The Boon of Alon

CHAPTER ONE

Today is the last day of the Royal Tournament of Pangessa, and therefore my last chance this season to buy my freedom. I only have two matches left. Two matches, and then the winner's purse is mine. I've never gotten this close before.

"Ready, sweetheart?" My melee partner, Bartol, grins over at me as we wait to enter the arena. He's been a surprisingly big help, considering I met him about two days before the tourney began. I never know who Boss is going to pair me with and the last couple years have been a crapshoot, but Bartol's good. Carries his own weight. I just wish he'd stop flirting with me.

"You know there's at least three girls out back of the stable who'd love for you to call them that," I tell him. Possibly more. Even though the stable, repurposed as a space for competitors like us to get ready for our next match, still smells strongly of horse shit.

"That's too easy," says Bartol with a wink. A horn sounds and the gate begins to groan open in front of us, but he keeps talking. "I came here to fight, right?"

"Sure," I say flatly. He's handsome, I guess. Tall, blonde, totally stacked with muscle, and confident, with the skill in the arena to back it up. He's exactly what you picture when you imagine a tournament warrior. And me? Small and slight, dark hair, unnaturally bright purple eyes—I'm what you expect of a tourney mage. The flimsy magic wielder that your average warrior could snap in half like a twig. We look like the perfect pair, especially on the tourney circuit.

Unfortunately, he's a little too male for my tastes.

"Time to win." Bartol doesn't give a shit that I'm not interested, as usual. He's got better things to do, and so do I. We march out into the raked sand of the arena while the crowd hollers. There are dark spots in the middle that the sand doesn't quite cover—guess someone shed blood last match. Across the arena, our opponents stride towards us. Another big man with a sword, trailed by a skinny girl clutching a thin wooden half-staff just like mine; they're a perfect mirror image of us, and vaguely familiar. Regulars on the tourney circuit, like me. I wonder, vaguely, if they even like each other—if they chose to fight together or if they're locked in a contract to some glory-chasing retired merc like we are. Doesn't matter. We have to win.

The announcer's still shouting as we all take our places, a couple yards apart, on either side of those dark spots in the sand. We win this, and we're guaranteed some sort of prize; Boss is going to take most of it, but the rest I can save up in case we lose the final. Then I try again next year.

But if we do win the final...even with Boss's cut, the remainder will be more than he paid my parents for me, more than enough to buy my freedom from this contract so I can finally leave the tourney circuit. I'll join the King's Knights, become a hero, and finally earn the gift that Alon, god of language, lust, and lawyers, gave me.

"Go for the mage first," I mutter to Bartol. "She's prepping something big." The way her feet shift in the sand, her grip on the staff—she can't start chanting until the horn, but that's not all there is to spellcasting. I'm doing it, too, shifting the ambient mana around me into the right shape so that I can wield it later.

"Will do." That's a point in Bartol's favor—he listens. The crowd quiets. The announcer stops. We tense.

The horn sounds.

Bartol darts forward, deceptively fast. The other warrior braces but Bartol goes right past him. The mage and I are both chanting under our breaths—I finish my spell first and the other warrior trips the second he moves towards me. It buys Bartol enough time to knock the other mage down and thrust his sword into the sand inches from her neck. She's out.

Unfortunately for us, she finished her spell as she fell, and now the sand Bartol kneels on has become slick as ice. The mage has to scoot away on her ass to get free of it to leave the arena. Bartol slips and slides to his feet, while the other warrior, standing again, advances on me.