Of Cups and Swords
Twenty-Second Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
In spite of the name his companions had given him, Belos had not expected to make it this far in the melee. True he had not been crazy enough to fight bull-men, giants, snake-wizards, and whatever the hells that scarred warrior with the dog helmet actually was, but there were plenty of people using magic out there, real magic, not the alchemical flasks that had been mostly responsible for his reputation for boldness among his company. If there is one thing he had learned since joining the Legion it was that determination and good steel could win against magic... if you had enough mates beside you, he was just one man with a bag full of tricks and a way of charming the quartermaster that stayed just on the sunny side of the rules. Those of similar temperament who did not pay and account for the things they took didn't become captains in the Legion, they did not become much of anything besides a cautionary tale.
Then he found out who his next opponent would be and that thought came back sharply to mind. The king's ward... a bloody dragonrider.
What happens in the Circle stays there, the saying went, but Belos hadn't washed ashore yesterday. People tended to resent bruises to flesh and pride alike, none more so than young nobles of the Old Blood, and no one but an Old Blood could ride a dragon no matter the color of her hair. If this were any other city and his lord any other man Belos would probably have cut his losses then and there. But he wasn't just another sellsword in the Second Sons, and this wasn't Lys either. So bold and cautious all at once, he set off to find the girl before the match and make damn sure there wouldn't be any hard feelings weighing down his chances of advancement. He had his eye on a colonel's baton, perhaps even a general's, before he mustered out.
***
The girl was not hard to find since she went out for a drink with the other dragonrider practically everyday in the Golden Hearth, presumably to talk about whatever the riders of huge fire-breathing monsters did. Whether the dragon can get sick from eating too many greasy magisters, maybe.
Belos had only stepped up next to the table, not even opened his mouth, when the younger woman looked up at him with a faint frown on her features. "Not interested, really... I'm sure you are a credit to your company, but..."
What? the young captain was left momentarily bewildered before it occurred to him that someone would try to sweet-talk his way into those leather riding pants of hers. Being in the possession of two working eyes he had to admit they were fine pants indeed, but he had only appreciated them in the way a man might see a fine sculpture or painting, maybe a wishful sigh or two, but he preferred his women without the power to kill him with a look and feed his corpse to their dragon.
He raised his hands in mock surrender: "Peace, my lady. My name is Belos. I only wanted to meet you before our duel in the arena."
"Oh, sorry," she apologized, a faint blush touching her pale cheeks. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Ah, well, you see, I have a cunning plan to learn your each and every move, your manner and your character, and thereby best you in a test of wits," Belos japed to lighten the mood. The fact that she did not look at him like he was something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe was already half the answer he needed.
"And saying so outright is part of your cunning plan?" she laughed.
"Of course," he replied loftily. "You would never suspect it for being the truth now that I said so."
"That's..." she trailed off. "You know what, that deserves a drink."
And so it did, several drinks in fact, during which Belos found himself recounting a great deal more of his life story than he had expected to, not to mention finding Valaena to be far better company than he would have guessed at. They parted ways with the promise that the winner would buy the loser another drink to make in restitution.
***
And so they met across the sands, the former sellsword and the dragonrider, steel against adamantine, concoctions of alchemy against true power, age and treachery against youth and skill. For once the old adage did not prove true. The arcane chain danced quicker than the eye could follow, passing through steel without a scratch to cut at the flesh beneath, tangling his limbs again and again. She always stepped back to let him get up again, but the battle was never in doubt.
At least he would get that drink, Belos told himself. A would-be general could always do with friends in high places.
OOC: I hope the interlude is interesting, the fight itself was a bit of a one-sided stomp, so I tried to come up with an interesting preamble.
