vish was. When he wasn’t laid out from a damn poppy hit. If only he hadn’t relapsed. If only he had gotten further in his recovery…

“Vish of Aibar,” the tournament announcer was calling one more time in the direction of the dugout, “if you do not present yourself for combat now then you will be forced to forfeit this match and your place in this tournament! I will give you to the count of ten: One!”

A figure dressed all in black stumbled out of the entry tunnel.

“Alright, alright, I am here,” grumbled Vish in his deep voice. He staggered slowly up to the arena, one hand clutching the top of his head. “No need for me to forfeit. I am just a bit late; that is all.”

Cid’s eyebrows rose.

“Phew, there he is,” said Elrann.

But Cid didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

The crowd had quietened again. Apparently they didn’t know what to make of this black-clad latecomer.

Vish took his place on the opposite side of the arena from Li and stood facing him, swaying slightly on his feet, his hand still holding his head.

“Alright then…” said the announcer from the side of the arena, unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice. “Now that you are both here…BEGIN!”

“What’s the matter, foreigner?” Li called out at once, voice rising and falling in mockery. “Were you too afraid to meet me in combat? Lost your nerve, did you?”

The crowd chuckled.

“Well, I don’t blame you!” called Li, spurred on by their approval. “I would be scared to fight me too!”

The crowd laughed.

Li punched the air in his immediate vicinity a few more times, then threw in a few more kicks and a knee-thrust, displaying his skill now not just for the crowd but for Vish. He ended with a straight air-punch which left his arm fully extended and his fist pointed in Vish’s direction. He rotated his fist so that his thumb faced upwards, opened his hand, and made a couple of ‘come here’ motions at Vish, beckoning him to attack.

“Come at me!” Li of Farr challenged.

“Oh, just get on with it, would you?” said Vish, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I had a rough one last night. I have a splitting headache and I just want to get this over with.”

Li’s cocky smile transfigured into a furious scowl. “How dare you insult me?” he said, dropping out of his pose. “Don’t you know who I am? I am the great Li of Farr! I have won twelve Farrian Fighting Tournament titles! I am a Grand Master of the ancient fighting arts! My students are feared and respected throughout the whole of Mid!”

“I really could not care any less,” hissed Vish through gritted teeth. “I would rather that you just hurry up and get on with this fight, so we can finish it.”

Li’s eyes bulged.

The crowd had stopped laughing.

“Insolent foreigner!” Li screeched. “Fine! Have it your way! I will end this contest in one blow!”

He pelted across the arena towards Vish with tremendous speed, screaming his head off as he went, “YAAAAAAAAAH!”

He arrived at Vish with a humongous backhanded punch–the same one which he had shown off earlier.

Vish caught Li’s fist with one hand, stopping it in place in front of his head, at the same time punching him in the chest with his other hand, so hard it made an audible bang like metal on metal even though it was just a fist on a chest.

Flecks of spittle and blood came out of Li’s surprised mouth.

The Shadowfinger let go of Li’s fist, and the martial artist fell back onto the ground immediately, eyes unfocused with shock. He let out a quiet little whimpering sound, then lost consciousness and lay still, his eyes closing.

Vish walked past him, rubbing the hand that he had punched Li with, back towards the dugout.

For a moment everyone just looked on in silence, almost as stunned as Li had been, Cid included, only the sound of Vish’s footsteps carrying across the arena.

Then the announcer called out “One!”, remembering the tournament rules.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Vish called back over his shoulder as he reached the edge of the arena and walked off it, into the dugout, himself completely disregarding the rules. “He won’t be getting up for a while. You’ll need to carry him off.”

The crowd was quiet.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE THIRTY-NINE: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER FINAL TWO: SAGAR OF IMFIS VS. HIUNA OF FARR

Ten minutes earlier.

Sagar strode out of the dugout shoulder to shoulder with his opponent.

He felt almost naked without his coat and swords, but his shirt and trousers would have to do.

As they reached the open air of the little concourse that led from the tunnel mouth to the stone tiles of the arena, people must have spotted them, because a wave of cheers and applause from the thousands-strong Farrian crowd swelled to greet them…

…then subsided again to about half its original volume, breaking into a buzz of confused chatter.

No wonder, Sagar thought as he stepped onto the arena floor and began to make his way over to one side of it. I’m not a Farrian, after all; I’m another ‘filthy foreigner’ you weren’t expecting–just like the pup was.

And his opponent was a Farrian–but she was also a woman. As far as Sagar understood, women did not normally become monks, or fight, in Farrian culture, as was quite right and proper. How this woman had managed to progress to the quarter finals, he had no idea. Maybe she had had a free pass like him, Ryn and Vish for some reason.

He regarded her where she took her place now opposite him about fifteen paces away on the other side of the arena, standing in a simple stance with two fists bunched and knuckles-down on either side of the top of her hips. She wore a leaf-green robe liked the baldies did, tied with an earth-brown sash at her waist. Her build was slight and slender. Like all Farrian women she had dark hair, except it was cut short like a Dokanese man’s. Only the femininity of her cheekbones betrayed her as a woman, but had you not been told you might be forgiven for mistaking her for a man.

Why do I always get paired up with these women who act like men? Sagar thought. It was like someone was trying to teach him something. At least hopefully this one won’t also turn out to be my long-lost sister.

He had begrudgingly learned not to underestimate women who looked a bit like men from his experience with Elrann. But Elrann had so far only beaten men in drinking competitions (probably by cheating) and only been able to make a laughing stock of him when she had her firearms at her disposal. Elrann had never fought him hand-to-hand, and Sagar knew that if she ever did, he would win. Just like he was going to win in this fight against this Farrian woman.

Because if there was one thing that growing up on his father’s skyship had taught him, it was how to fight, with a sword–or without one. He hadn’t needed the scumsucker’s ridiculous ‘training’.

So I’m sorry, little Farrian girl, he thought, still regarding her with his exposed eye, but there’s not going to be any glory, or prize money, or Jewels for you today. Those belong to me.

“Ready?” the announcer said to him.

Sagar nodded, smiling.

His opponent did the same.

“Then…...FIGHT!” The announcer shouted the word so loud it rang out over the crowd, then immediately rushed off to the sand that bordered the side of the arena to get out of the way.

The woman standing across from Sagar pointed a finger at him and called out in a loud, theatrical, somewhat angry voice:

“Sagar of Imfis! My name is Hiuna of Farr, and I am going to win this tournament! My whole life I have sought to prove my right to fight alongside men, and in this tournament I am going to do just that, first by defeating you, Sagar of Imfis!”

Sagar winced at the repetition of his name. Did she have to underscore that, when he was a man wanted by the Empire? The woman, ‘Hiuna’, had shouted loud enough for the whole audience to hear. They went quiet in the wake of her strange announcement, tensing to see what would happen next.

“Er…okay?” Sagar said at a normal volume. Who did she think she was to challenge him, a fearsome pirate skycaptain? “Show me what you’ve got, then,” he invited, beckoning with a finger.

And then Hiuna was sprinting straight at him.

“HA!” She gave an aggressive yell, then leapt into the air, aiming a flying side-on kick at Sagar’s chest.

He got his hand up in time to deflect it as he stepped to one side out of the way, but boy did it hit hard as it glanced off his palm, sending a ripple of shock down his arm.

Hiuna landed, then immediately sprang back up and launched a barrage of punches at him. High. High. Low. Middle. High.

Sagar blocked or dodged all of them, then jumped backwards to put some space in between him and the woman and buy himself some more time.

But she didn’t give him any. She ran forward at once, closing the gap, came in with another kick, another flurry of punches, more kicks.

Sagar blocked them all, tendons tightening in his neck from the effort.

Hiuna came out of a roundhouse kick and continued rotating with her body, spinning around with a wicked surprise punch aimed at Sagar’s stomach.

Time slowed.

Sagar could see that he was going to be able to block the punch in time, but it was coming towards him with such force that the impact of it might just knock him backwards all the same…backwards and out of the arena, the perimeter of which Hiuna had driven him to with her barrage of strikes.

His instincts activated.

Just before the punch connected, Sagar summoned the wind.

A localised gust of air rushed from the open palm with which he had been about to block the woman’s punch, so forcefully that it stopped her fist in mid-air, then pushed it–and her–backwards.

Sagar stepped into the gust and drove his palm forwards to conceal his wind attack, connecting with Hiuna’s hand as it moved backwards and making it look as if he had somehow blocked her blow and followed through with a counter-strike in the same rapid movement.

He extended his arm fully, and Hiuna went staggering back a few paces towards the centre of the arena, grunting, almost losing her footing and falling over.

She regained her balance, then came back into a fighting stance, this time with her two fists held out in front of her ready to fend off whatever Sagar might throw at her next.

But Sagar did not follow up with another attack…yet.

He was trying to work out if he could win this without more obviously resorting to his wind power, or ‘projection’, or whatever the princess called it.

She had pushed him to use it so soon. Much sooner than he had anticipated needing to use it in this tournament.

The Farrian’s delicate face was still fixed in an angry frown of determination, but now her brows crinkled even further, betraying puzzlement.

She knows something is amiss.

“You have some skill!” Sagar called out so the nearby audience members would be able to hear, deciding to follow up with a verbal assault, “I’ll grant you that. Not bad, not bad at all, especially for a woman who wants to be a man!”

A few snickers fluttered across the crowd, reaching Sagar’s keen ears. He needed to keep up this momentum.

“But you’re still outmatched, I’m afraid!” he yelled, baiting her for all she was worth. “I’ll make quick work of you, woman!”

“You got lucky, foreigner!” Hiuna shot back. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Good. “I almost had you beaten in ten strikes! You got a lucky hit in, somehow! I won’t let that happen again!”

Pounce when they least expect it, rang a remembered voice in Sagar’s head. The voice of the man he hadn’t known was his father until it had been time for him to say goodbye. When they’re most riled up and ready, that’s when you get the jump on them. It supposedly applied to bedding, but also to fighting.

Sagar bounded forward, coming on with a vicious right hook aimed at the woman’s head.

She got her forearm up to block it, and he followed up with a left jab, which she smacked out of the way with her other hand.

He kept the pressure up, bombarding her with more punches. She blocked three more, then danced out of the way of the next.

Damn it, he thought as he kept up the barrage, unable to land a hit. She is skilled. And surprisingly strong. He wished that he could take off his eye patch to see with both eyes. He would have to resort to his other trick again.

He counted one, two, three more useless punches, then suddenly crouched and spun, whipping out his leg like a dog flicking out its tail, bringing it around in a low, sweeping kick.

As he did so he summoned the wind to assist him so that he spun round impossibly fast, his kick moving with the speed of a gale. A small whooshing noise followed his leg round.

He felt the kick connect with the woman’s legs before he saw it happen. The back of his calf blossomed with brief impact as he swept her legs out from underneath her and she went over on her back, smacking against the stone with a satisfying slap.

Sagar came up immediately and sprang forwards, aiming a gut-punch at her prone form.

Before he landed, the woman rolled to the side and out of the way, and he punched the air where she had just been, pulling back just in time to stop his knuckles from hitting the stone of the arena floor.

He watched as the woman kept rolling, then pushed herself up from the ground with her hands and, keeping her momentum, twirled around several times in the air, before landing in her double-fisted fighting stance again some distance away.

Well, that was pretty impressive, he supposed.

The woman scowled at him, more furious than ever.

