Of course, that also meant a lean, nimble man had enough time to work through those beams, making his way to where two of the tunnel sections joined. It was still slow going, but the inattentiveness of the guards gave him the freedom needed to accomplish the task. The shoddy construction of the hastily built arena also assisted him, as it meant the sections were joined loosely, making it easy to wedge open a gap and wiggle inside. Had Appleram spent any real time or money on their impromptu tournament, such tactics would have failed catastrophically. Thankfully, the emphasis had been on getting the structure built quickly, before the adventurers lost interest.
The actual contents of the building were approximately twenty boxes, six small chests, and three carts. A quick inspection of the chests revealed they were filled with coins, so presumably this was where the prizes for those who won were stored. The boxes held various bric-a-brac: tunics and scrolls and banners all emblazoned with an “Appleram Tournament!” logo — probably souvenirs they were planning to sell sometime during or after the contests.
The carts held other prizes: a gilded buckler that Eric suspected was more paint than gold, a silver statue of a dragon with blue gems for eyes, and a very ornate hat with an odd, mismatched design. Eric picked up the hat and turned it around in his hands. He was amazed by how truly hideous it was. Perhaps this was the fashion in the kingdom, but he’d take a good wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun at bay. With that thought, the gaudy hat shifted and was replaced by a simple one with a wide brim, just as he’d envisioned. Eric set it back down and it took back its original form when it left his hand. The magical, style-changing hat was interesting, but he was already worried about one magical item; he didn’t need to mess around with a second.
Then, a few feet over, Eric saw it. There was no question; it was almost exactly the same as the gem he’d seen at the goblin camps. Same dull red glow, same egg-like shape, and same shifting patterns if one stared long enough. There were, however, two differences from the gem Eric had seen previously. This gem’s glow wasn’t constant; it brightened and dulled rhythmically at regular intervals. As he stared at it, Eric thought he caught the slightest increase in the tempo. That, he imagined, couldn’t be a good thing.
Because the other difference between this gem and the one from the goblin camp was that the gem currently in front of Eric was bigger. Roughly three times bigger.
Thistle stared in amazement at the protruding dagger, barely imbedded in the wooden target, yet holding firm all the same. He was sure he’d felt it slip slightly on his throw, a minor error that should have eliminated him from the game. His saving grace had been an unexpected wind gust that moved his dagger’s course. Only by half an inch, but it was enough. Of course, one gnome’s good fortune was several other competitors’ oblivion. Only a single other dagger had found its target besides his own, one that belonged to a long-haired human several spaces down from him.
“Damn wind,” Sierva cursed, accepting her dagger as the attendant rushed it over to her.
“Sorry,” Thistle said.
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault,” she assured him. Thistle felt a kernel of doubt, though. Perhaps the wind had been chance, or perhaps Grumble was showing favoritism to his newest recruit. The gnome shook off such thoughts forcefully. If one looked for the will of the gods in every turn of fate, it would soon overwhelm them. Better to take things as they were unless the deity physically showed themselves.
“Good throw,” Sierva complimented a moment later.
“Not really. It would have gone wide if not for the wind.”
“Your form was fine; I think the issue is, without meaning offense, that you’re using daggers ill-suited for throwing.”
“Aye, no argument here, but we work with what we have,” Thistle agreed, accepting his own blade from the attendant. He heard a rustling sound to his left and glanced over to find a leather belt dangling in front of his eyes.
“A loan,” Sierva explained. Her daggers were sheathed on opposite sides of the belt, silver handles gleaming in the light of the relentless sun. “Whatever the next phase is, you need a better blade.”
“Are you certain?” A weapon, especially one with that much worth, was a precious and personal thing. To hand it off to a stranger was quite odd indeed.
“I’d like to see one of us win; didn’t we agree on that? Besides, I detest this town’s greedy trickery. Separate them from at least some of the gold that’s been spent in the last week.”
“With all the skill I possess,” Thistle promised, accepting her gift. He wrapped the belt around himself twice in order to get it to fasten, then pulled the blades from their sheaths. They were light, delicate things that belied the danger in their sharp edges. Up close, they were even more beautiful than before, the intricate etchings weaving across the surface in a pattern that shifted as the eye moved. Though slightly bigger than his goblin daggers, they were easier to hold, and their balance was immaculate.
“Good luck,” Sierva told him, walking back toward the pen with other, now-disqualified competitors.
That was when Thistle looked forward and saw the final round’s trial. The good news was they hadn’t shrunk the targets. Each was still about the same size as a coin. The bad news was they had tied those coin-sized targets onto the foot of two crows, each of which were squirming for freedom in the attendants’ hands. A cheer went up from the crowd as they pieced together this next challenge, still unaware or uncaring about the ramifications it had on the competitors.
Thistle chanced a glance to the mayor, who sat stalwart as he watched the proceedings. He, at least, wasn’t celebrating. So, he was likely a man who was doing this because he saw it as necessary, rather than to be overtly stingy. Thistle filed this mental note away, then stopped looking at the crowd and focused on the near-impossible task in front of him.
If the wind had been Grumble, Thistle hoped that wasn’t all the god was ready to contribute. The chances of winning without some divine aid were about as good as if he went one on one with a great dragon. Still, miracles happened, so there was no reason not to at least give it a throw.
“Competitors,” the portly man called from the sidelines. “At my signal, the attendants shall release the crows. You may throw one dagger whenever you choose after that.”
Both Thistle and the human nodded, unwilling to look away from the shrieking birds with targets attached.
“Prepare yourselves,” he yelled, clearly readying himself to give the signal.
“RUUUUUN!” The voice came with such speed and ferocity that both attendants jumped, releasing their birds inadvertently. The human let his dagger fly, shearing a few feathers from his crow’s wing but otherwise missing entirely. Thistle, on the other hand, turned to the source of the noise, only mildly surprised to see it was Eric, dashing through the center of the arena, red-faced and panting.
“Everyone needs to get out! NOW!” Eric’s voice carried more weight in those words than any of his friends had ever heard him conjure.
“What is the meaning of this?” the mayor asked, stepping forward and addressing the intruder from his position on the balcony. “Why have you disturbed our tournament?”
“Because we’re about to be attacked and we have to evacuate,” Eric explained.
“Appleram keeps watch over these roads, and has a fine militia. There have been no raiders or outlaws spotted anywhere near here. So what, pray tell, is going to attack us?”