The air was warm, with only the slightest of chills. The rays of the Sky Shepard warmed all who stood in its luminance. But large clouds, rising like columns of white smoke floated across the blue sky…
Or at least that is how the scribes of Kalimbor describe the weather on the day of the tournament and the celebratory duel that followed.
What almost no one in attendance expected was that they were about to be witnesses of a miracle so powerful that the very foundations of the Ar’rin would be forever changed.
The details that were written are almost certainly exaggerated, but the miracle itself appears undeniable. Reams and reams of private writings have been compared to the scribes’ renditions, Wizards consulted in the interviews, and scrutinized the chronicles…and the result is the same:
Balinor died in a duel with Constanicos Grue, from Kell City, and then was returned to life by Bruchon, with the power and grace of the Sky Shepard.
But the tale itself, is slightly more complex than that…
The Challengers
The tournament was a three-day affair, very standard for the time. On the first day, there were events and spectacles, displays of grandiose achievement designed to qualify the participants and elicit interest in their skills.
On the second day, the contestants were pitted against one another, with the most well-known getting challenged by the unknown or lesser-known contestants to bouts of swordplay, archery, falconry, or other niche displays of prowess. In these early days of tournaments, few of the warriors had horses and so jousting or other equestrian related contests were rare.
The evening of the second night many of the contestants would be withdrawing due to losses or injury to body, mind, etc. or the damage to their pride and reputation. Kalimbor was a young city, only recently recognized as an independent power in the West. Their trade value was based on the preference for Plainsfolk and other free tribes to barter outside of the Golden Road merchant guilds, Westgate’s elvish oversight, or the influence of the Riverfolk.
This meant that northern groups, like those from Kell City, and those Saltfolk cities in the East had a presence here in Kalimbor. It was a huge victory for the growing trade market.
And on the evening prior to the third day, the true contest, there was drama. A lot of it.
Rumors had been circulated that only a Kalimbor warrior would win the option to duel Balinor at the end of the event in the honorary duel. And this had riled many of the more popular warriors: Constanicos Grue-Kell City’s prodigal prince, Torivel Raven’s Wing-Barbarian of the Wolf’s Head Tribe, and a hot-headed young Elf named Balanborn from Westgate, to name a few. These three had come with large parties of companions and a great deal of money. They spent it lavishly on dancers, mummers, musicians, exotic drinks and food, and gambling.
Many flocked to win their eyes and bask in the glory of their popularity.
It was a powerkeg ready to blow, and Balinor was the prize. Take his glory and seize the fame of Kalimbor itself.
The Fateful Duel
Sometime in the evening Balinor had visited the camps of each of the three famous challengers. And at each one they had boasted of how they would defeat him in the duel at the end, if they made it.
Balanborn boasted of how his superior age and training would give the people of Kalimbor and all the spectators a show for the ages. For he was hundreds of yiars older than Balinor, and had forgotten more about duels than the mortal could know.
Torivel spoke of his great strength and ferocity and how Balinor was not prepared to see the true might of the Wolf’s Head Tribe meet his sword and shield in the ring.
But, Constanicos, he was a dark and foreboding prince of the cold north. He did not brag or bolster his skills. He stated with certainty: ‘If I meet Balinor in the ring tomorrow, I will give no quarter, and expect none. I am not a showman, I am a gladiator. And I will draw his blood, or he will draw mine.’
Unfortunately, most children know the rest. The three made it to the final round, and each was knocked out of the running by warriors from Kalimbor, except Constanicos. He defeated all challengers, and in the final five-contestant free-for-all, all yielded to his ferocity, and the blazing power of the The Darkthorn blade. The short, curved sword never dulled, never wavered, and struck fear into the hearts of those who dared to tempt its edge.
As the sun began to slip down from the clouds, and bow to the twin moons, the contest ended. And Constanicos was the victor.
Balinor attempted to dissuade the crowd from a final duel, but they would not have it. And a duel was fought, Balinor treated it as a spectacle, playing up each clash with daring maneuvers and crowd-pleasing flourishes. Constanicos did not.
In a dangerous move, Balinor attempted to force Constanicos to yield by pinning The Darkthorn between the hammer-and-flail that the hero of Kalimbor was armed with in the final exchange. The prince of Kell City was not having it, he thrust the sword forward, twisting it around the chain of the flail under the hauberk that covered the neck and shoulders of Balinor. The serenfaen ore of The Darkthorn blade pierced the armor, slipping through the rings of chainmail that the hero wore, and into his chest, piercing his heart.
Both men were surprised. And as the blood flowed from Balinor onto the hands and legs of Constanicos the words came back to haunt him.
‘I am a gladiator. And I will draw his blood, or he will draw mine.’
What happened next is a miracle for the Ages…
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