“What are you doing?!” she called out. “I am your better many times over, and yet you keep scoring surprise hits on me! You are cheating, somehow, foreigner!”

Sagar shrugged exaggeratedly, making a show of it. “You can think that if you like, lady! Whatever helps you to feel better about yourself!”

“Raaargh!” she cried out in anger and rushed at him again, arriving with a furious punch which he parried. She kept on at him, throwing strike after strike, so that Sagar had to consistently use the wind to speed up his responses, to nudge himself out of the way of an attack, to nudge her slightly away from him.

She was throwing everything he had at him, making him sweat now, too.

And it would have been enough…were it not for his special ability.

Sagar pushed one of her high punches further up, past his shoulder, then saw an opening. Her stomach was exposed.

He brought his knee up hard, even harder than he could normally, by propelling it with a gust of air.

Spittle and a humiliating “Urk!” issued from the woman’s mouth as she took the hit, then flew backwards through the air and landed on her back on the arena floor again.

The skypirate turned away out of embarrassment for her.

To his great delight, the crowd was cheering his name.

“SA-GAR! SA-GAR! SA-GAR!”

Apparently they knew a good fighter when they saw one, ‘filthy foreigner’ or not.

“One!” someone yelled. The announcer beginning his count.

“Save your breath,” Sagar said to him where he knelt in the sand at the edge of the arena near to where Hiuna had landed. “I hit her very hard. She won’t be getting up any time soon.”

“Two!” called the announcer.

He turned back to the crowd and started motioning with his hands for them to cheer louder. They obliged him.

“SA-GAR! SA-GAR!”

He clasped his hands together and held them aloft, shaking them together to proclaim himself the champion.

“Thre–oh!”

The crowd gasped all of a sudden.

“Huh?”

Sagar spun round just in time to see Hiuna running towards him.

She barrelled into him, grabbing hold of his arms and headbutting him in the face.

Pain erupted across Sagar’s nose. He went over backwards, the woman still gripping his arms.

His hit the ground and on instinct rolled to the side, immediately hoping to pin Hiuna down just as she had tried to do to him.

Instead they kept rolling across the arena floor, shoulders banging against the stone, as the woman kept converting their momentum into another roll, and he did the same in turn.

Eventually, their momentum ran out, and Sagar found that he didn’t quite have the strength left to bring her over in one final roll.

He sank back against the stone, banging his head. The woman lay on top of him, her face close to his, bright bands of pain around his forearms where she still held them tight.

Damn, but she’s surprisingly strong.

“I don’t know what trick you were pulling, foreigner,” Hiuna growled, huffing and puffing right in his face, expression furious and determined, “but I’d like to see you try it while I’m holding onto you.” Her breath smelled of jasmine.

Sagar tried to think up a response, but found that his mind–and his body–had suddenly become very distracted by something.

He had a woman on top of him. This was the first time he had ever had a woman on top of him.

He had dreamed about it plenty of times, of course, but this was the first time he had ever had a real woman on top of him. In real life. Reality. A woman.

And she was quite beautiful, if you took the time to notice. Her cheek-lines had a kind of delicate defiance to them, and her eyes burned with a green fire.

And through his shirt, through her robe and under-garment, he could feel pressing up against him the unmistakable shapes of two small, but nonetheless round and firm, breasts.

His loins stirred. So what if apparently he had a thing for women that looked a bit like men? At least she was still a woman.

Hiuna must have noticed something was happening because her frown deepened. A very pretty frown, really, if you took the time to notice. Above pink, inviting lips.

The woman’s face was just inches away from Sagar’s.

He tilted his head up a little, closed his eyes, and kissed her on the mouth.

He felt her body tense with surprise. Then, after a moment, to his own surprise and delight, she relaxed, and kissed him back.

A hot, sticky kiss. A passionate, heat-of-the-moment, wrestling-on-the-arena-floor sort of kiss.

His first ever kiss.

“Five!” the announcer shouted somewhere above them.

What?

Sagar managed to ignore his shock and continue kissing Hiuna, but only barely.

“Six!”

The announcer had started the count and he hadn’t even noticed. That’s right, he was being pinned to the ground, after all!

Was that why Hiuna was kissing him back? To keep him pinned down?

“Seven!”

But if she was doing that, then why had she also relaxed her grip on his arms?

“Eight!”

Did he even want to win this tournament any more, or had he found something–someone–better to preoccupy himself with?

“Nine!”

But she might just be trying to win too. What was he thinking?! Of course he wanted to win this tournament. Death or glory!

He brought his free hands in under Hiuna’s stomach.

Her eyes opened wide and her face spasmed, breaking the kiss, just before...

Sagar pushed upwards.

As he did so, he projected a gust of air, and managed to get his feet up and under her too to lend the appearance of a double-footed kick helping her on her way.

Hiuna flew backwards off of him, over his head.

Sagar managed to scramble up and twist his body around in time to see her arms and legs flailing wildly as she described a high arc through the air, turning over a couple of times, then landed with a thump in the sand to the side of the arena.

“Out of bounds!” the announcer yelled immediately. “Sagar of Imfis wins!”

The crowd roared.

No sooner than he saw her hit the ground, a dread weight tugged down at Sagar’s guts, and his head went foggy and dizzy.

What was this feeling?

Oh, poodoo.

He hadn’t recognised it at first because he wasn’t used to feeling it.

It was guilt.

He had made the wrong decision.

Had he? Hiuna had only been kissing him back in order to keep him pinned in place, hadn’t she? Or had she?

He sprinted across the arena floor to where she was standing up and brushing herself down, face set in grim fury.

“Hiuna,” he said when he reached her, ignoring the announcer who was squawking something behind him. “I’m sorry!” The unfamiliar sound of his own apology astonished even himself, but he meant it. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Don’t!” Hiuna burst out at him, voice atremble. She began to run towards the dugout, covering her face with her hands. Was she crying?

“Wait!”

Sagar ran after her, following her into the dugout.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin, RISS the spirit-summoning girl, and QUEL the water-projecting bard. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE THIRTY-EIGHT: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER-FINAL ONE: RYN VS. ROGAR THE UNSURPASSABLE

The crowd thronged and pressed against Nuthea.

Even though she, Elrann, Cid and the two newcomers, Riss and Quel, had been given a place right at the front of it, next to the wooden barrier, she still felt hemmed-in.

There were no seats for this spectacle, so they had to stand like everybody else. Behind and to either side of them, and in front of them on the other side of the flat stone squares of the arena, stood thousands of Farrians, and their children, and in some cases their animals–she had already spotted a cow, a cochobo, and several goats–going back as far as Nuthea could see, pushing up against one another and chattering. The entirety of Farr seemed to have turned out to watch this tournament.

Nuthea caught a few sentences.

“I heard Rogar made it through the heats,” said an enthusiastic young man somewhere just behind her.

“That’d make sense,” said his friend. “He’s been dominating on the circuit recently.”

“He’s my favourite to win.”

“What about Li Ash-Tai?”

“I don’t know if he’s even entered.”

“If he has, he’s sure to take the prize. He’s beaten everyone on the circuit, more than once–including Rogar.”

“He can’t have. Nobody’s beaten Rogar.”

“I don’t know how any of them will be able to fight in this heat, really.”

“True. These fights will be endurance tests as much as anything else.”

They were right about that. The heat was sticky and cloying. Sweat ran down Nuthea’s arms and legs underneath her dress, making it stick to her skin. It never gets this hot in Manolia. She didn’t think that Ryn and Sagar would be used to this sort of heat either. Though perhaps Ryn would be able to handle it because of his fire-alignment. That gave her some hope.

She looked up at the sky. An unbroken, bright blue canvas for the sun, except for in one place where a single white cloud about the size of half her hand drifted.

One God, she prayed. Please help us. Please give us success today. Please help one of Ryn, or Sagar, or Vish to win this.

She returned to watching the slabs of the arena floor.

If only I had been able to enter, I could have won this with my lightning…

In the end she had had to reveal to the others that she was blocked in her lightning in order to explain why she wasn’t entering. Elrann and Cid still hadn’t wanted to enter either, and neither of the two newcomers were keen, so they had ultimately had to forfeit one of their four assigned places in the quarter finals. The Governor had taken no issue whatsoever with this, and said that there would be plenty of Farrians able to fill the vacant eighth slot from the tournament heats.

So they had reduced their chances of winning the tournament already.

But had their chances ever been that great? Could any of the boys really win this?

Vish, she thought. He should be able to cope in this sort of heat, given that he was from Aibar originally. The Shadowfinger was probably their best chance of winning this tournament, since he was the most proficient hand-to-hand fighter among them by a long way.

True, he did not possess any elemental magic, though, so that could tip the balance in Ryn’s or Sagar’s favour, if they ended up using it. Of those two, Sagar was the more skilled fighter, and had been fighting with his gift for longer.

However, some of the Farrians might have elemental projection as well now, from the Emerald. That could mean that Ryn would have the advantage, if he used his magic, what with earth-alignment being vulnerable to attacks from fire-alignment, as they’d found in the Earth Temple.

But they didn’t want to use their magic unless they absolutely had to, as they didn’t want to make their location known to the Empire. So far they appeared to have gotten away with avoiding that, since the audience at the Manyiro play seemed to have thought that Ryn and Sagar’s powers were part of the show, though that had only happened last night. On the other hand, the Farrians were so skilled at hand-to-hand fighting that magic might not even come into it–in which case that brought her back full circle to Vish as their best chance.

If Vish won, though, could they trust him to hand over the Jewel to the group for safekeeping? Could they really trust this former Shadowfinger whose life Ryn had spared, just because Grandfather Cid was supplying him with poppy, and supposedly helping him to ‘come off’ of it? It wasn’t as if he was even making much progress in doing that, given his own activities last night.

Nuthea shook her head. Vish had proved his allegiance time and again on their journey, by fighting alongside them and stepping in to save their lives multiple times. Of course he could be trusted.

Or at least, so she hoped…

She lifted her eyes to the sky again.

Oh, and One God, would you please un-silence me and give me back my lightning powers again?

She sighed. What was the use? She had prayed this prayer many times, and it just didn’t seem to be being answered. Or at least, if it was being answered it wasn’t in the way that she wanted. Oh well. She would just have to keep praying it. That was all she could do.

“Here we are,” said Cid at her side. “It’s starting.”

Nuthea looked.

From the mouth of a narrow tunnel built into the ground in front of the wooden barrier at the far side of the arena strode a thick-set man with a shaved head in the green garb of the Farrian fighting monks.

As soon as he became visible the crowd roared with approval, a deafening wave of noise that almost knocked Nuthea over.

The man walked to the centre of the square arena, smiling at the cheering and applause. He had a wide face and a mischievous smile.

He made a few rotations, clapping and cheering himself and making raising gestures with his hands. The shouts of the crowd grew even louder. He was whipping them up into a frenzy.

Then the man held up both hands, and miraculously the crowd stopped cheering all of a sudden and went quiet.

An eerie hush fell over the arena, almost as disturbing as the noise had been. Nuthea could hear her heartbeat inside her head. A mosquito buzzed past her ear, thrumming briefly before flying away.

“Fellow Farrians!” the monk bellowed, voice carrying over the crowd. “Welcome to the One Hundred and Twenty-First Fighting Tournament at Tenkachi!”

The crowd began to cheer again, , but the announcer held up his hands once more, calming them.

“Please!” he yelled. “Save your adulation for the combatants! Many qualifying bouts have been fought, and we now have eight quarter-final contenders ready to fight for your entertainment today!”

