They did not have to wait long. The mayor soon rose from his seat and walked to the edge of the railing. The crowd immediately grew still; even his children subdued themselves. Mayor Branders was not a violent man, nor did he have a proclivity to raise his voice, but there was something about the way he moved, and how his eyes gauged everyone he met, that spoke of more power than he let on. He was like a pot of simmering silver: simple and serene to look at, but with a scalding danger waiting beneath the surface.
“Citizens of Appleram, travelers, and brave adventurers, I thank you for joining in our humble festival.” Even without magical aid, his words carried across the arena effortlessly. Mayor Branders was a man who was seldom, if ever, asked to repeat himself. “I’m not a bard, so I’ll be quick. Good luck to all the competitors; battle with honor and dignity, and no cheating.” Though the last two words were pronounced the same tone as the others, they rang powerfully in the ears of each person present. “We shall begin with Dagger Throwing. All those signed up to compete, to the targets at the west of the arena. Everyone else, stay clear.”
Words spent, Mayor Branders walked back to his chair and sat, while in the arena, adventurers scurried toward, or away from, the arena’s western side. Within moments, it had filled with competitors of various shapes and sizes, each holding their daggers at the ready.
The tournament had begun.
“The rules for the Dagger Throwing event are simple,” yelled the portly man standing between the gathered contestants and the targets. “We will have five rounds; each competitor will throw one dagger each round. The closer you get to the bull’s-eye, the better you score that round. I’ll watch and keep tally, and the highest score at the end of the final round wins. Oh, and there’s one more thing. If, during any round, you miss the target entirely, you are immediately disqualified from the competition, regardless of score.” His wide face broke into an unashamed grin. “We thought that would keep it interesting.” With that, he walked toward a wide table and a flurry of other peasants rushed to set up the first targets.
“Seems we’re neighbors again, Thistle.” Sierva stepped forward from the still-milling crowd, taking the spot to his right. Most of the competitors had waited to see who went where, wanting a place where they wouldn’t feel crowded, or overshadowed by the grandeur of their competitor. Thistle, on the other hand, had staked his spot immediately upon arrival. It would be too easy to get knocked about if he tried to jostle through the crowd.
“Quite a coincidence, though a pleasant one,” Thistle replied politely. Of course, since she’d chosen that spot, it was really anything but coincidence, but propriety was propriety.
“Tell me, what do you think of that last rule? The immediate disqualification if one misses.”
“I’d say the reasonable assumption is that anyone who misses completely is likely too far behind in points to have a chance at placing, so pulling them out saves everyone’s time,” Thistle proposed.
“Perhaps, though it seems a shame to rob them of a chance to regain ground,” Sierva commented.
“You have another thought?”
“More a tickle of suspicion than a full thought,” Sierva admitted. “It just strikes me as off, but I can’t think of why it bothers me.”
“Well, if I were a less trusting and far more paranoid individual, I might have an inkling to offer,” Thistle said, both volume and tone carefully controlled. Whether it was his years of henching, his amount of exposure to heroes, or some secret paladin sense, Thistle had a hunch that Sierva was a good person. Certainly, she might beat him, but that was the nature of competition. A little information now could equal a favor later, and Thistle was fond of having useful people in his debt.
“And what might that be, if you were indeed cursed with a suspicious heart?” Her eyes didn’t linger on him; instead, they watched the targets being set up. To a casual observer, they appeared to be nothing more than competitors making chit-chat before the battle began.
“Were I indeed so wretched, it might have seemed strange to me that, while the town was bleeding its new inhabitants dry, the mayor allowed a free event’s entry to any person who wished it. That, coupled with the generous chunk of prize money for each, seems as though Appleram was losing out on a chance to make notably more coin. Adding a disqualification rule, though… that might just send the gold coursing back into the town’s coffers since, after all, the only way to avoid paying out the prizes would be if there were no winners.”
“Of course, that would be impossible,” Sierva replied. “Unless every competitor was to be disqualified under some rule.”
“Aye, it would take nothing less,” Thistle agreed, polishing a goblin dagger on his shirt as he spoke. The targets were nearly all set up. Soon, the time for talk would be at an end.
“Well, let us be thankful you are not such an awful person as to have doubts of our gracious hosts,” Sierva commented.
“I say a prayer of gratitude every morning to just that effect.”
Sierva looked over at the gnome, her lavender eyes nearly shining in the light of the day’s fierce sun. “Good luck to you, Thistle. I intend to win; however, if I do lose, I hope it will be to you.”
“Consider the sentiment echoed.”
“Throwers, prepare yourselves,” yelled the portly man from the table. “Strike your target on my mark!”
Thistle pulled back his arm, felt the cold metal of the goblin dagger resting between the tips of his fingers, and let everything in his world outside the target fall away into nothingness.
“Fire!”
The adventurers not competing in the current event had been directed to what was, essentially, a giant pen. Railing ran along the sides, butting up to the edge of the arena and extending back towards the town, then wrapping around in the direction of the tournament. There were a few mock weapons scattered here and there for anyone who wanted to squeeze in some last-minute training, but the intent of this space was made clear by its sparseness: they were to sit still, wait their turn, and not distract from the current show.
Evidently, many of the other parties didn’t have a wolf in the fight for Dagger Throwing, because rather than paying attention to the competition, they were doing their own warm-ups. The upside was that this meant the competitors who did want to watch the competition were able to do so without having to jostle for a good viewing spot.
Eric, Grumph, and Gabrielle all let out cheers after the first round, when Thistle managed to sink his dagger right into the bull’s-eye. A quick glance told them that only a few others had completed the feat and that some had actually missed entirely and gotten themselves disqualified. The loudest cheer went up from their left. Eric looked over, surprised to see the well-armored team he’d watched yesterday lined up along the railing and hooting for all they were worth. They must have had another member on their team who was competing.
It was because Eric’s eyes lingered that he saw the cart being hauled along a dusty trail behind the pen. It was largely covered with a tarp; however, the mild breeze rustled the covering as the cart moved, affording his eyes a momentary peek inside. There was a flash, so quick and brief he’d have thought he imagined it, except that it was familiar. A creeping worry ran down his neck like frozen leaves falling off a winter tree.