More cheering, and the announcer had to motion for quiet yet again. Nuthea was glad that the Governor had allowed Ryn, Sagar and Vish to bypass the heats and go straight to the final bracket, even if the Farrian crowds didn’t know this.

“As you know,” the announcer continued, “the rules of the tournament are simple: If a combatant falls out of bounds”—he indicated the dirt perimeter that bordered the arena in front of the wooden barrier that separated it from the crowd–“or if they yield, are incapacitated, unconscious or otherwise unable to fight for the count of ten, then their opponent is declared the winner of the round! Now, without further ado, I give you your first quarter-finalists: Ryn of Efstan versus Rogar the Unsurpassable of Morekemia!”

The crowd cheered and applauded, though not as loudly as it might have. Nuthea was surprised to hear that ‘Rogar’ was not a Farrian, but a Morekemian, but gathered from what she had overheard earlier that he was a foreign free agent who fought on Farr’s tournament circuit. So not everyone who had progressed from the heats was a native Farrian—that must have irritated the Governor.

She watched as Ryn walked out of the tunnel that the announcer had emerged from. His eyes found her at the front of the crowd, then quickly looked away. The boy took his place on one side of the arena.

Nuthea winced. Ryn didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, and ended up half-hugging himself with one of his arms. He looked hopelessly uncomfortable.

Then ‘Rogar the Unsurpassable of Morekemia’ walked out of the dugout.

Oh dear, thought Nuthea.

Ryn regarded the man standing ten paces away from him across the arena floor.

About two feet taller than him, Rogar the Unsurpassable cast a shadow that almost reached the young Efstanish farmboy even in the midday sun. The man was a giant. He was even bigger than Huld. The difference between this man and Huld, however, was that whereas Huld’s bulk was all honed muscle, Rogar’s was fat.

There was no other way to put it. A gigantic girth almost burst out of his trousers, which appeared to be made out of stitched-together sack-cloth, spilling over the top of them where they were tied together by a belt of rope. He was hairy- and bare-chested, except for a glistening black leather waistcoat which covered his nipples, but not all of the enormous rolls of fat that sat atop his belly like breasts, bigger than those of any woman that Ryn had ever seen.

Most of Rogar’s face was hidden by a thick mess of curly, deep-black beard which came down past his collarbone. Two mad beady black eyes peered out from above it, intensely focused on Ryn with a look of deranged glee. The top of his head was shaved, except for where a ponytail stuck out the back of it and hung down behind his neck.

Can a man so fat really be so skilled at fighting? Ryn thought. He may be big, but I am sure I am younger, and nimbler, and faster. I’ll use the techniques Vish has taught me to best him before he even has a chance to get a blow in. I’m not scared of him.

Although, if he wasn’t scared, then why was he shaking in his boots?

Somewhere far off, as if from outside a pool of water that he was submerged in, Ryn was aware that the tournament announcer was declaring the beginning of their bout. He didn’t fully heed it because all of his attention was focused on Rogar.

Unexpectedly, the giant spoke. “Do you know why they call Rogar ‘Rogar the Unsurpassable’, boy?” He had a deep, grizzly voice with a sadistic edge to it, and appeared to be referring to himself in the third person. He spoke loud enough that anyone in the audience, which had gone completely silent, would be able to hear him.

Ryn thought about trying to make some witty remark about the man’s size in reply, but his mind was fog and none came to him.

The giant didn’t wait for a response anyway. “It’s ’cause Rogar has never been beaten in single combat. Rogar has been doing this for years, and he is much better at it than you are!”

Ryn’s mouth had gone very dry. How did the giant know that? He hadn’t even seen Ryn fight. He’s just making an unmerited assumption…isn’t he?

Now Rogar did drop his voice, so that only Ryn and the nearest audience members would be able to hear. “Rogar heard they even let you skip the heats for some reason. Why? You are clearly only a puny untrained insect. What do the tournament organisers know that Rogar doesn’t?”

Ryn had no reply. He could give none. He decided that he would let his actions, and his fighting, speak for him instead.

Slowly and deliberately, he shifted his body into a fighting stance that Vish had shown them, standing facing his opponent side-on with his right foot forward, his left hand pulled back to his waist in a fist, and his right hand raised in front of his face with bent index and middle fingers extending slightly out from it, trying as hard as he could to hold himself so he did not tremble.

Rogar visibly suppressed a laugh, then turned it into a wide grin, showing brown and rotting teeth through his beard.

“Okay, Efstanish,” he said, back at his original theatrical volume. “You have some heart, Rogar gives you that. Rogar will give you one free blow. Rogar should warn you though, his other nickname is ‘Rogar the Insatiable’. Rogar eats children like you for breakfast. And once you have had your free blow, Rogar will eat you!”

At this goad a large component of the assembled crowd cheered, so loud that the noise broke through Ryn’s bubble of concentration. The cheer had bloodthirst in it.

The thing was, Ryn could genuinely imagine this man eating children. But he didn’t really do that, did he? That was just theatrics. That was just a taunt designed to unsettle him, surely?

Rogar raised a tree-trunk arm and beckoned Ryn towards himself. “Come on, little boy!” He spread his hands in a gesture of welcome. “Take your free shot at Rogar! Please!”

Ryn gritted his teeth. Pressure had built up in his groin–he needed to pee. Could the crowd see that he was shaking?

It doesn’t matter that he’s taunting me, he thought. One of us needs to win this, and I’m going to try my hardest for it to be me. I just need to try not to use my fire projection if I can manage it, so as not to give us away.

His eyes jumped to the place at the front of the crowd where he had seen Nuthea when he had walked out. There she was, hunched and tensed, both hands raised to her mouth. It looked as though she was biting her nails.

He looked back at the gigantic form of Rogar the Unsurpassable, whose hands were still spread in invitation, presenting him with his opportunity of a free attack.

Please don’t me look stupid and be humiliated, especially in front of Nuthea.

Ryn ran at Rogar across the square stone slabs of the arena floor.

He pulled back his fist as he approached, but deliberately did not will fire into it.

“Hyah!” he yelled as he punched, twisting his fist round as it moved through the air, just like Vish had taught them to do.

Ryn’s fist went right into Rogar’s paunch with a dull thwap…

…and stayed there, buried.

The folds of flesh just swallowed his hand up, accepting it, containing it, absorbing the force of the punch completely.

“Ahahahaha!” Rogar laughed heartily, clutching his sides as his whole belly shook–Ryn felt the vibrations running from his hand down his arm, making his teeth knock together. “You want another free shot, Efstanish? Have one! Have two! Have three! Have as many as you want! Ahahahaha!”

When Rogar spoke Ryn did not just hear the words with his ears, but felt them moving horribly from the giant’s belly, through his arm and his whole body. He felt them in his bones.

He heard the crowd watching them laughing too, somewhere.

His heart sank within him.

Mother. Father. Hometown. Found Vorr. Got Vorr. Killed Vorr. Find the Jewels. Save the world. Stay with Nuthea. Don’t look like a fool in front of Nuthea. Get the Emerald. Beat this man.

Damned if he was going to give up this easily.

Ryn’s temper lit, but he still retained just enough self-control to stop his hand from lighting on fire too. He hadn’t completely exhausted the non-elemental approach yet.

He pulled his fist out of the Morekemian’s gut. It came out with a slippery squerching sound and Rogar’s belly fat wobbled back into place after it.

Ryn smashed his fist into the laughing man’s nose, which he could just about reach.

Without pausing, he followed up with an uppercut to Rogar’s chin with his other hand.

Then a kick to his leg, then another spinning kick to his side, then several more punches to his chest.

Ryn had gained momentum now.

He threw blow after blow at the man, hitting him all over his body, unleashing a barrage of punches and kicks on the massive Morekemian.

Eventually, Ryn ran out of steam.

He stopped punching and kicking and took a step back, huffing and puffing hard from the exertion.

Rogar was laughing again.

Ryn’s attacks had had no visible effect whatsoever on the man. His punches and kicks had either bounced off Rogar’s flesh without leaving a bruise, or been absorbed by it. The man did not even have any marks on his skin from Ryn’s efforts, let alone bruises.

Well, poodoo, Ryn thought. He might as well have been throwing pebbles against a huge hanging slab of meat.

“Ahahahaha!” Rogar laughed, holding his heaving belly. The crowd were laughing again too, sadistic and relishing. “Now do you see why they call Rogar ‘the Unsurpassable’, puny child? Rogar has shown you why, and now he will show you why they also call him Rogar the Insatiable!”

Damn it, I need to use my fire, Ryn thought as the giant strode towards him.

He threw another punch at the man’s chest–this time lighting his fist aflame.

Quick as a snake-strike, Rogar’s hand shot out and grabbed Ryn’s forearm, squeezing it vice-tight.

Pain flashed along Ryn’s arm so bright and sudden that it made his fire go out instantly.

Before he knew what was happening, a strange weightless sensation took him as Rogar lifted him up from the ground by the arm…

…and then the arena floor slammed into Ryn’s face.

Shock reverberated through his body. His vision blurred. He tasted copper.

The pain caught up to him. Pain in his nose, pain in his head, pain flashing along the front of his body. So much pain. He heard himself crying out with it.

The crowd were cheering vehemently now, though Ryn could hear someone screaming too. Was that him screaming, or somebody else?

The vice-grip still held his arm tight. He caught a blurry glimpse of some of the people in the crowd moving across his vision as Rogar lifted him into the air again…

…then slammed him back down against the stony floor.

Pain, pain, so much pain.

His vision blurred again, and yet new pain wracked him.

The man was smacking him against the ground like some sort of plaything, Ryn understood somewhere in a corner of his mind.

Fire… he thought dimly with what was left of his wits. I’ve got to use my fire…

But then he smacked down against the ground another time and the thought was knocked out him.

Up, down, up, down. He hit the ground again and again.

There was a lull in the beating. Ryn’s head swam and spots danced in his vision. He was aware of blood running down his face, into his mouth. He may have lost consciousness a few times, but the next thing he became aware of was that he was hanging by his arm in front of Rogar’s horrible bearded face.

Someone was still screaming somewhere in amongst the cheers of bloodlust coming from the crowd. Nuthea. Ryn didn’t have the energy left to scream himself.

“—quite tough,” Rogar’s voice was saying somewhere. “Rogar will give you that too, Efstanish. Rogar would have expected you to pass out by now. The fact that you are awake is something. Oh well. Come here for a cuddle.”

Amidst the pain, Ryn was aware of being pressed up against Rogar’s flesh–against the sticky, sweaty, smelly flesh of his chest, and the curly chest hairs that tickled his broken nose and his bloody cheeks.

Two impossibly thick cords of rope constricted around his arms and torso.

No–not ropes. They were Rogar’s arms. The giant had enclosed him in a massive bear hug.

And then Rogar squeezed.

“Aaaaarrrggghhhh!” Ryn screamed in a paroxysm of pain. He felt some of his ribs snapping.

The spots in his vision turned black, and started growing, threatening to consume it.

Fire… he thought vaguely, though the thought was almost entirely drowned out by the pain. I’ve got to use my fire…

But it was no use. The pain was so intense, and the blackness in his vision so all-consuming, and it had spread to the whole of it. He had lost focus completely now, and his thoughts became very slow. He was about to lose consciousness.

One God…help me…

The crowd was roaring again.

Only, it wasn’t a pleased, triumphant kind of roar anymore. It sounded more like an angry sort of roar, punctuated by shouts of outrage and harshly-called phrases that Ryn could not make out.

He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the sky. Clear blue, with the bright orb of the sun off slightly to the side, except, curiously, for one small dark cloud that had formed.

Nuthea appeared in his vision, brows knotted in concern. She looked pretty when she frowned. Then again, she always looked pretty.

“Are you alright, Ryn?” she asked.

He realised he wasn’t in pain any more. That had been his most recent memory from before he had passed out: Pain. So much pain.

“Yes…” he answered her. “Somehow…”

He remembered what he had been doing before the pain.

“Oh! Did I lose the fight? What happened to me?”

“That horrible man squeezed you until you passed out,” Nuthea said. “But when you passed out, your fire-gift activated. Your whole body exploded with fire, so powerfully that it blasted him out of the arena, right into the crowd, and burned him–quite badly. Cid had to go and heal him even before he came and healed you.”

“Cid?”

The old man popped up next to Nuthea. “Hello.”

“Oh. Thank you for healing me.”

“A pleasure, young man!” Cid smiled, showing his teeth. “It took considerably less mana than I had to use on our friend Rogar the Unsurpasaable over there…”

Ryn looked back to Nuthea. “That man was so strong… So…I lost the match, then?”

Now Elrann appeared too, next to Cid. “No you didn’t, farmboy! Didn’t ya listen to what princess-girl said? You passed out, sure, but ya gotta be out for the count of ten before they make the other guy the winner. Fat-man landed out of bounds before you got anywhere near a count of ten. So ya won! Way to go. Pretty impressive that you managed to win and pass out at the same time, though. You’re always passing out, ain’t ya? It’s, like, your ‘thing’. Fact, it had been a little while since you last passed out. I think you were probably due one.”

Ryn couldn’t help himself from grinning at her.

“The crowd are pretty pissed off about it, though,” Elrann continued.

“What? Why?”

“Well, they thought Rogar was a dead cert to win, for sure. He’s pretty popular on the regular fighting circuits apparently. And for most of your match he dominated.”

Ryn winced at the memory of his useless blows bouncing off the man’s flesh, of being repeatedly slammed against the floor and then crushed in a bear hug by the big Morekemian.

“But then right at the end ya did something they ain’t ever seen before, and you won unexpectedly, all of a sudden, without even being awake! They feel like you cheated. They feel cheated.”

“But I didn’t cheat…” said Ryn. “The Governor said we could use elemental projection if we wanted to. I just held out trying not to because of what Nuthea said about keeping it a secret for as long as possible…”

“Yes…” said Nuthea. “Well, the chocobo’s out of the stable on that one now, isn’t it? I know it wasn’t your fault though. We need to talk about this some more. But let’s get you out of this arena first. Come on, they’re waiting to start the next match.”

She took Ryn’s hand and helped him onto his feet. As he stood, the crowd immediately started to jeer and boo him. He saw faces scowling.

“Cheat!” someone shouted.

“Trickster!”

“Charlatan!”

“Sorcerer!”

Poodoo to you, Ryn thought as Cid and Elrann returned to their viewing area and he walked with Nuthea back towards the entrance of the tunnel that led from the arena to the preparation chambers, the announcer ushering them off while making calming gestures to try to pacify the crowd as they continued to boo. I don’t care if you think I ‘cheated’, Ryn thought. Find the Jewels. Save the world. Stay with Nuthea. Win the tournament. Get the Emerald. At whatever cost. By whatever means.

They made their way down the tunnel, and the daylight was blocked off, then replaced by lantern-light. Close air pushed in at Ryn inside the stuffy preparation chamber where he had waited with Rogar and the other combatants before going out to fight his match, carved out of the brown earth of Farr like so many of its structures.

Sagar ran up to him straight away.

“You won, pup?”

Ryn nodded. He wasn’t sure whether Sagar was concerned for him or for himself. “Yes,” he said, “But I had to use my fire. I wasn’t planning to, it just sort of happened. So they know at least one of us has elemental projection now.”

“Yes,” said Nuthea. “And news will travel. We need to get this tournament over with as fast as possible. You may want to use your gift too, Sagar, but remember you’re wanted by the Empire as well, so you do so at your own risk.”

Sagar set his jaw. “Got it.” He dropped his voice in a rare moment of seriousness. “It’s easier for me to hide my projection than you, pup. But if I have to use it, I will.”

From beyond the tunnel came the distant sound of a man shouting something very loudly. The referee announcing the second quarter final–Sagar’s match.

“Sagar,” Ryn said. “Be careful out there. The guy I fought was really strong.”

The corner of Sagar’s mouth twitched up, whether from amusement or because he appreciated the concern, Ryn couldn’t tell.

“Don’t worry about me, pup,” Sagar said. His brown eyes twinkled. “I’ve got this.”

The Farrian announcer appeared in the entrance to the dugout.

“Sagar of Imfis?” he asked, looking around.

“Here,” said Sagar, holding up a hand.

“And Hiuna of Farr?” said the announcer.

“Here,” said a defiant, distinctly female voice.

Ryn turned to see a woman dressed in the same green robes that Huld and the other Farrian monks wore, tied at the waist with a black cloth belt, striding forward. He recognised her as one of the other quarter-finalists that had been gathered together in the dugout before his first fight with Rogar. It would have been easy to mistake her for one of the male monks were it not for her slightly-higher-than-male-pitched voice and her short dark hair. That by itself set her apart from all the other monks, whose heads were all shaven.

“Godsdammit,” Sagar murmured under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Why do I always get paired up with these women who want to look and behave like men?”

“Do you?” asked Ryn, confused.

“Nevermind…” said Sagar. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t underestimate her, Sagar,” Ryn said quietly. “I meant it: The guy I fought was really strong. Remember we got a free pass through the heats. That lady has beaten a load of people to get here, unlike us.” 111

“Enough, pup!” Sagar brushed him off. “I’ve told you I’ll be fine!”

He walked out of the dugout shoulder to shoulder with ‘Hiuna of Farr’ to go and fight his match against her.

“Let’s go and watch them!” Ryn said to Nuthea, still standing a little way away.

“Not yet,” Nuthea said. “We need to go and talk to the Governor first.”

“We do?”

“We do. You showed the Farrian audience that you have the gift of fire. That’s fair enough, given that you needed to use it to beat that man as there was no way you were going to beat him without using it.”

Ryn fought back a blush unsuccessfully. His cheeks heated, and not from his ‘gift of fire’.

“But word of this will travel,” Nuthea continued. “It may take a few days for it to reach Morekemia so many miles away, but we can be sure it will reach them eventually. We can’t take any chances. We need to convince the Governor to get this tournament over with as quickly as possible. That way we can claim the Earth Emerald and get out of here with it as soon as we can. If the Empire send anyone here to investigate before we have the Emerald, it could be disastrous–if they have any soldiers left who can project fire, we now know that earth is weak to fire, so even if the Governor has used the Emerald to grant more of his monks earth projection, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Right,” said Ryn, grasping the seriousness of the situation. “Let’s go and talk to him, then.”

“Hold it right there, boy,” said a grizzly, hostile voice.

Ryn, who had turned and been about to walk off, froze in place and looked up into the fat, frowning, bushy-black-bearded face of Rogar the Unsurpassable. His blood ran cold.

“What did you do to Rogar?” the humongous Morekemian growled. “Rogar had you utterly beaten, Rogar had you crushed and soon to be out-for-the-count, and then all of a sudden you explode with fire on Rogar, and blast him out of the arena? What did you do, little boy?”

Apparently Rogar referred to himself in the third person even off the arena tiles.

“Er…” Ryn said. “I guess I can tell you, seeing as everyone will know before too long…” I’ll probably have to use them again to win my next match anyway, he thought. “I have fire projection powers. I got them from a magical ruby which my father gave me just before he died.”

Rogar looked at Ryn for a few moments with his beady, vein-riddled eyes, peering out over the mass of beard and fat.

Ryn wasn’t sure what was going on behind those eyes. Was the Morekemian angry, or confused, or had Ryn’s explanation satisfied him? Was he about to congratulate Ryn, or try to continue their fight, or pick him up and eat him?

Then: “Ahahahahaha!” Rogar burst out laughing, and slapped Ryn hard on the back with one meaty hand, knocking the wind out of him and making him put out both his hands to break his fall.

“A magical ruby, he says!” Rogar guffawed, still laughing in between sentences. “That is a good one! Well, whatever you pulled out there, boy, I hope it takes you all the way to winning the final! Rogar thinks that his reputation will stay intact! Either you will beat everyone with your fire trick, or you will be disqualified for cheating and Rogar will be called upon again to fight!”

With that, the giant stalked off.

Ryn locked eyes with Nuthea from where he lay on the floor. She was suppressing a smile.

“Well, that was interesting…” he said. “I guess not everyone out there knows about the Jewels. They might not understand where my fire attack came from.”

“Yes,” said Nuthea, helping him to his feet for the second time that day, “of course not. But that doesn’t matter. Even if people don’t understand where your fire projection came from, they will still talk about it, and sooner or later news of it will reach the Empire. That’s why we’ve got to go and talk to the Governor. Come on.”

Nuthea walked with Ryn up the steps of the underground preparation chamber’s back exit.

This led to an area of the audience specially marked for combatants and their special guests to watch the fighting from.

It also contained a wooden platform guarded by green-robed monks, on which sat a number of Farrian officials and, on an elevated chair, the Governor.

Nuthea made straight for the platform. On the way she noticed that the lone cloud occupying the sky earlier had grown in size. Odd.

The same sickly-looking Farrian minister who had originally granted them an audience with the Governor stood at the foot of the steps to the platform.

“Not you again,” he moaned, rolling his eyes. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk to the Governor,” said Nuthea.

“Of course you do. And are you going to threaten me with magic again to do so?”

Nuthea looked across her shoulder at Ryn, who immediately held out his hand, a small flame appearing on his palm.

“Alright, alright!” snapped the Farrian. “Put it away. You’ve caused enough of a scene already today by doing that during your match. You can see him. But he won’t be pleased at you interrupting his viewing.”

The governor was leant forward in his chair, watching the current match intently, rubbing his chin with a chubby hand. He didn’t even acknowledge Nuthea and Ryn.

Nuthea could hear the crowd cheering and gasping at Sagar’s match, but she couldn’t bear to look. There was too much at stake and she was too nervous for the sky-captain.

She just hoped that he wasn’t being humiliated by his opponent, especially as he had opted not to receive Vish’s fighting lessons with the rest of them over their past week in the manse in Shun Pei.

“Excuse me Lord Governor, but I need to speak with you about something.”

The Governor humoured her with the briefest of looks then returned to watching the fighting. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy? There’s a tournament going on here, for Eto’s sake! Your Imfisi rogue is getting his backside served to him by one of our women. One of our women!”

Oh dear, Nuthea thought, though she resisted the temptation to look. Sagar won’t like that at all.

She swallowed, ignoring the other ruler’s rudeness. “Be that as it may, what I need to talk to you about is the tournament.”

The Governor finally broke off from watching and looked at her properly. “What is it? What’s so important that you need to interrupt my viewing of Farr’s triumph over you impetuous foreigners?”

Nuthea licked her lips. “I’m concerned that now Ryn here has made his fire abilities public, the Empire will get wind of them and come looking for him.”

“So what? I fail to see the problem. Why would the Morekemians be interested in a single little Efstanish boy with a pyrotechnic trick? They won’t care. Neither do I.”

Nuthea decided she didn’t need to mention that she, Ryn and Sagar–possibly Cid, Vish and Elrann too–were all wanted by the Empire with bounties on their heads.

“But Lord Governor, remember the Empire have encountered the Fire Ruby before. They may even still have some troops that can use fire magic themselves. At the least, if they hear of another fire-wielder they will associate them with the Ruby and may come here looking for it.”

“Let them come!” said the Governor, turning back to the match. He winced for a moment as the crowd cheered, perhaps because Sagar had taken a particularly nasty hit, but Nuthea didn’t want to know. “Morekemia may be powerful, but the Emperor has never openly challenged the might of Farr. If he dares to do so, we will simply crush his forces. It will be especially easy now that we have the Earth Emerald back again.”

“But Lord Governor…” Ryn chipped in, and Nuthea was grateful he did because she wasn’t sure whether she could retain her politeness for much longer. “...don’t you remember that earth-aligned people and creatures are vulnerable to harm from fire? That’s the only reason we were able to retrieve the Emerald from the Earth Temple at all.”

“Of that I am sceptical,” said the Governor. “I’m quite convinced that the only reason that you were able to retrieve the Emerald is because I sent Huld with you, from the way you told it. If the Morekemians come here with fire-hurling, as you are so afraid of, we will humiliate them with our greater mastery of earth. You will see, foreigners, that Farr reigns supreme when Huld beats all of you, and everyone else, in this tournament, elemental magic or not. That will put your little minds at rest.”

Oh, for The One’s sake… Nuthea pulled her lips in tight to avoid speaking her rare blasphemy out loud. She decided to try another approach.

“But Lord Governor, even though Farr will doubtless claim victory in this tournament, I am not actually asking that it be called off.”

“What?” barked the Governor. “What are you asking for, then? Why are you here wasting my time and distracting me from watching a fine fight?”

A ‘fine fight’? That sounded a bit more promising. Maybe Sagar is holding his own after all…

Nuthea was getting distracted. “All I am asking is that you consider just…speeding up the tournament a little bit.”

“Speeding it up? Why in Mid would I ever want to speed it up? Half of Farr has come to watch, and as the tournament goes on over the next three days the other half will come to watch too, and that is very good for national spirit, and for our economy!”

“Yes, Lord Governor, but the longer the tournament goes on for, the more likely the Empire are to hear about Ryn’s fire magic. We can’t let them get here before…” She broke off, realising she had been about to say something undiplomatic.

“Before what?” said the Governor, daring her to say it.

“...before we have had a chance to move on.”

The Governor snorted. “Well, that is just a chance you are going to have to take, Manolian.” His eyes bulged at the match. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting that to happen!”

What to happen? thought Nuthea. Ryn looked round and gasped, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.

The Governor leaned back in his chair and threw up his hands. “Now the match is over, and because of you I didn’t even get to watch it properly.” He finally gave her his full attention. “Your suggestion is ridiculous, Manolian. Not least of all, the combatants need time to recover in between bouts. You can’t expect the winners to fight a quarter-final, semi-final and final all in the same day.”

“Ah,” said Nuthea “but I have a solution for that. Amongst our party there is a skilled healer, Grandfather Cid, who has the Jewel-imparted gift of being able to revive people from fatigue and injury in an instant. Cid can heal the winning fighters after their matches so that they are able to fight again immediately.”

“Aha,” said the Governor, “so that is why you are so interested in speeding along this tournament! You seek to use your old man’s tricks on your own combatants, at the expense of the Farrians! That’s been your plan all along!”

“Lord Governor, no! I would never even consider doing such a thing! That’s why I’m telling you about Cid’s Jewel-gifted abilities.”

“Or so you say. What’s to stop you only healing your own combatants, and just pretending to heal ours?”

“Nuthea,” said Ryn, “I think Sagar might have actually–”

“I wouldn’t have even considered doing that,” Nuthea repeated, cutting Ryn off. “I am somewhat offended that you are suggesting I would even be capable of such a deception, Lord Governor. May I remind you that I am the heir-apparent ruler of a sovereign nation?”

“Manolian,” said the Governor, “my answer is no. The whole idea is ridiculous. Take your irritating requests somewhere else–or in fact, just do away with them all together! I will not change my mind on this matter.”

Nuthea gritted her teeth, and just for a moment she fancied she felt a current run along her arm, down to her fingertips, and that her lightning magic was returning. But then the moment passed.

“Fine,” said Nuthea, imitating one of Sagar’s less endearing mannerisms, but not caring. “If you won’t be persuaded, we shall just have to win this tournament on your terms and take the Emerald away with us in three days’ time. I just hope for your sake that the Empire doesn’t get wind of our location and come here to find us before then. Come on, Ryn; let’s go and find out how Captain Sagar got on.”

She made a derisive “Hmpf!” sound, then turned on her heel dramatically and walked away, leaving Ryn to follow.

“You show your true colours, Manolian!” the Governor called after her. “You think you can win this, but you cannot! None can compete with the might of Farr–Manolia or Morekemia alike!”

As Nuthea and Ryn walked down the platform steps and back towards the entrance to the dugout, she noticed that the single cloud in the sky had now been joined by another one, and they were growing darker.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. He discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. Ryn sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE THIRTY-SEVEN: STRANGE TALES OF TWO STRANGERS

One night before the Tournament.

Cid eased himself back into the comfy cushioned chair in the corner of the manse’s dining area and sighed in relaxation.

“Ahhhh…”

He lifted the mug of tea that he had made for himself and inhaled deeply through his nose. Sweet and minty, with a hint of citrus. The Farrians were good at tea.

It was too hot to drink quite yet, so he just sat like that for a while with both his hands around the mug, letting it warm them, enjoying its fragrance.

Bliss.

He had certainly earned a day off. They had all been training hard at the direction of young man Vish–even Cid. Although he was not planning to fight in the tournament–nothing could appeal to him less–he had joined in with the others’ training for the sake of the exercise, and because he wanted to show willing and that he was one of the group. Although due to his age he had not been able to keep up to anything like the pace of the whippersnappers, the Shadowfinger had still put him through his own paces, and Cid had ached all over when he had woken up this morning. He had needed the break.

He stretched his legs out and drew in another deep breath of steaming tea.

It had been a good day off, too. He had spent it wandering the city with his Granddaughter and young man Ryn, looking in the different shops and visiting the different ornamental gardens, chatting about everything and nothing–the Jewels, their prospects in the upcoming tournament which would start tomorrow, where they would go next if they managed to secure the Earth Emerald. It had all been very pleasant.

And now, to have an evening to himself, just to sit and rest while everyone else was out, free for a while of their bickering and squabbling and the different attractions that simmered between them…it was as though all the children were out for the night and so he could enjoy himself in peace. No, he corrected himself, it was as though all the grandchildren were out for the night and so he could enjoy himself in peace.

“Heh,” he chuckled to himself. “Don’t forget just quite how old you are, old man Cid.”

He took a sip of the tea, now just about drinkable, and let it slide deliciously down his throat.

He tipped his head back in the chair and shut his eyes, allowing himself to be lost in the sweet taste and the comfort of relaxing in this chair, without having to think for a few moments about the quest, or the danger they were all in, or how the fate of Mid rested on their shoulders, or how to keep this band of younglings alive for another day, or the terrible things he knew they would have to do that he didn’t want to think about. He might even take a nap in this chair, or fall asleep early for the night...

Bliss, he thought again.

From across the manse, the sound of the front door bursting open. Commotion. Shouts. The voices of the two boys, arguing.

Oh no.

Cid opened his eyes and sat up straight.

Ryn and Sagar exploded into the dining room.

“Cid!” Ryn began at once, running up to him and launching into a manic report. “Nuthea and I went to see a play and there was a Jewel-wielder there possibly two and she told us not to make a scene but then Sagar was really really drunk and came to find us because he and Elrann found some other jewel-related person in a pub but then he went up on the stage and got in a fight so I had to go up too but then we had to give away that we had elemental powers and the lead actor got angry and attacked us and–!”

“Woah, woah!” Cid interrupted him, like he was soothing a spooked chocobo that he had lost control of. “Slow down, lad! One thing at a time! Tell me what’s happened, slowly.”

“Don’ lissshen to him!” said Sagar, almost falling over himself as he stumbled over to one of the chairs at the dining table and sat clumsily astride it, putting his arms out to steady himself and then draping himself over the table. “He’sh telling it wrong! There wash a man singing about the Jewelesh, like he knew where they all were, so we went to find the prinshesh and the pup an’ tell ‘em, but then there wash thish dragon, an’…”

The pirate ran out of steam, and now he did go over, his head lolling forward onto the table and hitting it with a smack, then stopping there.

A short pause, and he began to snore loudly.

Cid turned back to Ryn.

“You try again,” he said. “Slowly.”

“Um. Hello,” said a young female voice.

Standing in the doorway was a short girl in a pale green ballroom-dress, with deep green hair cut short into a fringe and a bob, and huge, glittering green eyes. Her skin was very pale indeed, and she was wringing her hands. She looked as though she had just been through some sort of trauma.

“Oh!” said Cid. “I didn’t notice you there. Hello, young lady. Please, come in, have some tea, take a chair!”

Cid poured the girl a drink from the stove while Ryn got her a chair to sit on. The girl took the tea gratefully and perched on the edge of the chair. She was trembling, Cid noticed, little ripples forming in the mug of tea, which she clutched tight like she was holding onto the hand of a protecting parent.

Definitely trauma, he thought with his Healer’s mind.

When she was settled, Cid sat down at the table too and bade Ryn do the same.

“Now,” he said to the boy over the sound of Sagar’s snoring. “Tell me slowly and carefully what has been happening and why you have brought back this poor young lady to the manse.”

“Well–” began Ryn.

The front door banged open again.

“Grandfather!” came Nuthea’s voice from the entry hall. “Grandfather, are you up? There’s some things I’ve got to tell you!”

She ran into the dining room, followed quickly by Elrann, followed by another newcomer: a man in a hooded grey traveller’s cloak with a lute-case slung over one shoulder, and the unusual contrast of dark skin and deep blue hair, which hung in thick locks down either side of his face.

An Umbarian, Cid thought. The Sapphire-keepers. This one is far from home…

“Hi, pops!” said Elrann cheerfully, taking her own seat at the table. “Some stuff’s been going down. Oh,” she said when she saw the green-haired girl, “spirit-girl! You made it! Welcome to the party.” She smiled with her eyes shut.

When Nuthea also saw the green-haired girl seated at the table, she said, “Ah, you managed to bring her back, Ryn. Well done! Are you okay?” she asked the girl.

“I’m f-fine,” stammered the girl. “Um…who are you?”

“I am Princess Nuthea Kaleutheanna of the Matriarchy of Manolia,” Nuthea announced proudly. “I identified that you were employing spirit projection in that play and asked my friend here if he could set up a conversation with you.”

“You mean the guy asleep over there who jumped onstage and attacked my dragon projection?”

Nuthea deflated a bit. “Um, no. That part wasn’t planned. I meant my friend Ryn here. The one who, er, attacked your colleague’s lion projection.”

Cid thought it best to interject here. “Excuse me, young ones, but could one of you please explain to me slowly and plainly what is going on, and why you have invited these two strangers back to our residence?”

“Right,” said both Ryn and Nuthea at the same time. They looked at each other. “I’ll explain,” they each said again simultaneously.

“You go,” said Ryn, ceding the floor at last to Nuthea.

“Alright,” she said, accepting without another word, “what’s happened is that–”

The front door banged again, cutting her off.

Who’s left? Cid thought. Oh yes. Young man Vish. At least he should have managed to keep himself out of trouble, without poppy seed.

There were no shouts or cries this time, just the slow thud of Vish’s footfall across the entry hall towards them.

But the footsteps were irregular, and heavier than usual. It sounded like he was staggering, like he might be injured.

Maybe that was why everyone stayed silent, listening to the erratic noise of the footsteps.

Vish appeared in the doorway, a framed black figure.

He just stood there for a moment, looking at all of them. He was breathing heavily, his loud, ragged breaths practically matching the volume of Sagar’s snoring, as he slumped against the doorjamb.

Vish fell forwards onto his front onto the floor, hitting it with a light thwap.

That was when Cid noticed the spotted trail of blood behind him, and the blood that was soaking out from him now onto the floor.

“He’s hurt!” Cid cried, leaping up immediately and rushing over to the fallen Shadowfinger. “Quick, boys, help me get him onto his back!”

Ryn and the newcomer Umbarian, whose name Cid didn’t even know yet, carefully pulled Vish over onto his back.

The Shadowfinger groaned as he went over, not with pain, but what sounded like…pleasure.

Oh no, thought Cid, not for the first time that evening, as he knelt next to Vish.

“What’s happened?” asked Nuthea from somewhere behind him. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Quiet,” Cid commanded irritably. “I’ll know in a moment.” He didn’t like snapping but he needed to concentrate.

The first thing he did was take off the Shadowfinger’s black gloves, which were slick with blood. There were no cuts or marks on the tan skin at all–it was smooth, delicate even. Just black discolouration at his fingertips—but that came from the poppy addiction. He examined the folds of Vish’s tunic. There was no sign of a wound or of blood leaking through it anywhere. He put a hand over Vish’s heart. It was beating regularly. Fast, granted. But regularly.

Cid looked at the Shadowfinger’s face. The man’s eyes were closed and the tautness of his cheeks indicated he was smiling underneath his head scarf. The Healer pulled back one of the man’s eyelids with a thumb, and his growing suspicions were confirmed. The pupil underneath was huge, dilated so big that it practically filled the whole of his eye with blackness. Vish giggled quietly in whatever state of consciousness he was in.

“He’s fine,” Cid pronounced, getting to his feet and shaking his head with disappointment. “This is not his blood; it’s someone else’s. Maybe several people’s. He’s not hurt. He’s just had a poppy hit, that’s all. An absolutely massive one, from the looks of things. Possibly several seeds at once.”

Shocked silence.

He sighed. And I thought that he had been making process.

“Um, who is that guy?” said the green-haired girl.

Cid turned. She had gotten up from the table and was standing as far away as possible from them all against the wall at the other end of the room, practically cowering.

“Oh, please don’t be alarmed, young lady,” Cid said. “This man is just an ex-Imperial bountyhunter who we enlisted to help us on our travels.”

“He’s a what?!” exclaimed the girl, standing up stick-straight and pushing herself even harder back against the wall. She looked as if she was about to run out of the room at any moment.

“Don’t worry,” Nuthea said, holding out her hands in a calming gesture, “it’s quite alright. He’s safe. He’s on our side. He’s saved our lives many times.”

The girl stared down at Vish, mouth curling in horror, then looked up at Nuthea. “Who are all of you?” she said. “I only came with him–” she pointed to Ryn–“because he rescued me from Zigfrid’s lion and because I can’t go back to the troupe now! Unless you explain who you all are and what you’re doing I’m getting out of here!”

“Yes,” spoke up the Umbarian with the lute. “I would very much like to know who all of you are and why you have invited me here as well.”

“Alright,” said Nuthea, “I’ll explain to the two of you, then we can explain to grandfather why we’ve invited you each here. But do come and sit down, please.”

Nuthea offered the girl her chair again and with some reluctance she crept back over and took it, reclaiming her tea, but her gaze kept darting back to Vish.

“Don’t worry about him,” Cid said in an effort to reassure her. “He will be out for a while. And he won’t harm any of us. He’s clearly used up his energy from the hit to walk back here. He is on our side.”

The girl’s lopsided grimace indicated she was not reassured in the least, but she stayed where she was for the moment.

Cid, Nuthea, Ryn, Elrann and the Umbarian all took seats at the rectangular wooden table too, joining the girl and the snoring Sagar. They left Vish on his back on the floor to sleep off his poppy hit.

“So who are you all?” asked the Umbarian. “And what are you doing staying in a government residence in the second-but-topmost level of Shun Pei?”

Nuthea began her explanation for the newcomers. “We’re a group of friends who are searching for some objects called the Twelve Primeval Jewels. We have two already, and four of us have elemental projection powers from touching different jewels.” Cid wouldn’t have led with that, though it sounded as though his travelling companions had practically revealed as much to these two newcomers already. But why?

Nuthea proceeded to work her way through the whole party and explain how she had met them and how they had ended up coming along on the search for the Jewels, beginning with her and Ryn meeting in the brig of an Imperial Airship, and ending with VIsh agreeing to work together with them in exchange for being kept in supply of poppy seed. She told them the story of how they had thus far managed to retrieve two Jewels and what they were doing in Farr in pursuit of a third.

When she had finished, she looked at the two newcomers as if expecting some sort of response. The Umbarian tapped his lips, looking thoughtful, but the green-haired girl just continued to stare blankly.

“Okaaay then…” the girl said eventually. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Well, young lady,” said Nuthea, “—what is your name, by the way?”

“Riss,” said the green-haired girl.

“Well, young Riss, when I saw that dragon appear in the play you were in, so lifelike, I suspected Jewel-magic must be involved.”

The girl looked at the floor. “Ah. So you know.”

“Yes,” said Nuthea. “You have touched the Spirit Carnelian.”

Cid took in a sharp breath, but he tried to mask it.

The girl looked up at Nuthea, and she did look very much to Cid like a little girl then–a confused, lost, alone and afraid little girl–despite being a bit older than a child. “Is that what it’s called?”

“That is what my people call it,” said Nuthea, “and what I believe most peoples who possess knowledge of Jewel-lore call it. How did you come by it?”

The girl glanced around at all the members of the party in turn–those of them who were awake at least. She still sat tight-lipped, wide-eyed and pale. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you…” she said quietly.

“Try us,” Cid encouraged her gently. “You have heard some of our stories, and how unbelievable and outlandish those are. I think you will find it hard to surprise us.”

Riss drew in a quivering breath. “Well… okay then…” Her green eyes took on a far-away look as she began her story. “I am originally from Suria. My father died of an illness when I was small. My mother raised me by herself, but she struggled. Ever since I was little, I never really fitted in. Rather than joining in with everyone else’s games, I liked to go off by myself and play my own games in my imagination. I would go exploring in the woods and hills and valleys and make up my own stories. One day when I was twelve, I was out in the woods, and it was like I heard this voice whispering to me…”

Riss paused and came back to the room for a moment, biting her lip and glancing around at her audience. She looked as if she was afraid of saying something foolish.

“Go on,” Cid prompted her kindly. He had begun to suspect where this was going.

“This voice began whispering to me, just my name at first, and then it started to tell me to follow certain directions. So I followed it. It was like one of my imaginations, one of my stories had come to life. I followed it, and it led me to a particular tree. It was a really big one, an oak I think, with a huge thick trunk and lots of branches that spread into the branches of the other trees. A little way up in the trunk was a small hollowed-out hole, the kind that a squirrel or a bird might nest in. The voice told me to look inside it, so I did, and inside I found a small, smooth, orangey-brown jewel. I took it, and when I touched it I felt a surge of…energy go through me, and from that moment I was able to summon spirits.”

Quiet descended, punctuated only by a sleep-snort from Sagar.

Cid could see the tension in every line of Nuthea’s body, how she held her jaw tight, how she sat rigid on her chair. She must be exerting a huge amount of self-control not to burst out and ask the question that was surely also burning on her lips straight away.

“Riss…” his granddaughter addressed the girl slowly. “Do you still have the jewel?”

“No.”

Cid felt the disappointment settle on him like a cloak. He saw it settle on Nuthea too.

“Where is it?” Nuthea asked the girl.

“He has it.”

“Who?”

“Zigfrid.”

“That pompous lead actor from the play?” asked Ryn.

The girl nodded.

Nuthea didn’t quite prevent all of her frustration from leaking into her voice. “How did he come by it?” she asked.

The girl pulled her head back and pushed her chair away from the table a little, looking again as if she might run off at any moment. She must have sensed the trio’s frustration.

“Why does it matter?” she asked suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

Cid stepped in again, speaking in as soothing tones as he could manage. “Do not worry, young lady; you are not in trouble–least of all with us. We are not angry with you, only at the situation. As my Granddaughter here has told you, we are searching for the Jewels, but not for our own gain. We are seeking to find them to protect the world from those who might use them for harm. That’s why we’re interested.”

The girl relaxed a little at that, but only a little. “Alright then…” She resumed her story. “Once I started summoning the spirits because of the stone, my village kicked me out. Even… even my own family didn’t want anything to do with me. They called me a witch, and a sorceress, and said that if I didn’t leave they would have to…” She paused, and bit her lip, not able to say whatever had been going to follow. “That was quite a few years ago,” she went on. “So I left. I set out on my own, and got by by myself living in the woods, calling the spirits to help me. But then one day I came upon a traveling troupe of Manyiro performers that were passing through. I followed them, and hid to watch one of their play rehearsals, and I was spellbound. I suddenly realised: this is what I want to do. These people got to make up stories and pretend to be in them, but they weren’t hated or kicked out for it–other people even loved them for it. They were even respected for it. I knew I had to join them. So I found the leader of the troupe and I showed him what I could do–summoning and commanding spirits…” She faltered again.

“And how did he respond?” prompted Cid again, though he had an inkling.

“He was impressed,” said Riss. “So impressed that he let me join the troupe straight away, seeing how spirit-summoning could make him and his performances even more famous. But he only let me join on one condition.”

“You had to tell him how you learned to summon the spirits and show him how to do it too,” guessed Ryn, just as Cid had.

The girl nodded. “Exactly. And after he found out about the jewel, he forced me to give it to him. I taught him how to summon spirits with it, and he got very good at it.”

“And that’s why he still has it,” said Nuthea.

“Yes…” said Riss, “but that’s not quite the whole of the story. After a while, some of the other actors in the troupe got jealous of my abilities, and wanted to know how I got them. Until tonight Zigfrid had never revealed to anybody else that he could do it too, you see. And he had sworn me to secrecy about the jewel, but when I told the others that I couldn’t tell them how I got my powers or show them how they worked, they got angry with me. They ganged up on me–it was like what happened in my village all over again. So I went to Zigfrid and told him that I wanted the jewel back, and to leave the troupe, but he wouldn’t give it to me, or let me. He told me that the jewel was his now, and that I had to stay in the troupe and summon the spirits for him so that we could keep up our reputation. I tried to call a spirit to fight him off and get back the jewel, but by that time he had grown too powerful at summoning himself. He summoned his lion and he…he pinned me down, and made me promise that I wouldn’t leave the troupe.”

The girl stopped her story again. Or maybe it had finished. Her bottom lip started to tremble.

Cid couldn’t help himself from wincing. What a horrible ordeal the girl had been through.

“It’s alright,” Nuthea said to her. “You’re safe now. Truly, you are among friends here. You can trust us. We won’t hurt you, and we won’t force you to stay with us like Zigfrid did. But you can stay with us if you like, for as long as you like, if you have nowhere else to go. You’ll be safe with us.”

“Thank you…” said Riss as she looked at the floor. A tear escaped down her pale cheek.

Cid looked away out of respect for the girl.

Uncomfortable silence.

“Fascinating,” said an unfamiliar, low, slightly musical voice.

Cid started. The Umbarian. He had almost forgotten there was a second stranger here with them as well–for a time all of his attention had been focused on Riss.

“What is?” asked Ryn.

“Your story, young lady,” the Umbarian said to Riss. He had a gentle, deep yet singsong voice. “It is extremely difficult to track down information about the Spirit Carnelian. There are not very many songs or tales about it, and the ones that do exist are very vague. But your story confirms that it is indeed real. I should very much like to see you summon a spirit sometime, if you will permit me a demonstration.”

The girl stiffened at that, and did not reply.

Cid’s hackles rose too.

“And who are you?” he asked the man. “Can someone please explain why this gentleman has been invited up here, too?”

“I think that’s my cue,” said Elrann from her place at the table, “seeing as pirate-man is out for the count.”

Sagar grunted in his sleep at Elrann’s mention of her nickname for him, murmured irritably for a bit, then went back to snoring peacefully.

“Yes,” said Cid, “do please explain, young lady Elrann.”

Elrann folded her arms. “Welp, pirate-man and I were out in a tavern having a few drinks when we heard music-man here singing a song while he played his lute. (That’s why I’m calling him music-man, you see–it’s sort of his defining characteristic and I can’t actually remember his name.) He sang a song that mentioned all of the Jewel-thingamies that we’re searching for, so when he finished pirate-man and I went up to him to talk to him. It turns out he knows loads about the Jewels. Like loads. So pirate-man thought we better introduce him to the rest of you, in case he can help us. Pirate-man was very drunk at this point, so he just sort of took off to go and find farmboy and princess-girl at their play, and music-man and I just sought of tagged along.”

Cid ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. He was instantly wary. Hadn’t Elrann and Sagar considered that this man might have purposes contrary to their own, that he might be working for the Empire, or someone else?

On the other hand, the Umbarians weren’t exactly known for their fealty to the Empire–far from it. In fact they had fought many wars to keep their northern borders secure against Morekemia, and the two nations were always fighting over the little strip of land that fell between them. Cid decided he would give this Umbarian a chance–for now. He could reprimand Elrann and Sagar for their lack of caution later.

Nuthea addressed the man. “And how did you come by all your knowledge of the Jewels, um…sorry, I don’t know your name either?”

The man flashed a toothy grin from underneath the hood of his cloak, which he still hadn’t taken off even though they were indoors. “I am called Quel,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you, Quel,” said Nuthea.

“A pleasure.” The lutisit began his own tale. In contrast to Riss, he seemed extremely comfortable telling it, as if he was used to regaling assembled audiences with stories, which if he was a traveling musician and bard Cid supposed he was. “As you may know, my people possess one of the Primeval Jewels–the Water Sapphire. I myself have the good fortune of being Sapphire-touched.”

Everyone sat up straighter at that.

Alright then, thought Cid, so he’s laying all his cards on the table straight away. That’s good.

“Woah, cool,” said Elrann. “I didn’t even know that!”

“May you show us?” said Nuthea.

“Of course,” said Quel. He looked around for a moment, then his gaze settled on Cid’s mug of tea. He flicked his fingers up in a subtle motion, and the tea rose up out of the mug, staying suspended in the air like a pale-green translucent snake. A few flourishes of his wrist, and the snake danced through a few twisting circular motions, before Quel flicked his fingers back down again and Cid’s tea re-deposited itself in the mug.

Cid looked down at his drink and frowned. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to drink it any more. Although it had probably gone cold long ago anyway.

Well, at least we know he’s not lying about being Sapphire-touched… Cid thought.

“That,” said Elrann. “Was. Awesome! It was like you had an invisible spoon! You’re a true spoony bard!” she added, referencing some joke Cid wasn’t in on.

The boy Ryn fidgeted in his chair, shifting his weight.

“Very impressive indeed!” said Nuthea. “So what brings you to Farr, Troubadour Quel?”

“My people possess the Water Sapphire, and we use it to hold our own against the Morekemians, who now have, from what I have heard, the Fire Ruby.”

Cid deliberately made sure he did not look at Ryn, but he saw Nuthea shoot the boy a glance. Silly girl.

“We have long known that the Maker created other Jewels, but since we were safe with the Sapphire and the world was in balance, we had no interest in them.”

“Hang on,” said Ryn, “what do you mean ‘the Maker’? Who is the Maker?”

“That’s what they call the One,” Nuthea informed him.

Ryn’s youthful face wrinkled up with perplexity. “Are they the same God?”

“Some say so,” said Nuthea. “Others disagree. We believe some different things about the One, and the Jewels, but we agree on lots too.”

“That is correct.” Quel nodded. “What we agree on is that the Maker created the Jewels, although we disagree on what will happen if they are all gathered together. I believe that Manolians think that tremendous power will be bestowed upon the gatherer, do you not?”

“That’s right,” said Nuthea.

“Whereas we believe that when they are all gathered together by someone with good and pure intentions they will provide the key to rescuing Mid from a great danger and evil.”

And you’re likely both right, thought Cid, though he didn’t say it. But there’s more to it than that…

“So what do you think will happen if someone with dangerous and evil intentions gathers them all together?” asked Ryn. A pertinent question.

“Yeah,” chipped in Elrann, “like, say, the Emperor of Morekemia?”

A highly pertinent question.

Quel rubbed his upper lip, then patted it. “I am not sure,” he said at length. “Though I would rather we did not have to find out.”

“Well, we’re definitely in agreement about that,” said Nuthea. “Lady Elrann said that you sang of many things regarding the Jewels.”

“Yup,” confirmed Elrann. “He sang a song about all of them, even saying where some of them are.”

“Tell us,” said Nuthea eagerly. “How did you come to have such knowledge?”

The newcomer did not answer straight away, but merely looked at Nuthea, then around at Ryn, Elrann, and Cid himself, passing his fingers back and forth over his lips again, as if he was sizing them up, pondering how much to reveal.

Tell us everything, Cid silently implored him.

The stranger’s gaze came to rest on Riss, the summoner girl, who now sat still, her feet drawn up onto her chair so she could clutch her knees. She had told all, eventually. Or so we hope.

The stranger patted his lips, and appeared to reach a decision.

“Some years ago,” said Quel, “we began to hear rumours that Morekemia were sending out agents into the world to try to collect information on the whereabouts of the Jewels. It appeared that the Emperor had realised that they were not just an obscure legend, but that they were real. Some such agents came to Umbar, though fortunately we were able to identify them and root them out before they discovered too much. They managed to confirm that we were in possession of the Water Sapphire, which some people knew anyway, but they didn’t find out anything about where it was kept. Soon after this begun to happen, the Chief of my tribe sent me out into the world to gather knowledge of the Jewels myself. It had been my ambition to become a wandering bard anyway, and I was soon to embark upon my travels, but this mission gave me an extra purpose to travel for. Over the last ten years I have wandered all over Mid, paying my way by learning and singing songs, and spoken to people, getting to know the local cultures and slowly gathering information about the Jewels. I’ve been to Morekemia itself. I’ve been all round Dokan. I’ve been to the Velt. I’ve been to Frikia. I’ve been to Rakali. I even travelled the Waste, for a brief time. And I am nearly due to return to report back to the chief of my people what I have learned.”

“So why did you come to Farr?” Nuthea asked him. “Many people know that the Earth Emerald is here already.”

Quel dipped his head, flashing his smile again for the clever question. “Yes, princess–or should I call you my ‘cousin’ in the faith? That is true. But the Crossroads of the East is a fantastic place to meet travellers from all over Mid. In any case, I have been to many other places, but few are so fruitful for learning rumours and gossip, and for encountering people from other lands, as Shun Pei. I have managed to fill in a few gaps in my knowledge of the Jewels since I came here. It’s also a very good place to hitch a ride home. Sooner or later there will be a ship flying for Umbar, or somewhere near it, and I will make my way onto it to return and report back. In fact, I need to get back there as soon as possible.”

“Why?” pushed Ryn.

“After my stay in Farr I had originally planned to return from here to Dokan. The one Jewel of which knowledge had eluded me throughout my journey for a long time was the Fire Jewel.”

Well done, Orvis, thought Cid. You did your job well.

“But then a few months ago I heard word that the Empire had found the Fire Jewel and were putting it to use. My mission became more urgent. Now that I have completed my search for as much knowledge of the Jewels as I have been able to gather, with the missing piece filled in, I seek passage home.”

“Why are you telling us all this?” said Ryn, the bearer of the Fire Ruby, unbeknownst to the newcomer. Or does he know?

“Well,” said Quel, “you say you have two of the Jewels. If you are seeking to protect them from the Empire, we share a goal.” The lutist held out his hands in sincere imploration. “Will you come with me to Umbar, to lend us the use of the Jewels you have, and keep them safe?”

The party were quiet.

Cid knew what he thought, but he did not want to take charge. He watched his granddaughter and the boy to see how they would respond.

“Maybe…” Ryn said after a moment. “I think we had better pay this Umbar a place visit in any case, and speak with your people’s rulers, but maybe only after we’ve got the Earth Emerald and the…Spirit Carnelian. What d’you think, Nuthea?”

The princess, who had been staring off at nothing for a moment, came back to herself.

“What? Oh. Yes. Completely. We must pay a visit to Umbar as soon as we can. We will be needing to obtain the Water Sapphire, after all.”

Quel bristled a little at that, but apparently it did not irk him enough to draw a protest.

Unexpectedly, Riss, the new girl, spoke up. “Why do you sing about the Jewels?” she said to Quel. “Isn’t that dangerous? Doesn’t it attract attention to you, and to them?”

The lutist shrugged in his cloak. “Perhaps a little,” he said. “But it’s not as though my song gives very much detail away. It’s quite cryptic, really. People don’t pay too much attention to the words of songs sung in taverns, anyhow. And actually I’ve found my song has just enough about the Jewels to be a very good way of flushing out other people who know about them, or who are seeking them… as it did tonight.”

Quel smiled, and his blue eyes glittered.

“Yeah,” said Elrann, “’s’pretty crazy how Sagar and I ended up in the same pub as you, and you chose to play that song, and we heard it and all. This sort of thing keeps on happening…”

“It is the Will of the One,” Nuthea said confidently. “The One must have brought us together.”

“It is the Will of the One,” Cid agreed, confident of this too.

“As the Maker plans it,” said Quel, the Umbarian version of the phrase.

Pregnant silence.

The party all waited expectantly for the voice of scepticism.

It did not come.

“Oh yeah,” Ryn said, “that’s right, Sagar’s asleep. Well, basically, I think you guys can join up with us.” He nodded to Riss and Quel briefly in turn. “Welcome to our team.”

“Your…team?” said Quel.

“Our team?” said Elrann.

“Well, yeah,’ said Ryn, rubbing his arm. “We are basically a kind of team, aren’t we? We team up in finding the Jewels. That’s not so difficult to get your head around, is it?”

“We need some kind of team name, then,” said Elrann. “What’s our name?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll work on it.”

“So what is your plan of action?” asked Quel. “Our plan of action…” he corrected himself, trying out the alternative pronoun with some hesitation. “I need to return to Umbar as quickly as possible in order to tell my people what I have found out about the Jewels, and you can discuss keeping them safe along with the Water Sapphire with my Chieftain there.”

“You need to get the Carnelian first before you do that,” said Riss.

“Actually,” said Nuthea, “our first priority is the Earth Emerald, and the tournament.”

“The tournament?” asked Quel. “The one that’s being held in Tenkachi from tomorrow? The one that everyone’s talking about?”

“Yes,” said Nuthea. “The Governor of Farr hasn’t made this public yet, but the grand prize for the winner of the tournament is going to be the Earth Emerald. We are entering in order to win it. Winning it is our first priority. Then we will worry about finding a way to claim back the Spirit Carnelian from Zigfrid, and visiting Umbar to discuss how best to keep the Water Sapphire safe.”

“Alrighty then,” said Elrann. “So all we have to do is beat a load of people who fight as part of their religion in a hand to hand combat tournament, steal a rock from a crazy actor who can make giant lions appear with his mind, and persuade Quel’s people who have guarded the Water Sapphire for centuries as their most precious treasure that actually they’re better off handing it over to us. Oh, and then find the remaining seven Jewels-thingamies.”

“Exactly,” said Nuthea.

“This is gonna be a piece of cake,” said Elrann.

Previously on Saga of the Jewels…

The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. He discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. Ryn sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD…

EPISODE THIRTY-SIX: HUNTING FOR POPPY

One day before the tournament.

Vish was pissed off.

As he stalked the stone-paved streets of some lower level of this wretched Farrian city, weaving in and out of the milling crowds, their inane chatter filling his ears, the hot noonday sun beating down on him, his limbs ached with longing and his heart was full of craving.

Damn the old man, he thought to himself. Damn the boy for having mercy on me and allowing me to live when they defeated me outside Nont. Damn the poppy. I want the poppy. Damn Veln for betraying me. Damn them all to whatever hells may or may not exist.

Another wave of craving hit him, right in his guts and loins, and he visualised himself taking a small black poppy seed and placing it into his mouth. Just as he had done a thousand times that day already, he imagined it coming to rest on his tongue, recalled its intense, sweet taste permeating his mouth. He imagined swallowing it, and the torrents of pleasure that would surge through his body as a result.

But no true taste, no true pleasure came–only a shadow and an echo of past tastes and pleasures that left him hollow and wanting real poppy and in need of replaying the whole routine in his mind again.

He bumped into someone, banging his face right into them.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” said the big brutish man with a bush of beard. Probably Dokanese.

“I apologise,” said Vish, holding up his hands, not meaning it at all but wanting to move this latest irritant along as quickly as possible. “My mind was elsewhere.” That much was true at least.

The man’s fat face softened, but only a little. “Well, be more careful next time, Aibarian.” Apparently the man was well-travelled enough to judge Vish’s nationality just from the small strip of skin visible from within his head covering. Perhaps by his style of dress too. The man walked off, leaving the Shadowfinger to his flashbacks and his poppy cravings.

He walked on, and another craving-wave rolled through him.

Actually, Vish reflected, he knew that at least one hell did exist. He knew it existed because he was experiencing it now.

For some stupid reason he had agreed with the old man to space out his poppy hits, which meant that he couldn’t have one today.

In an effort to focus on something other than his imagining taking poppy again, he tried to recall the conversation he had with him earlier that day.

“Now master Vish,” the old man Cid had said to him at his door when the Shadowfinger had gone to see him to request some more poppy earlier that morning, “you know we agreed that you would start spacing out your hits and wait a bit longer until the next one.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Vish said. “I want one now.”

“But you agreed to this.”

Why had he agreed to it? He couldn’t even remember any more.

“Maybe I did,” he said “but I’ve changed my mind. Give it to me now.”

“Vish, you can’t just go back on your agreement like that so easily. You know, some poppyheads give up poppy all in one go, just stopping ‘cold chocobo’, and never go back. If the physical withdrawal symptoms can be managed safely, that is actually the best way to do it.”

“What?!” Now the old man wasn’t just talking about spacing out the hits; now he was talking about stopping them altogether! “There is no way that I would ever do that.”

“It might be the better way for you to do it. Ask the One. Ask the One to help you, to relieve you. He will.”

“I don’t believe in your ‘One’, old man.”

“Just try it. He believes in you.”

That had really pissed Vish off. “Don’t give me that poodoo! Just give me my poppy, old man! I don’t believe in your ‘One’! He’s not real! What has he ever done for me? Where was he when my mother threw me out on the streets of Saudran to fend for myself? Where was he when I was begging and stealing and fighting among the street rats? Where was he when I was doing all the terrible things that I’ve done just to stay alive, and then to get my next poppy hit?”

The old man, to his credit, had at least gone quiet for a moment at that, and bowed his head slightly in sympathy.

“I do not have an easy answer for you,” Cid said. “All I can offer you is that I believe he saw those things happen, and that he felt them with you, that they grieved him, and that he has given you a way out of that life, now.”

Vish considered the old man’s words for a moment. There was a certain…appeal to them. But they just seemed unreal to him. They seemed like an invented fantasy. Reality was much crueller.

“I want my poppy, old man. Give it to me. Now.”

Cid sighed. “No. You may be able to make your own choices, but so am I, and the poppy belongs to me. I am choosing not to give it to you now, and I’m sorry, but that’s the end of the matter. You need to begin to learn that you can survive, and even begin to experience some peace and enjoyment, without it. One week. That is my concession. You can have some more poppy seed in one week.”

The old man closed the door in Vish’s face.

Vish seethed, fury filling fibre of his body, along with the longing for the poppy, in fact only another expression of it. For a moment he considered bashing down the door, overpowering the old man, slitting his throat, and then stealing his whole poppy supply and running away from the group.

And he had almost done it.

But he hadn’t.

Why didn’t I do it? he thought now as he traipsed the cobbled streets of Shun Pei. He should have just done it!

But he hadn’t done it, he discovered, because somewhere, in a miniscule corner of his darkened mind, a tiny little shred of hope had appeared. The smallest sliver of a ray of hope had formed; hope that he might actually be able to come off the poppy one day and be freed of his all-consuming constant desperate craving for it.

Damn the old man for planting that hope! And damn me for not being able to completely let go of it!

Part of him, somewhere, remembered what it was like not to know the poppy, not to be consumed by the longing for the poppy. Part of him, somewhere, remembered what it was like to experience the joys of life unadulterated by craving and poppy. The memories of happiness were few and far between, but they were there: The play of warm sunlight on the back of his uncovered neck. The gentle morning breeze tickling his skin. Laughter, the company of friends. The touch and kiss of Eflana, his consort when he has been working for Veln. Maybe he could get his enjoyment of all of those things back?

Vish stopped in his tracks.

Instinctively, his feet had led him to a shopfront.

More of a stall, really. The doors of a battered wooden shed opened right onto the dusty street of this level of the city. In the opening they created stood a rickety table with all different sorts of herbs, roots, and plants arrayed on it, which hung from the doors as well. Crushed up powders in jars. Different coloured liquids in stoppered-up bottles. The pale purple flowers of some exotic plant, plucked and laid out in little earthenware bowls.

Behind the table hunched a withered old crone with a hump-back and a crooked nose, dressed in the brown robes that seemed to be worn by most of the Farrians on this level.

“Medicines!” the woman screeched when she saw Vish had stopped, to clarify what exactly it was that was arrayed before him. “Get your medicines!”

When Vish approached her she said “Looking for something in particular, good sir? There a specific ailment that’s troubling you?”

Vish chose his words carefully. As far as he knew, poppy was outlawed in almost every single nation of Mid, including Farr, because of how it tended to make people addicted to it and ruin their lives, not to mention the side effects of making one particularly strong and agile during a hit.

“Do you have anything for a…headache?” he said slowly.

“Headache?!” said the woman. “Why, you need crushed minofin root, of course! You run out? Only one gold piece for a jar! Eat a spoonful every hour till you feel better, which will be soon!”

Vish eyed the small jar of yellow powder that the woman held up to him and shook so that it danced around in a cloud. He was not impressed. He was not convinced that the powder would have any kind of effect on anyone, let alone on him.

“That’s not what I’m looking for,” he said. “Do you have anything…… stronger?” He pulled down the front of his face-scarf down a little, just enough to expose some of his blackened mouth.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him as she regarded him over her crooked nose.

“I am sure I have no idea what you mean,” she said quietly.

Damn, Vish thought and tugged the scarf back up

He turned away from the stall and almost walked into a large Farrian man almost as rotund as he was tall. Again.

The man he had bumped into earlier.

“I know just what you mean,” said the man in a gruff voice. His dark hair was thick on top and he had an untidy beard which covered his mouth, both of which were unusual for Farrians. Were it not for his narrow eyes it would have been hard to place him as Farrian at all.

“Oh?” said Vish, his curiosity piqued. The man had followed him for some reason. Perhaps he had known him for a poppyhead somehow.

“Yeah,” said the man. “Come with me. But keep your distance.”

The man ambled off and Vish waited for a few breaths, starting to tremble slightly at the expectation of possibly being about to get his hands on some poppy. Then he took one last look at the crone in the shopfront, who scowled at him, and followed after the man.

He kept about ten paces behind the man as he made his way past other citizens of Shun Pei, past other stalls, before finally turning off the main thoroughfare and slipping down an alleyway between two particularly large earthen buildings.

It was secluded in the alleyway, and dim, the buildings on either side blocking out lots of light. The perfect place for a poppy transaction.

Vish strode into the alley calmly.

Sure enough, when he got about half way down it, the big Farrian stopped and turned round, and when Vish reached him he said, “So you want to buy some poppy?”

“Yes!” Eagerness made the words trip quickly off Vish’s tongue behind his face scarf. “How much?”

“How much you willing to pay?” said the man.

Foolish, Vish scolded himself. I should have just offered a price. “How much poppy do you have?”

The man held up a hand, a little dark ball pinched between his thumb and forefinger visible even in the dimness of the alley, and Vish’s mouth began to water.

“One seed. For you…” The man hesitated, licking his lips. “...fifty gold pieces.”

“Fine.” Vish was pretty sure he was being ripped off, despite not normally having to buy poppy, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like it was his money anyway. He just wanted to get his hands on the poppy as quickly as possible.

He reached into the folds of his black tunic and drew out the common purse of the traveling party, which he had stolen before he had come out on this walk after some fool had left it out in the dining area of the manse.

When the man took the coins and saw how many more Vish had in the purse, his eyes bulged.

Ah, Vish thought.

“Actually, friend,” said the man, “you know what? I’m thinking that maybe you don’t need the poppy after all. Maybe we keep the poppy, and we also take that gold off your hands.”

“‘We’?” said Vish.

The big man’s pupils reached beyond the Shadowfinger.

Vish turned. On cue, two more men made their way down the alleyway towards him, each of them with drawn straight swords, in the Farrian style. No doubt that first man behind Vish had a weapon stashed somewhere as well.

“I am thinking you will hand over that money now, friend,” said the first man from behind him, and a point pricked Vish’s back, “and we may think about letting you live. Or you can put up a struggle and we can kill you and take it anyway. I would not recommend it though. You are outnumbered, three to one, and you have nowhere to run.”

Vish sighed. He had wondered earlier if something like this was going to happen today.

He reached for his own sword on his back.